The Journal: A Mead composition book, purchased from CVS by one very anxious looking Edward Cullen.
Yeah, so I'm writing it down now, because I'm getting way too close to crazy for comfort.
You know that first taste of ice cream on a really crazy hot day? Where it melts on your tongue and it's so good that you're moaning because it's like this little bit of heaven on earth? It's delicious and it's in your mouth melting and so damn different from everything else in the world right at that moment? You want to close your eyes and savor it, because yes, it absolutely is that incredible. Yeah, I over-think ice cream. I have to do something or my obsessed hormones will make me insane. Panting outside the girls' locker room for her isn't the sort of behavior that really gels with my image. Cool, slick, and smooth….oh, yeah, the ice cream.
Bella is like my own, personal brand of ice cream. Like rich, decadent chocolate ice cream, the flavor that you know you'll only taste once in your life, and even if you ate it every day, you would never get enough. Now I sound like a housewife rhapsodizing about her Ben and Jerry's. Fantastic. See what that girl reduces me to? She's mouth-watering; absolutely delicious (Am I hungry? I probably should have grabbed some ice cream or some shit.). She works that chocolate vibe, with the dark brown hair, the dark eyes. She's like a milk chocolate buffet, only better, because if she tastes anything like she smells, like freesia and strawberries and everything delicious, then my God, the lucky man who gets to dine at Chez Bella will die a happy man because he will never, ever leave.
I totally get that I sound obsessed with her, what with wanting her in all those delicious NC-17 ways that parents pretend we don't know about until we can flash ID. What better place to admit that I am. I'm sitting in my English class staring when she doesn't see, Lecherously (Ms. Goff's word of the week! Score one for Edward!) eyeing the places my hands could fit best on the curves of her body: cupping her heart-shaped face, holding the curve of her waist, sliding over the slope of her shoulder, her hips that just look like they were made for my hands…oh, yeah, and all those other places that we just won't talk about for right now. I have my moments of modesty, I guess. My point, before getting sidetracked by the eye candy buffet, is that Bella isn't just eye candy-she's wonderful. She's the whole damn package. She's incredibly intelligent-the last I knew, she was my closest competition for valedictorian of our graduating class. She is sweet to everyone, with a wicked sarcastic tongue that's never really mean, sympathetic to everyone, including girls with broken hearts, she's shy, and when she blushes, oh, wow. Sweet mother-fucking wow.
So, safe to say it, I'm obsessed. It's going on a year now. What does Miss Bella know of my little obsession? Not a damn thing. Why is that, do you ask? It could be because she hates me.
Now, I may or may not have a less than snowy white reputation, and Bella may have been the person that a few of the girls had gone crying to for various reasons, but I think it was highly exaggerated in the first place and in the second, they didn't all have to go crying to Bella, did they? Sure, I'm a little flirtatious, and probably way too flirtatious for my own good, but how else am I supposed to get her to notice me? Is it my fault if other people fall victim to the process? Okay, all right, I get it. I'm a jerk. Seriously, I get it. Every time she looks at me I get disgusted with myself all over again. I didn't mean it to start out that way, honestly! I just wanted her to notice me, maybe take her out to dinner or ask her to come watch the game or spend the rest of my life with her. Is that really too much to ask? Jesus. Now I'm whining. I'm whining and justifying, and this just is not going to work.
Shit. Time for school.