I Hope You're Happy With Yourself

I sat with my group of friends. What friends they were I don't think they even knew my middle name.
He always stared. It was like Old Faithful. You could count on it to happen like clockwork.
Truth be told I didn't mind. It was quite flattering and it wasn't like he was hideous. He
was actually quite gorgeous. But of course he didn't wear Hollister, Abrocrombie & Fitch, or
American Eagle so he's automatically a devil worshiper. I always want to ask him why he stares at me.
Why doesn't he just come talk to me. He probably thinks I'm just another stuck up bitch, stereotyping.
I wanted to stare back so bad. I wanted to know his name. I wanted to ask him so many questions.
Why was i so interesting or repulsive? Which one would be his answer? He made me so confused.
I Pamela Townsend was not one for confusion. I have all my ducks in their nice little rows,
wouldn't want one getting lost. I could see him and his friend talking both of them staring at me now.
What the fuck guys give it a rest. I just rubbed my forehead not really liking the added attention.
I felt like i was at a zoo and being observed. I glanced over at him. He was laughing with
his friends his arms flexing as he picked up his messenger bag. His shirt lifting up a bit
to reveal his happy trail. And dear lord, i have a confession.
I want him.