Dystopian Reality

I'll Make Love To You

This chapter is dedicated to the most cutest dimples I've ever come across. You know who the fuck you are, and that's why I like you but you keep playing me. Tf.

This is funny because I don't like that guy anymore, I started this chapter like 9 months ago.

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Do you know the feeling of frustration, loneliness and desperation that dawns upon you when you look around and see all your peers in intimate relationships but you not so much. This is how I'm feeling. It's not even so much as I want to be with someone so bad, it's just saddening when you always get reassured by families and friends that you are a nice, decent looking person, yet you're dating history suggests otherwise.

As far as I can remember, each summer I would always plan how I'm going to turn my life around...appearance wise. Yes, I probably could've been spending my time much more productively but I wouldn't be a human if I didn't have some moments of weakness. Anyway, I would plan how I was going to save my allowances, start a skincare regimen for clear skin, eat right and exercise to improve my body shape, so I can get a makeover at the end. All this off course was going to happen before school reopened. This was how I planned to showcase a newly updated Seraphina. But it was never the case; each year something would happen and I'd give up. So I didn't get "revenge" on Lena's friends, I never had boys vying for my attention, or even a date for prom. My attention with the male species was limited to my family, our gardner, teachers, and off course the occasional athletes who wanted me to put in a good word for them to Lena. Yes, not even the boys on the robotics team wanted me, and that's what made it much sadder.

After the incident at summer school, I began questioning myself even further. I was convinced that maybe I wasn't good enough, tall enough, short enough, smart enough, dumb enough. Maybe I didn't smell good, smelled too flowery, tried too hard, or wasn't making the best efforts. I was confused, and in my head I didn't have anyone to talk to. That off course was a lie, I had many people who cared but the thought that they'd understand what I was going through was unfathomable. That was my biggest mistake but I'm glad I have a persistent mother.

My mother was the one who caught me crying, still in my clown makeup sitting in my dad's Ferrari. She had been worried about my recent developments of practicing makeup but hadn't said anything. Seeing me was the tipping point of it all, she had had enough, so her solution was to send me off to my Henriette de Rien, my grand mamman in Normandy since I wouldn't talk to her. So, off I went to my smart talking mamie who I hadn't seen in three years.

Grand mamman was less sympathetic about my situation. She looked me right in the eye and said "Ma cherie, je t'aime mais tu comme stupide. Il y a des choses plus importantes que garcons." At the time I found her words very harsh because she straight up said I was stupid, it wasn't until much later when I realize that I was letting everything take hold of my conscience. In turn, my grades were poor and that was very unlike me. That's why I applied to transfer to Howard the next quarter.

My life at Howard was the authentic college experience that you hear about. Because for once I got to experience the normalcy of friendship outside my family. I saw how friends would go out their way to surprise you when your parent's flight gets delayed on your birthday; I saw how friends got mad at each at other for the pettiest things but makeup in a few days, I saw how friends would stay up together until three o'clock in the morning for an assignment they all procrastinate on, I saw how friends date each other and break up and get back together again, I saw how friends are selfish sometimes or all the times, I saw how friends have closer friends within a friendship circle, and most importantly I saw how friends can encourage you to break barriers that would've taken you additional 15 years to break. Barriers like taking a shot at dating.