I plan my first time the way most women plan their wedding. Dinner: Taco Bell — bean burritos, blue Mountain Dew. Dress: American Apparel. Underwear: slutty. Location: Holiday Inn Express.
Like most women planning their weddings, I also have everything nailed down but the man. I have an idea of what he’ll smell like: sawdust, and that deep-woods mushroom smell men get from not showering. I browse OkCupid and eHarmony like catalogs, but the catalog selection is too department store.
The problem is I’m pretty sure I won’t get laid with this pixie cut, especially since I’m suffering from Fat Face Syndrome. Sometimes when I’m alone with my webcam I wage war on my cheeks. I use duct tape to pull them back, so my lips flatten against my gums and my teeth look like they’re ready for Halloween.
My mom tries to make me feel better by pointing out celebrities that make big cheeks work. “What about Paul McCartney?” she says. I Google Image search a picture of him and point out the jowls. “Is that what he looks like now?” my mom says, and touches the lines around her lips.
Anyway, I’m a girl, so the rules are different. I haven’t told anyone this, not even Post Secret, but who I really want to have it with is this jock kid named Cameron. Even though he doesn’t have a neck he’s super smart. We’re always arguing religion, or as he calls it, theology.
It’s not that he won’t do it with me because he’s a super Christian, but because 1) he’s popular and I play oboe and 2) he has this girlfriend who totally sucks. She has this blog where all she does is regurgitate his opinions, only she doesn’t use capital letters and uses those emoticons made from carrots and underscores.
“Do you want a parrot or a girlfriend?” I said.
“At least parrots are colorful,” he said.
