His Dream Girl: A Personal Narrative About Love

I've always found love stories mediocre. There are so many inspiring, life-altering, or terrifying topics in the world to write about. How selfish of you to choose to write about love? The one thing we can all relate to that makes us feel warm inside. I'm not interested in reading about love, so why bother writing about it?

I hopped on the rollercoaster in September of 2016. Loosely tightening the straps, not even bothering to make sure it sat around my hips correctly. I've done this before- nothing to worry about. This was to be the ride of all rides, the one to remember, the one to write about. 

One thing I won't do is romanticize pain. I refuse to. It wasn't poetic to feel the way I felt. I was taking sips of sweet tea, only for it to leave a horrible aftertaste in my mouth. I continued going back to it. Getting the most out of the sweet before the bitter would sit in my mouth, for days or weeks until he decided to come back. 

There are stories about girls who meet boys, and sometimes these boys look at these girls like they're made of gold, 'oh if only I were so lucky.' And they worship these girls, the ones they think they could never have. This was a first for me, being the unattainable girl. I've never been much to look at. The one girl the guy chooses. He pulled me out of the crowd and I was his dream girl. 

When I was 14, I was cleaning my room when I found a suede, studded cross-body bag lying on the floor. I picked it up, dusted it off and placed it back on the shelf. I remembered how just a few months prior I was daydreaming about this bag. All of the cute outfits, the lipgloss and compact it would carry, how beautiful it would look hanging with the rest of my, now seemingly dull, bags. I begged my mom for this bag. I worked tirelessly; cleaning the bathroom every weekend, helping her with dishes, skipping movies with my friends. She finally surprised me with it and I was ecstatic; now here it is, along with the rest of my crap. 

So you get it. the 'dream girl' turns into the bag on the floor, the one I totally forgot about but at some point felt my life would be incomplete without it. 

The problem with this are the remnants. Of course my mom knew I'd probably get over the bag once I got it, but she didn't mind having some help around the house. It makes no difference to the bag, which lacks emotion whether it's under my bed or behind a glass casing. 

The sweet tea boy who looked at me like I was made of stars would eventually toss me aside. I was no longer a quest in his unfulfilling life where he uses women as pawns to validate his existence. I was the pretty girl on his instagram feed, the one his boys would say 'she's bad, how would you ever get her?' And now I'm calling him for the second time because he forgot to call me back. 

The crazy thing, is from afar you might think 'well that could never be me, chasing after some musty guy' but he wasn't always. And it wasn't always. Believe me, there was a time I was scrolling past his notifications and forgetting to answer because after all, I am made of stars. It wasn't until I placed my light in his hands and now I forget how to shine on my own. I'm constantly retreating to get some of that light back, but hoping it won't leave the bad taste in my mouth. it's been two years and I still taste it. 

Am I asking for too much? For a guy to see me as his dream girl and just never wake up? Can I stay the girl of his dreams even when he's awake? Yes, I'm the girl of my own dreams and this is one theme park I never should have stepped foot in. But now I'm here, and the thrill of falling is the reason I got into this mess in the first place.