I like boys. I like how they are tall. I like the way the always try to impress you. I like that sometimes they are a little clueless. I like boy’s with brown hair. I like boy’s with nice sneakers. I like boys. That’s never been a secret. I express it freely to my friends and my teachers and on my blog. I sometimes express it by making extremely inappropriate sexual comments about one to my mother.
But I love her hair. I love the way her hands fit into mine like the last two puzzle pieces. I love the freckle on her lip or When she tells me my jokes are dumb. I love the way she sounds on voicemail. I love the way she always seems to smell good. I love the way she argues and the way she talks about her family. I love that we constantly get looks and not-so-nice comments