My name is Paris. I think I'm lucky my parents honeymooned in France and not in Austria like they planned.
That's the first sentence of my journal. I was nine when I wrote that, and I thought it was the cleverest thing anyone had ever said.
I remember hanging out with Madeline and Louise at their house one night. I'd just shepherded them through an assignment, as always, and they turned on the television in the middle of Buffy.
I'd never seen it before (or since, come to think of it) but I remember watching it with them. It seemed to be about a blonde girl who spent all her time whining in graveyards.
She was the Slayer and yet the episode I saw, she only killed one monster., the one who'd been giving her pathetic psedo psychology spiels all night. Anyway, she'd come to the realization that she had an superiority complex, and an inferiority complex about her superiority complex.
Now, granted, psychology is a load of baloney, and Buffy's main problem was her r-i-d-i-c-u-l-o-u-s name- but it still struck something of a chord with me.
Why did I kiss Rory Gilmore?
I have an unfortunate weakness I've not yet been able to iron out of my personality- namely, my desire to be… (cringe worthy as it is) liked. Maybe I just let that part of me out for a moment.
No- I might as well be honest, since I've just realized that both the cheesy thoughts from nine year old me and the awful 'one time I watched Buffy' story would be horribly embarrassing to me and will therefore meet a fiery death once I've finished venting to this old book.
I didn't kiss her to go along with the crowd, or because I wanted boys to like me.
I just needed an excuse.
"Get away from me, you're not my type"
Those were her exact words.
I guess there is no fairytale for this less attractive but considerably more intelligent version of Cinderella to jump into.
Maybe I'm the Prince? Endlessly seeking, slaying dragons named Dean and Tristan and Jess?
But the Prince seems to find what they seek, more often than not.
Lucky him.