Life is Funny Like That

Twuntee-too. Stupid. Cuz That's What Love is

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Past the chipped, blue door of Daffy's bedroom, a thick beat travels throughout the house. Whether her aunt Charlice likes it or not, the volume never seems to change. Posters of bands and a butterfly identification chart hang limply by some curled masking tape. Sea shells, a swan figurine, and a nesting doll, although a little dusty, are neatly arranged on the grayish blue dresser. It stands on four chipping legs, the true color of the oak peeking through the peeling paint. Necklaces and bracelets hang on the drawer knobs and swing back and forth with the lingering bass.

Legs leaning up on the wall, a foot wiggles with the melody. Daffy lays on her bed, a book against her lap. But her mind is far away. It lingers in the past, in the wee hours of the morning with a pile of sweet n' low and a pair of hazel eyes inches from hers. 

The very thought of that night, two weeks ago, sends Daffy's heart spinning inside her ribcage, her breaths cutting each other into fractions of unusable oxygen. It makes it fatal to think about Adrian for too long or she could die. Really. He's gonna be the death of her and she doesn't even mind. He could strangle her with licorice and she would love him all the more for it. Heck, stab her with a glowstick and she would skewer her heart with an orange one and hand it to him.

It's stupid.

She's being really stupid about this whole ordeal. And she loves it. And she hates it. She can't get enough of it, the pain that comes with thinking about that insufferable boy.

It's like getting a swirly but with gummy worms and smarties, her two favorite candies. Why is that thought appealing? Why does she want that?

So dumb.

The dumbest part is that even if she wanted to think about anything else, her mind immediately reels back to the bright memories and an indescribable longing to make her heart leap like it did at those special moments.

Ridiculous.

"You're being absolutely ridiculous," she mumbles to herself, wishing all of her songs didn't hit so close to home and she wouldn't be constantly comparing the lyrics to how amazing that little waiter who works at the diner is. It doesn't work, she notices as the current song just breaks through the layers of her focus on her book. This stupid book.

It portrays a young man with brown hair and a cautious personality and instead of knowing him as the name the author gave him, she sees him as Adrian.

Adrian's hair is brown too. The dyed ends are fading into a nutella shade and they look utterly perfect... Perfect as in, the actual textbook definition of the word. All too perfect. Like his eyes. And his smile.

Stop it!

Mentally slapping herself, Daffy points her eyes back down at the words but they just blend together like a smoothie of meaningless letters that make zero coherent sense. Her focus drifts out the window, gaze following it to see the vinal siding of the neighboring house. Little hail holes dot the entire wall, letting the rain in. 

Rain patters on the glass of her window, drifting in waves of harder and softer pelts. The little taps keep time with her music, surrounding her in the beat and lulling voice of the artist.

The melodious words dig little crevices in her chest as an ache forms inside her.

It's painful, this love business. 

How strange, love seems like such a funny and delightful thing from the outside, getting to watch the victims struggle with all of the blushing and miscommunication that occurs with it. But really... it hurts.