An experiment in creative non-fiction.
When I was 11, I thought that boys would never want me because they never had before, and I was at the age where I was starting to notice them and they noticed me but not in the way I wanted them to so I sought to control what they saw of me but enough of myself crept back (in like a raccoon to a garbage can that they all screamed like girls and dropped their groceries and went inside).
I realised then that whatever I was was toxic and ugly and it would have to be gone to get someone to want to hold my hand (despite the warts on my thumb and ring fingers of the right hand) but I couldn’t suppress it like a fart in class so I resigned myself to being crazy but pretty too smart to be loved.
When I was 14 boys started…
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