𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐮𝐧𝐤 & 𝐌𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥

Regina George. The Regina George. She's like- the sun, but if the sun wore pink mini skirts and stomped on your soul in six-inch heels. Blonde hair so shiny it probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. She walks down the hall like she owns the air you breathe- and, yeah, she kinda does. Everyone parts for her like she's royalty or something, and I'm just there, leaning against the lockers pretending I don't care, but my brain's screaming, holy crap, she's hot.

She's mean, like, evil-Disney-villain level mean. But it's hot. I know, I know, I've got issues. The way she rolls her eyes at me? Yeah, that's love. The way she calls me "gross" when I wink at her? Totally flirting. She probably dreams about me every night, but she'll never admit it. She's got that glossed-lip snarl, that perfect hair toss, that "I could ruin your life" smile. And I'd still say thank you.

***

Rodrick. Freaking. Heffley. Ugh. He looks like the word grunge threw up on him. His hair? Greasy. Like, does shampoo not exist where you live? And that eyeliner, oh my God, is he in a band or a midlife crisis? He always has this stupid smirk, like he thinks he's mysterious or something, but he literally smells like old basement and Mountain Dew.

He wears the same ripped jeans every single day, and don't even get me started on those beat-up sneakers. It's giving... disease. And when he "flirts"? Please. He'll like, mumble something sarcastic and look away like that's supposed to make me swoon. No, babe, that's not brooding, that's awkward.

Honestly, I don't even think he's capable of a real compliment. He just says stuff like, "You're not as annoying as the other girls." Wow, Romeo, calm down. Newsflash, Rodrick, dirty fingernails and eyeliner don't make you deep. They make you gross.