The security of insecurity.

I know a girl. She's cute. Fairly intelligent. Kind. Easy to get along with. She's a nice girl, and to my knowledge, everybody likes her. How could you not? She's the girl next door. Perky. Bubbly. The whole 9 yards. She gives the illusion of having it all together. Everyday. Not a hair out of place. Her wardrobe is impeccable. Can't say that I've ever seen her wear the same outfit more than once. She even has "cute" handwriting. This girl is practically perfect, and everybody loves her. She's never been anything but nice to everybody, including me. This girl is everything I've always wanted to be, but am to afraid to allow myself to become.



I hate her.



I hate her because she's so bubbily, and because she's so cute, and because she's so perky. I hate her because her handwriting is so pretty, and her attitude is so pretty, and her demeanor is so pretty. I hate her because she always has a smile on her face, a smile in her voice, and a smile in the bubble of happiness that surrounds her.

I hate her because I feel threatened by her.

I hate her because I feel insecure around her. Just her presence and glow irritate me. They irritate me because they are so damned perfect, and everybody loves her presence and her glow. Standing next to her, I feel like a giant stain. A giant stain, that no matter how much it tries, it's still a stain.

I hate her because I want to be like her.

I want to walk through life carefree, and have everybody instantly take to me like a duck to water. I want to laugh and smile, constantly. I want to be cute, and bubbly, and pretty and happy and sparkly, and have pretty handwriting.

I hate her because I want to be just like her. But I don't know how.

Insecurity is a bitch.