Lessons From the Kissing Booth

When I was younger, my family would deal with my self consciousness by telling me that it didn't matter, whatever I was so worried about, because no one was watching anyway.

But if I learned anything last year it's that people are in fact watching, to the extent that they sometimes feel the need to chase me down the street and go, approximately, "Hey there, little lady. I've been watching you sitting here/walking down the street/through your living room window for the past few hours/days/weeks/months. But, um, in a totally not creepy way. No, really. Say, do you want to go make out?" (The year before last, people were just seeing me and saying hello, which, although it did contain a very illuminating lesson in heartbreak, was slightly easier to handle. I don't know what they're going to do this year, but I hope they don't step on my heels while they're doing it. I hate that.)

The only explanation I have for this phenomenon is my red hair--because of the grey days and dim light in this town boys latch onto it like magpies or something. Anyway, these things certainly never happened when I was mouse-brown and lived in Florida. And the thing about all of this watching is that it makes me very self conscious, and I start thinking about the walking that I'm doing and that you're watching, and then I fall down. Sort of like how you breathe just fine as long as you're not thinking about it, but the second you stop to consider breathing it becomes a chore.

The point of all of this is that I tripped and fell again today--onto the grass, fortunately, saving both my clothes and limbs from some holes for once--and I'm blaming it on you. Rather than, say, my big feet and inefficient equilibrium. You and your watching.

(For those of you that are wondering, I spent Valentine's Day with some clever pretty people watching other pretty people cover Duran Duran songs at the Crocodile. It was excellent. Also, internet, I think you are doing voodoo spells on me in your homes. This week I've gotten email requesting my personality profile [INFJ] and my blood type [A+]. I don't get email from you people for weeks and weeks and now it's all weird shit like this? Is there a full moon? Are you kids on drugs?)