the very concept of romance itself makes socially inept beings like myself want to hurl themselves off the seventh-floor balcony, not that i’ve even ventured to the seventh floor for anything other than a failed search for a weekend party in aspirations of finding someone else’s vodka to drown his off-kilter grin in, but i blame the fact that we share the same obscure book. the blame goes to a crooked bearing of teeth in exchange for a splash of cheek color; saving $24.95 on smashbox skin-tone matching blush, and the lip tint as well– doubtful that it fell into the realms of observance. crooked teeth likes politics mildly, music enthusiastically, perhaps favorite bands are like overpriced makeup, simply shrugged off, but it doesn’t matter because short legs arent conventionally attractive, and thus, neither are crooked teeth, by transitive property that i learned in the bio class i detested so much, that he detested equally, that places us in intro to something or other in order to conquer the infinite abyss of gen ed requirements, that this doesn’t make any sense anymore; it’s 3 am, why haven’t i made friends on the 7th floor with a balcony so that even if i cant seize enough patron to make the next business major drop my panties, i can at the very least drop myself off those metal bars and perhaps forget this entire mess at last.
not that you’d ever know. i’m intj, some dead guy named meyers briggs says i’m doomed to be socially inept unless it’s for situations that will ever help me. you won’t help me. your teeth are crooked and your legs are too short, but we like the same bands and books, and have nearly identical personalities, and sometimes you take exact phrases right out of my mind and spit them out before they can even be sent from my frontal lobe to my tongue, but it’s okay, my tongue’s good for nothing. not that you’d ever know.