i r r e l e v a n t . p e r f e c t i o n
-another moment gone-
Two-shot.
--
It's like the pretty lights that shined down upon you as you looked up towards the sky and the ceiling, were the two things that met you. The ceiling seemed endless as you stared up in awe, the ceiling flawless and crack-free. It was almost perfect.
Almost.
-
You're not the kind of guy to play with hearts like him. You're no blond haired boy who finds it amusing to date the hottest girl in Octavian Country Day, and screw around with her heart by flirting with her almost flawless, yet nearly and so far from perfected friends.
You can't play the 'big man' by being a star goalie who manages to pull down his pants and shake his white butt and keep all the coated coal eyelashes glued to him with opened jaws and gushing gossip.
You can't be the guy who steals the most popular eye-candy in the girl's school. You can't steal Massie Block's heart, or turn her amber orbs anywhere in any way, near you. You can't play with her heart and stomp all over it, then whisper sweet nothings in her diamond studded ears and earn her affection with a bat of a extremely masculine eyelash.
You can't even begin to try and be the oblivious brown eyed boy who can look into the amber eyes of his so called girlfriend, [which he treats like property] and not notice the masked pain and hidden talent. You can't be the guy who doesn't tremble at seeing the fiery flaming anger that thundered when the brunette snapped and broke.
You're no way in hell, Derrick Harrington.
--
You're not the kind of guy to write sappy notes and give heart wrenchingly clever CD's that include a playlist of your emotions. You aren't the boy who has an ocean blue eye and an emerald gem green eye. You clearly do not have two different colored eyes; out of the norm you are not.
You do not, in any particular way, or level, have the sweet beautiful Claire Lyons wrapped around your finger. You know it deep down, that you're good friends with her but it's clearly never ever going to be more than that.
You aren't the sweet sensitive forward who kicks ass at scoring goals and flirting with all the chill girls.
You're not the guy who can balance sports, grades, and girls, all at the same time and you definitely don't have an older brother who is on the top charts of hawt that all the O.C.D. girls list.
You're a mix of disarrayed color scheme that no one can see. You're ultra violet on the light spectrum that scientist often overlooked. You're the mess that no one ever wants to pick up but rather scrutinize for a moment then shuffle on without another glance.
You're not Cam Fisher.
--
You're not the Spanish boy who has charming looks, and manage to get kicked out of an old school Hotchkiss. You do not have the affection of the gorgeous, gossip queen, Alicia Rivera drooling over you and doing everything and getting everyone to look at her just to get your single minded attention.
You aren't infatuated in a very [masculine] manner with Ralph Lauren. You aren't the popular boy who gets the girls to chase after you and try to steal your kisses.
You aren't the boy who plays defense as one of the best players on Briarwood Academy's soccer team, and you certainly can't get even teachers to gaze at you with lustful eyes.
You aren't the kind of guy to steal your best friend's girl [and her first kiss] all while trying to light a fire that just won't ignite. Even if the fire were to burn for a bit, it would not last and you were absolutely positive of that.
You are not the pretty Spanish boy, Josh Hotz.
That's a given.
--
You are not the kind of guy who tries to look up girl's skirts and make everything [completely irrelevant] sexual and awkward. You can't light up an entire room with smiles and laughter.
You are not an incredible midfielder for soccer on the Briarwood team, and you are definitely no heart breaker and player-to-be. You are not the guy who goes soft and whipped for a burping redhead and then goes and sends pig pictures of her after Skye Hamilton's disastrous costume party.
You are not that guy who thinks that girls are the only things keeping you breathing and studying [ha!].
You're not the guy who makes teacher's roll their eyes in annoyance but cause a small sliver of a smile to curve up in fighting a single smile.
When it comes to girls, you're not a player or an expert, or a pervert.
You're no Kemp Hurley.
--
You do not wear glasses and you do not partner up as sharing Dylan Marvil to go to Skye's infamous costume party.
You do not torture the insecure redhead until she begins to analyze the idea of having an eating disorder, or taunt her until she resolves into salty tears.
You aren't the guy who is side-kick with Kemp Hurley and has the bluest eyes [according to Massie] she has ever seen.
You are not attracted to redheads like this guy, but rather a blonde with Keds and a brunette with fiery flaming amber eyes. You do not have the LBRs [as Massie forces it] swooning and pining over you as you play the role of a side-kick next to Kemp Hurley as a midfielder on the dewy green grass of a soccer field.
You are merely a color splattered out of random chance and probability, onto the whiter than white fresh and new canvas. You are a math equation that not even Einstein could even begin to attempt to compute.
You're not the genius of the infamous, popular, and attractive group.
You're no Christopher Plovert.
--
You're the mere speck that floats endlessly in the winded air that is clouded with dust and dew and millions of teeny tiny dots. You're catastrophe and you're peace all set into one binding. You're the paradox of silence and deafening, silence. You're the alphabet all backwards and turned upside down, just to bewilder the impatient learners that are to take on the next generation with open minds and willing hearts.
You're the apocalypse and the allusion that every writer makes the connection to.
You're the rain that storms down in peddles and free falls down onto the waiting black cement and causes a silent catastrophe that no one ever notices but everyone seems to hear.
You're not the feisty blond haired boy with an ego the size of China and the given apathy of a celebrity that just doesn't care about the hearts they're breaking. You're not the black haired boy with two different alluring eyes with the heart of a naïve eight year old boy. You're definitely not the Ralph Lauren [masculine!] obsessed Spanish boy with the style of a not [gay] guy. You're certainly not the heartless [almost] afro pervert with a smile that catches every one's eyes. You're not the glasses wearing gentle [kind of] guy who tantalizes redheads with an open mind.
You're just you.
The unsuspecting mystery that no one cares enough to solve.
For now.
Fin.
--
Review?
-another moment gone-
Try and take a guess who he is…(:
PS: thanks for all the wondrous reviews! I LOVE getting reviews. They make my days. (=