A Waste Of Time

I feel like a hopeless romantic...worse I feel like a teenager. I think that in some ways we all like to think of ourselves as above it. Above who we are, our age, our clothes. Even if we never say it to anyone, in the back of our heads there is a silent understanding that we are more talented, smarter, more attractive, better than everyone and everything around us. The moments in life where we realize that is not true, are sickly seconds of denial, realization, and pain. At times, we let those moments tear us down, and we spiral deeper than the situation allows.

Today I had one of those moments.

This morning, as I sat in reading class, I came to the sudden realization that I "like"  three people. Then, I realized that I really only like one of them and I only considered myself "crushing" on the other two because I found them attractive. In that moment, I realized that I was nothing better than the girls I often scold for their misuse of time and energy on boys they hardly know. I quietly thought myself above the propaganda of teenagehood.

I was wrong.

I'm not. Never mind the fact that the person I truly like is a huge waste of time ( says my trust worthy source). He is totally whimsical, fascinating. Classicly, the type of boy whom obsesses over her. You know, her. And despite my seemingly perfect confidence, my distaste for love and all it stands for, I will probably torture myself for months. Don't worry though, he won't notice. I display my facade well. The whole time I will feel stupid, I will blush even at a simple "Hey," and I will constantly annoy my friends with confusing complaints of feeling like a teenager. In a few months, I'll probably get over it (a.k.a. the denial will wear off) and I will promise myself never to do this. I will put myself on that pedastal of fake strength and spiteful determination, and quietly to myself  I will feel like a goddess looking over all my needy creation. But in about six months I will probably do this again. And just the same I will deny deny deny. Like always. I will pretend pretend pretend. Like Always.

This is the game we play with ourselves, with the excuse of love.