I am that girl

     There’s always that girl at every school, at every party, in every class, in every circle of friends…

The one you see around, but don’t necessarily know the name of. She sits behind you in your economics class, in front of you in math, the seat beside you in psychology; she never says a word, rarely takes notes, and perpetually has the remnants of the previous night smeared under her eyes and matted in her hair. While she plays around on Pinterest or reads a book on her kindle app, you see her and you think to yourself; “underachiever.

She’s the girl you hear the fraternity guys brag about banging, even if they haven’t; but no one questions their claim, because, when it comes down to it… Who cares about the validity of what they’re saying? Who cares about the girl’s side of the story? Who cares about the truth? No one, because that would make it less interesting; less dramatic; less gossip-worthy; less, less, less. So, when you see this girl’s name come out of yet another boy’s mouth, you think back on all the previous notches you heard about, and you think to yourself; “whore.

She’s that girl you always see at the bar and has now been labled a ‘regular,’ who everyone recognizes and acknowledges in their own way; nodding, hugging, friendly catcalling. Everyone knows her; bouncers smile as she passes without checking her fake, different groups welcome her over, and bartenders give her free drinks all night. As the ngiht wears on, you’ve looked on as the bathroom door swung open and with so much force, it smashed the bottle of wine in her hand, and you’ve seen her do things anyone else would have been kicked out for. You watch as she stumbles out at closing in her 5 inch platform heels, and you think to yourself; “party girl.

She’s the girl you see on Facebook all the time; who pops up on timelines and in your friends’ photos. You always notice how many mutual friends you have, and startle to see that one of them is the foreign exchange student from sophomore year in high school. You wonder to yourself how she knows so many people from so many places, or if she knows any of them and they are just random adds. You look at her timeline, her profile picture, her public ‘about’ info, searching for a sign that she isn’t real, and you think to yourself; “ghost.

You hear things about her from your friends, and you listen to them tell you ridiculous and unbelievable stories. Like, when she intentionally set her high school roommate’s hair on fire while she was asleep; how she torched her ex-boyfriend’s car; and/or got knocked up by her soccer coach junior year in high school. You listen to the stories intently, and all the while you think to yourself; “psycho bitch.


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