wear glasses & W1L 003: Write one leaf about an argument you've had.

I wasn't exaggerating much when I said that this is really boring. At least I know that I'm doing one of the "how to be smart" things on my t-shirt.

Cardigan: Forever21. T-shirt: Secrets of Mensa via Threadless. Tiny skirt: secondhand. Tights: generic. Oxfords: Payless.

W1L 003: Write one leaf about an argument you've had.

2:22 PM
I am shivering in my underwear, contemplating my closet. This is not an unusual occurrence, but today is worth taking note of because today I am having a heated internal debate about wearing a t-shirt with “PIGFARTS” emblazoned across the front in imitation of the proud licensed apparel you might find at a college bookstore, or wearing a black, blue, and gray schoolgirl ensemble meant to convey that Ravenclaw house has Asians other than that skank Cho Chang and that I, like most other Cal students, consider myself a mental cut above the rest. I go for the Ravenclaw.

6:45 PM
I congratulate myself for argyle-on-argyle continuity as I pull on my gray argyle tights and darker gray argyle socks and feel very much like I am ten years old again, uniformed and being introduced to Mr. Potter for the first time. It is already dark outside, but my room is bright and warm and full of Darren Criss and Joey Richter’s voices singing “Gotta Get Back to Hogwarts” underneath my mostly-on-key alone-in-the-apartment belt. I inspect my reflection with dissatisfaction, unable to pinpoint what is off about my outfit, until I catch it and say aloud with exasperation, “Seriously?” and tuck my blouse into my skirt before pulling my sweater back down over it like I haven’t had to do in years.

8:33 PM
I am walking to Stephanie’s place with my fists in my coat pockets, keys positioned between the fingers of my right hand because I am channeling Wolverine tonight. I am both breathless at how cold the air is outside and unsurprised that my Catholic school-seasoned legs are completely insensitive to it. Then again, I’m wearing knee socks over tights. I hear someone male tittering behind me making some kind of disparaging comment. His companion doesn’t laugh, and for a moment I think I like this guy, and then he says, “Well aren’t you watching Harry Potter this weekend?” and then I fall in love with him.

8:35 PM
I walk past a group of girls dressed in face paint and crude approximations of eighties workout gear, but with more sequins and less terrycloth. They eye me with what I imagine is disdain. I judge them because it isn’t even past nine yet, then smile back because I am going to watch Harry Potter while they get wasted. When their nights are about to hit that point when they won’t remember what happens afterward, I will be camping in the British countryside, infiltrating the Ministry of Magic, and destroying pieces of a soul with a sword I fished out of the bottom of a frozen pond. I am smug as fuck. I look left, then right, then realize it’s a one-way street, look right again, and cross as a white truck yields for me.

8:36 PM
White truck calls out his window, “Heeey, bitch!” I stare straight ahead and keep walking because I don’t know if he is armed or if he is with friends or if he is somehow already drunk enough to run me over while I cross, and because my mind has gone icy and blank and I have no idea how to coerce my vocal cords into responding to the indignation rising like bile behind my eyes and nose because I am not wearing a neon bandeau bra with hotpants and American Apparel thigh-highs. I am just wearing a coat and a crude approximation of a Hogwarts uniform because I am going to watch a movie at a theater filled with other Hogwarts students and Muggles and at least one Beauxbaton student and Professor Snape for company.

8:37 PM
I have already pushed whatever just happened into the back of my mind because this movie is going to be awesome and I bet Stephanie is totally going to be a Slytherin.

3:27 AM
I am back at my apartment, very satisfied, chugging orange juice, too aware of how the movie finished before I was ready for it, wondering if taking a cold shower would help my blue balls. My mind wanders to the incident I put off thinking about earlier, and I wonder why I am always so paralyzed with shock whenever things like it happen. I decide to wear a calf-length skirt tomorrow. I go to bed angry.
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