She’s not a terrible person, really she isn’t. but I wouldn’t know, because I don’t know her. But I hate her. Her voice. Her lips. Her expressions. She’s not a terrible person, but when she speaks, I’m upset. I’m automatically upset. She’s not a terrible person. But I hate her. I’m walking to the room that’s better than the last. The girl brushes past me. The girl that I always notice in the last room. She sits in front of me and I enjoy the way her shirt rests on her frail frame. I notice her enter and no one else cares. I don’t mind. And I like to compare myself to her. I like to compare my shirt to hers. I enjoy her shirts. Her T-shirts. Her shoes. My shoes are boring and full of holes. My shoes are uninteresting. Yes. Yes. I’m a terrible person, but I hate her more than I hate myself. That’s something to appreciate. The girl is something different. The girl is different from the girls I normally stare at. She’s aware at all times and I don’t mind. Her hair is pulled away from her face ad I cant stop thinking about her. My shoes stay on my feet and my mind stays on studying how many times she blinks, breathes, glances over in my direction. I enjoy when she uncomfortably shifts in her seat. She doesn’t enjoy my gaze as it sits upon her. She is aware of my every movement and I love to invade her thoughts. I told you I’m a terrible person. The bus was hot and I was wearing a different shirt. I don’t care to be recognized. She is so terrible. She is talking. Talk to the very one who demands my every thought. I’m not used to need. Want. Desire. I'm used to it. The bus. The wheels keep rolling. don’t clap your hands. Itch your palms. The room I’m heading to is better than the last. The girl has walked away. The room I’m heading to is larger and freer and darker. I enjoy rooms. I enjoy rooms more than the outdoors. The beautiful girls rely on the rooms. The pretty girls rely on the dreams. I don’t rely on either. She has a delightful smile. She has skinny legs and a sweatshirt. She has a brown bun that I imagine gripping with my slender fingers and cold hands. The concrete is not so far from her head. These thoughts of mind don’t agree with those thoughts of yours. An eyebrow raised and I don’t turn away. She doesn’t enjoy the weight of my stare. She doesn’t enjoy the thoughts she knows I’m thinking. I tend to thrive on the slight tapping of her foot on the carpeted floor. The floor. The floor is littered with tiny white pieces of un-recycled paper. Driving down the street, and this area makes me uncomfortable. Why? Why? There’s barely any trees, he suggests. Where have all the trees gone? Too industrial. Beach Blvd. Lets go West. Shuffled feet and I’m still staring at the girl. I’m unhappy about the fact that instead of sitting alone I’m fumbled into sloppy group atmospheres. Group activity. Group atmospheres are filled with her and her voice and my comfort decreasing. I rely on many things. I rely on light bulbs. I rely on his satisfied nod. I rely on the smile from the lady who lives over there. I rely on Jello and spray paint. Would you please buy me a candy bar? My point is to let you know you shouldn’t like me. The flea bites on my ankles are killing me. And I think you shouldn’t mind. I think you shouldn’t care. I think you shouldn’t care what I think. The girl stands and I walk. Walking is simple. Auto-pilot is fixed permanently. The girl stands and I walk past. Fascination. -amanda