  I hate “Fraiser”. I hate his Dashboard Confessionals t-shirt and his blonde hair. I hate his boyish smile and good-natured laugh. I hate his honors classes and I hate his ex-girlfriend. I hate his stylish jeans and layered t-shirts. I hate his James Taylor CD and I hate the way my name looks in his handwriting. I hate him, I hate him, I love him. And it may just be as simple as that. We’re repelling magnets. He is well-adjusted and fashionably sensitive; the All-American Boy.
He smiles frequently and plays nice with everyone. He’s inoffensive. Teachers love him. He’s probably donates his time to orphans or puppies or the elderly . In creative writing we’ve concocted a outline of a cross-genre story; a sci-fi romance novel. An alien and a human fall in love, two creatures from different worlds. So its awkward to talk about synonyms for “love” or “kiss” near him. Because, honestly, those things are exactly what is on my mind. And I don’t want it to be. I’m go for boys with dyed black hair. Boys who smoke cigarettes and sleep during class. The Jordan Catalaunos of the real world! The kind that give wet, sloppy kisses and awkward fumbled feel-ups.
And all in dark basements that smell mildly of pot and detergent. I want this out of my system. I don’t have time for escapades with boys like this. So I refuse to let him take my breath away tomorrow. I will not let myself like him. Because “the good boy” is a road I have already been down. Affectionately… Anna 
