I stood up and I said yeah (shevralay) wrote in mobalicious,
I stood up and I said yeah
shevralay
mobalicious

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My WT

Hey, girls, it's my WT! And I know it doesn't follow the prompt at all. Sorry. >.<

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine." Click. Beep.

The answering machine cut off, as I had played the message through too many times already. Not just any message. Yours. Anna's. You're a pretty thing, with a pretty voice -- thin-boned and delicate, your brown hair and pale skin making you look like a mockingbird. A mockingbird in pearls and jeans, but a mockingbird nonetheless.

But not my mockingbird. Well, my mockingbird, yes, but friend (acquaintance) mockingbird. Not my pet, not my girl, not mine.

Goddammit.

I want to remind myself not to angst, not to brush my hair so hard that it snags on my brush and rips, making my scalp bleed and making me blink and get the mascara below my eyes because it's not dry. The earrings go in after the brushing (this should have been obvious, but it took time for me to learn it) so as not to snag.

"Dammit." I did it anyway. I need to quit cursing so much, I remind myself. I also remind myself that I need to quit lusting after my acquaintance that isn't even a friend, and really, aren't I going to hell either way? My self mutters something sullen under its breath that my other self asks about the content of and the first self replies that it was nothing, nothing at all, no ma'am. I am reminded that I will be keeping an eye on me.

"Shut up." The selves quiet, and my hair is fixed without incident. Just in time to hop the bus to school and get to the campus with 20 minutes to spare. I always do. I freak out if I've only got ten. I'm odd like that. But the internal discussion on my neurotic tendencies is quieted by the fact that I see you. You spot me soonafter.

"Hey! Sarah!" You wave. You're in a tweed skirt, pleated, and the t-shirt. You have the requisite amazing bag and pearl set that you probably made yourself. You're that sort of girl. The sort that I will never be, but like nonetheless. My only claim to fame is that I knit the hat you're wearing. I'm good with knitting things. You trot over.

"Annabelle!" You smack me for the pet name, and look appraisingly at the hair.

"I like," you decide. I'm glad, it was only for you. You care about this sort of thing, even if I don't. Or, I didn't. I met you, and I've been slowly moving towards it, first with the mascara and then the pale eyeshadow and a touch of lipgloss. Then the skirts, the shaved legs, the plucked eyebrows. Hours of posing, of primping, of sharp pricks of pain (eyebrow tweezers hurt), all for a girl that I know only likes me because we share musical tastes.

See, that was the answering message. It was part of a Bright Eyes song. We're going to their concert together, don't you know? That's the sort of thing that acquantinces-not-friends do together when they're a-n-f with you.

Two guys are wondering over, now. My friends, the sort that I attract as friends but nothing else, and the sort that comprise your harem even though they all will come to loathe you as anyone who does (even me) know you will. I privately call them Emo Boy One and Emo Boy Two, and that's what I'll write them down as. Emo Boy One compliments you, tells me a dead baby joke. Boy Two follows suit. I laugh at the dead baby joke ("Because he was stapled to the chicken! Hah!"), and, after a quiet glare from you and your perfect, oh-so-delicate heel-pivot, you walk away with me following. The poor boys don't know what hit them.

You're kind of mean, don't you know?

But I don't blame you. I rarely blame you, even if it's your fault. It's the boys -- they don't know you very well, do you? If they did, they'd know that you prefer to be wooed. You can't resist a boy with a crewcut (the emo boys stand no chance). You like blondes over brunettes and you prefer the boy to be 3 inches taller than you when you're in heels. It's obvious, really.

No it's not.

...

I'm a stalker, aren't I? Well, no, I'm not. Just observant. But still.

Where was I going with this?

Oh, yes, I know. Eventually I follow you, ignoring the crushed looks of Emo Boys 1 and 2. They'll get over it. Or maybe they won't. Maybe they'll kill themselves, or at least cry themselves to sleep in a truly emo fashion (like me, I cry! like me!), but that's just the way things happen.

And I'm trotting after you like some spaniel (you'd get the Midsummer Night's Dream reference if you'd not had me do your homework for you), and so I'm the one that notices you trip in those ridiculous stiletto heels you insist on wearing to look like jailbait, and I'm the one that catches you, and maybe I stare a little too long at the glimpse of underwear.

"God, Sarah, you're such a total lesbo."

Hahah. If only you knew the truth, my dear.

Actually, you probably do. I'm probably just an Emo Boy with boobs, aren't I? Of course I am, I know I am, it's not like it's a surprise.

"Jesus, Sarah, come on. I'm getting suspended if I'm late to class again."

Of course, of course. Here's to you, acquaintance-not-friend. Here's to you.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.
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