A few nights ago, I was left at the imaginary altar. My bedroom, the church filled with all of our imaginary family and friends joined together as imaginary guests. My imaginary groom long gone, bags packed as you ran out the door with only the excuse of 'this just isn't working out anymore,' to tide me over. My not-so-imaginary tears did nothing to make you stay. All that you left behind was me standing alone to explain to everyone just why you weren't going to make it to the imaginary wedding.
In another life, known as the age of 14, I had a big crush on a boy. Before I get started recalling any type of detail about the nature of our relationship - no relationship whatsoever, actually - I feel compelled to describe our differences in outward appearance. Jason, last name Whothehellknows, was a rather attractive specimen of boy. Tall, slender, rather nice hair, amazing glasses. He was probably the boy that got me started on my love of guys that wear glasses, actually. I liked them so much that I even renamed him. Pretty Glasses Boy he was dubbed, PGB for short and I was completely infatuate. So was the rest of the female student body, to be honest. He delivered letters and memos to other classrooms for the office and you could hear the murmur down the hall from the girls after he left a room. I, on the other hand, was on the other side of aesthetically pleasing. I was short, too skinny, and my hair was wrong. Come to think of it, when isn't my hair wrong? I digress. He...
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