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I would never know you. Just looking at you across the quad makes me nauseous. You are an obstruction to my view. Your gelled up hair and drawn on face, it's all bullshit. I see you in the hall, and wonder how it's possible that we've known of each other for eleven years, but never once talked. What is holding people apart? Why do we lie to ourselves, why is it that the artificial crap is considered beautiful? We're all believers in our own lies. We put the practicers of this crap up at a higher level. Worship them on the TV.

You move so carefully, you are trying not to break your little heels, but the heels are more solid than the fragile bones which hold you together. You are trying not to topple over like a clutz because your shoes are so high up. I don't know who taught you that this was beauty, that fragility was strength in this world of ours. You are only beautiful to the ten guys hurling their ratty faces at you. You are submissive enough for them to gain control. But the rest of the girls just admire you, wonder how you can do that, mimic your ways.

My friend Renee said you like looking pretty because that's the only thing you've got. But that must have been at one of your weak points. Why don't you let yourself out? Stop that polite giggle and fall on the floor in all the hysterical rage that you've felt for the past sixteen years. When some guy says something lame to you, don't act passive. Smack him. If I were really talking to you, if I had any guts at all to tell this, I'd end my lecture on a high note. I'd ask you over to bake cookies, go to a show. I'd introduce you to more sincere people. And then I'd ask you what it was really like to be at the top of the social scheme. Maybe I'd be able to understand this phenomenon better after knowing someone who was up there at one time.