I don’t think I will ever be picked. I am too toothy in my smiles, too giddy and easily pleased. I should be serious, I should stop and regret my tenacity towards affection but I can’t. I laugh when a bee circles me, when a child pokes me, I laugh whenever I want really. I wear my heart on my sleeve and I adorn it with every flash of happiness I get. This is me. I can not be stoic or wise beyond my years. I say dumb shit. I don’t think carefully every time I speak, I don’t plan ahead because I find it boring. I need someone who can love me for this and not despite it. Smile lines are the only trophy we get after death and I want plenty.

Excerpt from a book I’ll never write (Rose)