Daisy Chains

o1: You're New

[a/n]: after the perpetual darkness of guts and glory [which i've completed writing] , i feel the best way to get over it is to begin something much lighter in nature. this is more 'sit-com' in appearance than anything i've done before, so imagine this to be as predictable and fluffy as another american teen show. if you're looking for something a little darker, there's always Y, as this is guaranteed no major character death, you know. also, how stupid am i for beginning another first person fic when i'm incapable of writing it.

one | You're New

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7/11

"You're so pretty, for an Asian girl." Because Asian is the exception, the fetish where I am allowed to feel honoured that sheltered white boys have deemed me attractive outside of the normal they are presented with, of beautiful Caucasians. I have become accustomed to this though, the first glimpse of Asian not coming from India meaning Chinese, every language being lumped to Chinese, the thing which means exotic, meaning Saturday night take out, meaning bad Anime being my favourite TV show this is what you watch, right. I am eighteen, and have had to take this and wear it as my battle armour, living amongst people, whom for the most part, don't care for the things they can't understand, because they just don't get it, and when I am told this, in grocery stores, buying tampons—it being my time of the month, the one time I am ever allowed to be anything other than a smiling idiot lying on my back and pushing out children, privileged, proud, perfect—I nod and accept what they view as a compliment but is glorified ignorance.

"I mean, like, seriously hot." He continues, and I blink at him—golden blonde hair, brown eyes, a grin that he thinks is so nice guy I am therefore obligated to give him a shot, as I don't want to be the slut, whore or cock tease—box of tampons in my hand, basket of groceries in the crook of my arm, standing in the middle of 7/11. I can't decide on whether or not he is a complete douchebag or just too socially inept to understand that I have no interest in this one sided conversation he seems determined to keep going. "Are you new?" He asks, "I haven't seen you around before."

"Right," I say slowly, bored words balancing precariously on my tongue, a barrier from the real thoughts I'd like to voice aloud—having become strangely accustomed to such encounters in grocery stores, of all places. This, I reflect—blinking at him again, red jersey top, a material I detest, dark blue jeans with scuffs on the knees—is nothing compared to some of the garbage I had to deal with back in Washington. She wouldn't be interested in girls if she had a father figure in her life, they said, pretending to be concerned with the ingredients in the boxes of cereal they were planning to give to their children, as we passed them in the aisles. His attempt of a compliment is nothing more than a failure, but common courtesy dictates that a thank you is in order. "Thanks."

He follows me down the aisle, watches as I pause in front of the condom section, and I don't have enough modesty to try and act embarrassed as he watches me consider the options. The shop assistant is far too busy in a rigorous game of Candy Crush to even pay any of the customers the slightest bit of attention; the only other person in here is an old biddy looking at gardening magazines.

"Your boyfriend is going to hate you if you buy those." He gestures to the ribbed XL in my grip now, and I almost laugh, because for some reason, this stranger has advocated himself as some kind of friend, though I have said all of two words since he decided to approach me. Just to spite him and his assumptions, I drop them into the basket and continue walking towards the checkout. His short legs struggle to keep up with my long strides, and I am hoping for him to be some kind of asthmatic who can't keep pace with me, but I am standing in line far too quickly for me to have gotten him off of my back.