Guilty Pleasures by Anshi Purohit (16, Maryland)

​I am not the kind of girl people write stories about. I have no desirable qualities or fatal flaws, but I am prevalent. I am ordinary. I breathe air, drink half-filled dreams out of lukewarm cups, and eat when I am due for a proper nutrition break. Every day, I follow a routine, but sometimes I break it–never to the point when I am beginning to feel clumsy–and I occasionally forget to double-knot my off brand shoes. On school days, I am average but unsolvable. No bullies, no friends, no philosophical thoughts to ponder upon until the lunch bell pops the bubble
hovering over my head. When I go to the library afterschool, I take as many books off the
shelves as I can make time for and caress their spines with my fingertips, crack them open to
smell the raw memories etched on each page. I do not read any of them, and I forget their titles,
but never the textures of their unreachable worlds.

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The worst part about living is that we only get one life to do it all. We can be anything we want to be, but we can’t be everything we’ve always dreamed of becoming. It is a part of Nature’s fine print.

Every year, I get to know myself again, each question screaming a universal inconsistency. Who are you? Once, it used to satisfy them when I said my favorite color was purple. The universe doesn’t care what I am, but I suppose I need more than that on an essay or a resume. If I could, I would tell them that I like breathing. It’s nice to be alive, even on days whenI would rather content myself with feeling like shit. My favorite place to breathe is beneath a cerulean sky, where the clouds look like happiness and the sun basks above the sweeping meadow near my neighborhood’s park. Instead, they want to know why they should get to know me. What are my hobbies? What makes me special? I’m good at listening to music, but it gets tiring after more than an hour. I don’t fail often, but if I don’t try anything, I don’t think such qualifications count.

​I laugh at stupid jokes until I realize that some of them aren’t really jokes.

Who are you? The black ink bleeds onto my forehead. Not good enough. Sometimes, even being enough is not enough.

In the middle of some idle Sunday afternoons, I cry. If crying could burn calories, I would own beauty; I would walk down the street with my head held high, its leash wrapped around my wrist. Perhaps I cry because we’re revolving too fast and it’s making me dizzy. Thanks, Earth. On the very bad days, I cry in my closet instead of the shower, which at least muffles my voice. On those kinds of days, I want to be heard. I want the world to feel sorry for me.

Do you ever experience moments when you want to throw someone out of the nearest window? At first, an unspoken force seizes their bodies and they seem to get bigger with each swell of your rage, closer, their shadowed faces magnified with horror. And then they are gone, the cartoonish blink of a lost star replacing the human being.

I don’t know when this started. The feelings. I like to think of them a s pieces of an alter ego I will never put together, because it is better this way. It always starts with a scab that’s punctured, morphing into a wilted lump of tender tissue, morphs into a stream of blood on the side of a thumb that won't stop itching. Can’t stop twitching. The feeling becomes nails raking through straight hair, snowflakes raining from the scalp, collected under grimy fingernails. The stirring is pounding into pillows just to feel what it is like to be in pain. The motive is to relish each moment.

Nobody is allowed to come inside my room, because I am nothing special. I am coping. I know I will be jealous the rest of my life, and it is something I am coming to terms with–I like the smell of sweaty sheets, dreaming of all the adventures I’d have if only I were a little…different. When I binge Netflix shows for days on end, I pretend I’m taking mental health days. Life is stressful, you know? Except my life is fine at doctor’s visits, the needle of truth puncturing my arm. Are you stressed? No, not at all. I become unhuman.

The parasitic butterflies are eating away at me, again. I have to go somewhere, ask someone, do something. At least they start gnawing at my stomach each time I turn in the mirror. Turning turning turning; I am a princess, marveling in my beauty until I stop turning and stare, the excruciating detail and accuracy of the glass readied with its attack sequence. We were all taught about the fetal position. Cower, don’t fight. The shame wards off the butterflies and I no longer have any weapons.

I am not the kind of girl you would ask on a date. I am not the kind of girl people write stories about. If I was known for all my failures, I’d be a famous billionaire with no care in the world. During my fantasies of sleeping forever, I’d never have to force myself to exercise again. Sleeping forever would be paradise. I could dream forever, and chocolate would taste so good.

The best part of my day is the night. The best part of my life is when I am not fully living. Before sleeping, I forget that morning comes after night, thinking of all the dreams I will have the minute my head is nestled on the pillow, ensconced within warm blankets. Before sleeping, I close my eyes and create a new character. Maybe, it is a character from the library covers; maybe it is a character I made up. But I didn’t make anything up, because I’m dreaming. Even the part of my routine when I think to myself that everything will get better tomorrow is the better half of a dream. In about six hours, I won’t be gallivanting with space explorers or relaxing on a tropical island. I will be rolling to my side, faint cracks of light spilling through my shutters.

At first, I blink the crust out of my eyes like I do every morning, settling into another routine. I open the blinds and as the light pours over me, I will feel something like hope. This day can be something worth living for. By the afternoon, I still do not know that these moments of pleasure are puppeteering my life, fooling me time and time again. This is worth it, you’ll see.

I am guilty of succumbing each time.​