You like dark-haired beauties with perfect skin. No girl escapes you, and you will lavish praise or criticism on them, with each opportunity to hear the sound of your own voice. And it pleases you to know that you've snagged a few, but you will not wonder how it is possible that they will, for a time, walk next to you. And you will not think about the inevitable break up that looms ahead.

The stench of your conversations is falsely masked as ineptitude, or a lack of social grace. And everyone and their mothers make excuses for you. But I'm the asshole that sees through it. My face physically revolts you. It isn't the color of my hair, the thinness of my lips or my oddly stunted nose that displeases you. It's the way I mirror the distortions in your logic. My face is a target and a trap. I am not smart the way you think smart is. And I'm not beautiful the way I should be, according to you. I am everything that you wouldn't want. And yet, I exist before you. We have no common ground. You're the only person with which small talk is impossible- you'd say white and I'd say black, so there is only silence. And peace.

And I won't argue with you. I will not defend myself to you. I will not try to convince you that sometimes I can look pretty or say witty things. You are the only useless waste of flesh I've ever met, but everyone thinks you're one swell guy.

I knew you at fifteen. Not you, exactly, but someone like you. Maybe there were even a few of you. And I felt nothing but pity for you then, as I do now. The socially awkward geek who only had eyes for the most popular girl in school, who would screw his friends over a million times just to get a chance to screw her. Someone who would grow up and forget, or forget to remember, the blistering volcanoes of acne that once pitted his skin, the way anonymous, fisted hands crushed into him on the gym locker room floor, the mocking laughter and jeers that followed him through school hall ways. I could never understand it- that burning desire to deny it all, like none of it ever happened. To defy it and curse it by becoming a piggish slob of a creature who ogles women and swaggers with a false sense of purpose.

I'm glad that I revolt you. Because I was the greasy-haired girl, curled up with a book next to my locker that you sometimes talked to. One of the only girls that would talk back to you then, and acknowledge your existence. And I love it that it bothers you now, that I don't try to hide it the way you do, that I've accepted it and it's a part of me. And I'm really not sorry that my face is your mirror, that I remind you of everything that once was.

But I am sorry that I ever talked to you, or any incarnation of you, in the first place.