Dresses

You know, I'm not the pretty, graceful girl everyone wants. I'm bitter, sarcastic, cynical, obnoxious, and terribly, terribly, flawed.

I'm not feminine or girly nor do I know how to act it. I can't seem to pick out flowing, soft, flowery dresses and skirts and wide-sleeved blouses to match; I happily mold into my plain t-shirts and baggy jeans. My hair is pulled back and unbrushed and I've never quite gotten down the loose, effortlessly beautiful style.

The words that come out of my mouth aren't blooming compliments or airy laughs; they're hard-hitting truths, and more likely than not, written prose.

I grin too wide and laugh too loud.

Leaning on one arm and popping up a leg prettily is more of a challenging task than solving Euler's equations, and flirting is another mythical concept altogether.

I'm sub par. A commodity, a rarity, an unpairity in the gene pool.

The only underwear I own is black cotton and silk is a mystery fabric to me.

My world is seen through clear glasses, precise. What I see, I say.

Glamour and beauty are as foreign as charm and nothing about this will change, not until I make a conscious effort to stop focusing on universal secrets and pay attention to the realities of my own consciousness.
That's what it is.