Heartbeat | ✔️

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❝I don't wait long 'cause I got better things to do.❞ 

♮ ♮ ♮ ♮ ♮

I'm not gifted in the making new friends area.

Let alone having boyfriends.

In all my years, I scare boys away.

Is it my confidence? The short snarky remarks I reply back to them? And the sensation of wanting to always be right? I guess. It seems to be the most common denominator.

My mother has those gossip magazines about actors, actresses, singers, and anyone in the Entertainment business pile in a container; once they reach a pinnacle peak, she recycles them and goes off to the closest grocery store to waste her money on buying more. A vicious cycle and by her giddiness, she thrives off of the new product. Then the magazines are left sitting in a pile for the rest of their days. There are short sections, titles like on "How Do You Know He's The One?" or "5 Easiest Ways to Be Sexy," in the middle of the magazine. In the August 2011 edition of The Scoop, the magazine contains quizzes on the readers best qualities and then what qualities to improve on. Specifically, in what guys wants and sees in a girl.

How can this article know what guys want? Where's the evidence? Proof and work citations?

I take the test anyway.

My results are:

Best quality is confidence. You don't need a guy's approval. You aren't afraid to state your mind and be yourself. This can draw in any gentleman that you catch the eye of.

Improvement quality is humility. Your love interest might be turned off by the too prideful attitude. Show him you care about him by listening to his interests and opinions. Doesn't mean you have to agree! You are your own woman. Just listen and respect his opinions, be a delicate flower.

Let me tell you something.

I'm definitely not going to do that. I don't know what it means to be a delicate flower. No one can act like a delicate flower. Does that mean to stand out with arms wide open, stretching - letting the cells soak in the sunshine and take in the water? Do nothing? Nope. I'm not doing that.

Out of spite, after reading the article, I remember in sixth grade I threatened the sweetest guy in the whole wide to kiss me. His name was Dean Smith. There was a cute dark brown mole on his neck underneath his chin. I wanted to poke at it. See if it moved. He talked in class, stated that his mom was a musician. He had a missing front tooth, a slight whistle came out whenever he spoke 's' and 'z.' All my classmate girls thought it was gross. I think it was different.

I was an eleven-year-old, at this point, who had a crush on the weirdest guy.

"You will kiss me!"

Yes. Eleven-year-old me had no fear. No concept of the small thing call: consent.

The poor boy. Gosh, I shake my head recalling the memory.

His shaky hands and wide eyes, he said. "Y-Yes."

The kiss. Well, it was quick. More like a peck. He kissed me behind the ugly mustard yellow slide. The one where I used to run with my sneakers up the slide, slip and slip, going up the down movement. He ran away from me after the incident; his shoes picked up the playground mulch, he told Ms. Finnegan what I said. What I forced him to do.