Hava Reynolds was the popular rich girl with her talent for drawing everyone thought she would become a famous fashion designer like she always said.
Nine years after high school, Hava juggles three part-time jobs and secretly hopes to become a web...
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Home at last.
The same sentence comes back. Whenever I turn the doorknob, and Lee Lou is the name, I scream as my eyes discover the typhoon she left in our apartment.
I stare at the disaster. I guess Lee Lou will be sleeping at her girlfriend's house.
My feet push through a pile of dresses and slim pants scattered on the floor and stop when things get tense. Grrr, I start picking up the clothes, which I toss and myself on the couch on the same occasion. My body sinks into the heap of clothes. I need a few minutes to realize work is over to activate the Hava cleanup mode.
Lee Lou, aka Lee Lau Sing, my best friend and ex-girlfriend, and I moved in together when we dated before realizing we were better off as friends. Since New York is expensive, we remained roommates.
I can hear you from here; no, I'm not a lesbian.
I like people; it's different. You have all your chances of getting with me if you're human. Some would say I'm a pansexual, the greedy batch, as Lee Lou calls them.
She thinks pans are the ones who want everyone for themselves.
Personally, I want one person. One would be enough. All I need is to find someone who wants me. I wish to be loved.
And believe me, there's no queue. Being desperate to be loved is what pushes me to explore my sexuality. And guess what? I still don't know what I am. The valid question here is, does it matter? These days, I am pretty neutral. I am playing it Switzerland and perspiring asexual vibes. Some would say it's a trend or a phase. Maybe what I desire is a profound connection with someone. It's tiring to do tryouts, both emotionally and physically. Oh gosh, I'm doing a vagina monologue here. Stop it, Hava!
I get up and pick up the rest of Lee Lou's clothes. I don't know how she does it, but the apartment looks like a vintage kilo shop.
While I clean, I repeat my mantra: I'm Hava Reynolds, a 26-year-old part-time worker who deserves love and happiness. Fall in love with yourself.
The last sentence is misleading. I'm not a lost girl; I'm the ugly duckling of a wealthy family.
Why am I the ugly one?
Like many ugly crew members, I turned my back on my richness to see if I could make it on my own. My cut platinum cards framed on my bedroom wall remind me daily of my resolve.
Many think I'm just a poor little rich who has nothing to complain about and goes around looking for shit to make her life enjoyable. I'm not going to lie; I am trying to find a new meaning.
What's wrong with that?
Why is searching for happiness uniquely reserved for those without a triple zero bank account balance?
Okay, I will not get into the debate. Sorry, not sorry. I'm only human.
Now that the flat looks like one, I remove my t-shirt and pull off my breast pasties. Since Lee Lou initiated me to them, I can't live without them. I don't even remember the last time I wore a bra. I throw my clothes in the basket and take a shower.
