cheat codes

When I was in High School I never listened in class and instead I painted my nails and drew in the margins of the textbooks and argued with my teachers. I almost didn’t graduate but I did teach myself about color theory and Einstein’s theories and how to design houses and make blueprints. I would go to my public library after school and pick out 10 books and sit and read for hours as fast as I could, making notes and finding references to try to absorb the knowledge because all I wanted was to know everything. I wanted to be smart and I wanted people to know I was smart. I wanted to know facts on poisonous plants and the names of famous cult leaders and how to tie a rope in every way possible. I thought that becoming smart was a cheat code to becoming powerful but then I got boobs. I got boobs and I kept growing my hair down my back and it stopped mattering if I was smart. I didn’t need to be. People looked at me at face value and that was enough for them. I’ve spent the last decade of life letting people dictate how they want me; as projected fantasies, a pretty face, a pair of boobs, “a nice girl”. I stand there and smile and tuck my niche interests and curiosities in my pocket like a secret.

I’m in my mid twenties and I’m scared I’m not smart anymore and that I’ve given into this “basic girl” facade out of adaption. I’m scared that I’m so consumed by blush colors and talking in slang and having crushes on boys that I’ve lost my hunger and that my pockets are rapidly emptying.

Boobs and indifference are a cheat code but I’m still a small girl sitting cross-legged in the philosophy aisle at a dusty library.