Judgements are always made at first sight. No matter who you are. Don’t even bother denying it, because it’s true. I hate to be the first one to admit that. Hopefully, I’m not.
So, hi. You don’t know me. I don’t know you.
And I am so grateful for that.
Do you want to know my story?
Whoops, sorry. Excuse me.
Should I tell you my story?
Maybe not, because what are you going to do?
Of course, that’s the last thing I’d want you to do, but no matter what I say, you’re going to do it. If you’re Catholic, you’d call me a disgrace. If you’re desperate, you’ll call me a slut. If you have a penis, you’ll call me a gem.
Too bad I don’t see myself in any of those ways.
But isn’t it sad that I already know what you think of me? Then again, I’m judging you, like I just criticized everyone else of doing. Is that so bad? Is it so bad that I am a hypocritical girl?
Ugh, never mind. I’ll back up for a second. When you do judge me (which is an inevitable thought), let me ask you something. And I’ll do it straight to your face: what is wrong with me?
No, ma’am. I am not drunk. I am just different.
Do you have a problem with that? With me being…different?
Because you all look sort of the same to me. You keep it “classy,” whatever that means. You walk into this bar, flaunting your junk to the bar-hopper just so you can enter as an under-aged drinker. Then, you timidly walk up to the bar as you contemplate what you want to order, because you thought there was going to be a waiter here for some odd reason. When the boy next to you, a stranger perhaps, asks if he can buy you a drink, you stuff that twenty dollar bill deep into your pocket, bat your eyes, and pucker your lips.
So he orders your drink. Or a drink that he thinks you’ll like…or that he likes. While he is doing that, you look into the mirror behind the bar and see me.
And then you stare.
However, let me ask you my question again: what is wrong with me? We both know what we want, and we both know how to get it. Well, at least I do. I’m willing to admit to that. Unlike you.
But why can’t you? Like I said, we’re the same person.
So what’s getting in the way? Is it because the Catholic would call you a disgrace? Or the fact that you’ll be called a slut? Maybe worse…a gem? Is it because your friends don’t know who you are when you come to this bar? Your true self?
Is it because they don’t know this alter ego of yours?
Or is it because you don’t want them to know?
Is it because you don’t want them to ask you what screwed you up so bad? More importantly, who screwed you up so bad? Because when you say nothing, they’ll ditch you for someone who is more…sober.
Look in the mirror again.
Accept what you see.
Or turn your head away. Again. To that boy next to you who only just wants to get in your pants. Don’t worry. You’re smart enough to prevent that from happening.
Eh. Whatever. I already learned that caring is a lost affection. At least I know what to order at the bar.
Then, judge me, again: why does that make me such a bad person?
You want to know what or who screwed me up? Well, let me ask you this, first. Why do you think I’m screwed up? Who or what put the idea in your head that I am a screwed up individual? For all you know, I live in a mansion with loads of cash.
Long story short: you don’t know me.
And that’s okay. I don’t really want you to know me, even if I dance with you or pucker my lips at you. So don’t try to get to know me. Don’t dump your pity on me. Don’t pretend like you know what it’s like to be me. Because, evidently, you’re not. If you were, you would have the courage to come out of the damn mirror and say it to someone’s face. Even though we’re the same person, we’re not.
Unlike you, I’ve got guts.