Other Talent Show Writing

Here's the other thing that I read...commmmmments?

~Jasmine~

An unconscious rule: enter any group. There will be those that are popular and those that aren’t. Many of the ones that aren’t don’t mind. Popularity isn’t important to them. On the other hand, there are many people that yearn for it.

They shy, unpopular ones that wished they were—the ones that sit in corners, knees drawn up tight against their chest, arms wrapped protectively around their bodies. They watch, eyes swinging from figure to figure, drinking in how they look, how they act, how they talk . . . they listen, trying to discern just what raises them to their popular status. And most importantly, they hope. They hope that maybe they’ll figure out the difference between themselves and the smiling, happy, confidant people before them. They hope that maybe if they pay enough attention, maybe they’ll switch groups, they’ll learn the secret, that maybe—just maybe, even they can be popular too. Those that are already popular don’t understand. They don’t have to worry.

I have spent my entire live being unpopular. And those that are do not speak to me. They pass me by as I eat lunch alone, secretly hoping that someone popular will sit with me, talk to me, crying as I realize most of the males I like here don’t know my name or are aware of my existence.

I’ve learned to watch everything go by, fingernails bleeding as I desperately try to stop my personal landslide. But it is like running through sand . . . for every step forwards, you sink a little deeper. And I swear, sometimes it feels as if I’m already six feet deep. I flail silently, clawing for acceptance, crying out for maybe just one boy to kiss me, pleading wordlessly for those boys that I dwell upon—to just notice me? If you need a clue as to who you are, I’ve probably given you a back massage this week. If only those people would notice me, walk up and put their arm around me. It doesn’t have to mean anything more.

Petite girls. Sweet girls. Sexual girls. Pretty girls . . . I’m not easily categorized. I’m not petite. I guess I could be considered sweet. I’m horrible at pulling off the sexual thing, no matter how I try. What do all of you think? How about pretty or even just attractive? If I’ve ever fit in that one, nobody has ever shown me.

I never really fucking fit in. And I guess unless you help me . . . you, as in all those that I’ve massaged, hugged, fingered your hair, attempted conversations with . . . unless you help me, I never fucking will.