How I Got Over My Crush Because She Read "Fifty Shades" (I Am Not Sexist, You.)

Well, there she was again, imprinting “50 Shades of Grey” into her mind with her fierce yet doe-like eyes like it was the Ten Commandments from God Himself.

I admire her audacity, anyway. Reading that garbage in a not-so obscure place with Catholic students (like her and me) passing by was a dramatic feat. I wouldn’t know how to react if a nun passes by and sees her model student going over to the dark side. Well, if it would involve said nun swooning and dropping lifeless, I’d probably laugh hysterically and then quickly get on my knees and pray for forgiveness, while wiping tears of mirth from my eyes. Ten years of Catholic education definitely served me a great deal. But ten years still didn’t sway me from my punk ways and playboy tricks. That was quite evident by how I can’t approach her the way I want to and how the girls passing by me were torn between casting furtive glances in my direction and outwardly smiling at my gorgeous visage.

Anyway, back to the scowl forming on my face as I watch her. I mean--- err, back to the pretty face that beguiled my senses every second of the night and every minute of the day. I stand five or so meters away from her, sipping on my fruit drink with the usual disinterested look on my face while conspicuously channeling my inner stalker. Or, my inner sap. Whatever. I watch as her dainty fingers turned the pages, her brown eyes roamed the paper, and her teeth sink into her lower lip which is quite sending me to the sixteen year old boy’s version of heaven right now. I wonder about the images in her mind right now as she read it and if she---

Oh, brother. Wrong move. Incredibly wrong move there, son.

I heave a sigh to clear my mind and to relieve my constricting chest. There’s also this small, swelling problem down there, but I’ve a good hand on the situation now so…

Uh, that statement sounded wrong, but let’s move on.

So, like I said I am hot stalker stuff right now on the girl I have a crush on for six years. And for six years, she was conveniently unaware of that fact.

I glance at my watch and upon seeing that I have twenty minutes of opportunity before the alarm bell ruins it for me, I make my move. I put my hands in my pockets and move through the rowdy crowd of seniors (apparently, when God showered affable and mature seniors in the world, my school was closed around that time), all the while dodging paper balls (see? That was so grade school!) and sweaty folks. My heart is thundering frantically in my chest. I take the few steps towards her, maintaining the safe distance a gentleman should have from a lady, and cleared my throat.

She looks up at the sound of my nervous habit and blinks. “Hello,” she says ever the polite one.

That word did not just send a thrill through me. I nod and then motions towards the book in her hands. I try hard not to show the disgust in my face when I ask, “You’re reading that?”

She nods, and I notice a fond look falls on her face as she does. “It’s my favorite, along with Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse and Breaking Dawn!” she tells me, beaming.

This time, I make no effort to be the agreeable potential suitor. Fuck agreeable. A shocked look makes it to my face, and before I know it I blurt out, “Don’t you think those books are anti-feminist? You know, inhumane boyfriends with pathetic fangirlfriends. It’s quite sad.”

Well, I forgot to mention that underneath this cool-ass exterior I am quite the book lover myself. Shame that this school has a low, almost nonexistent population of girl bookworms. I have read that trash in her hands and all of her “favorites“, and I have still to wrap my mind around the fact that people actually love those stupid piece of literature. Shakespeare and all the literary giants are surely rolling in their graves.