I’m in a record store, blunt bangs sticking to my forehead. I probably look like Walmart Zooey Deschanel, dress not perfectly vintage, just old. Holes in my leggings from my dog jumping up on me whenever she sees me.
A man approaches, starts with, “Has anyone ever told you who you look like?” And I smile, do the appropriate blush and feigned interest. He could be nice, sure. No doubt. The compliment of comparison is appreciated.
But this is somehow not enough. It’s not enough to look like your schoolboy crush, you’ve got to craft my personality into hers too, fictional. Make me one-dimensional.
You got some lines for me to recite? Drop them off at my door.
“You look like *INSERT WHOEVER YOU WANT*”
Always the same story, different characters.
A dude I went to high school with DMs me, “I just think you’re so interesting,” without even knowing me. Never had a single conversation in school, just sees my face and body and sailor mouth. Sorry, not interested in being your Penny Lane.
I’m not gonna be the one to save you, when I’m depressed and anxious and trying to just keep my fucking head above water without the added pressure of someone making me their fantasy.
I’m not gonna dance in a field to Florence + the Machine while you sketch me, while you figure out your deep-seated issues.
You’ll get to know me and it will be a disappointment when you discover I’m nothing like your TV screen.