Must we?

I used to wish I could be a ballerina.

I used to get so jealous of the good ones. The ones who had it, who could balance for years and turn a million turns without giving it a second thought. The ones who had both their splits, hyperextended knees, parallel first positions, no hips, teeny waists and strong arches. 

God, I tried. I tried so hard to stand up straight when I was already too tall, to strenthen my feet even though they were too big, and to force my belly button against my spine and try to breathe at the same time. I must have looked like the biggest oafish fool trying to straighten both of my regularly extended knees whole holding one fairly large foot in the palm of my hand, trying to get my leg above my hips in an arabesque, trying to get my legs into The Split That Barely Was, trying to pas de deux with a boy at least five inches shorter.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall. Picture it. Some of you probably don't have to, you were THERE.

Shudder.

If I were born different, maybe, with a higher metabolism so that I'd PEAK at 5'7, 105, with nonexistant hamstrings and turned out knees and delicate yet strong bony feet, maybe I'd be singing a different, less average tune.

I hate average. I hate it to a pulp, yet I feel like right now, that word describes me best. And I do not say this with any sort of self loathing, or disdain, just slight disappointment mixed with a dash of wistful and a pinch of amused.

Ballerinas are never average. They can't be. Or else everyone would be one. 

Sometimes similarites are so blatantly in your face obvious that you don't even realize that they're there.

I don't know where I'm going with this. I really don't think it even had a point. 

I think the bottom line is that in my next life, I'm going to be a stone cold, focused, dedicated, yet friendless prima ballerina. And then I will make a Venn diagram and compare my two lives, just to see which was more fulfilling. I think I know the answer, but you can never be sure about these things, now can you?

I'm kidding. Everyone needs friends. Everyone.

My serial killer classmate was popping hard candies like it was his job today. Big ones. Colorful ones. Sometimes three at the same time, different flavors. He still wears cowboy boots in spite of the weather, and he still thinks that just because he's 50, what he has to say is of equal validity as the professor. Which it is not.

I'm really not losing my mind, I promise, on the off chance anyone is still reading this garbage. I'm just feeling like a bit of an insomniac.