Hey, you. I'm going to cut right to the chase here: I hate you. I know many young ladies just like you, some of them beautiful people and dear dear friends, but on the inside, the rotten-apple core depths of my soul: you drive me insane.
You've got it so great. The world worships every honey-suckle scented breath you take. The masses fall at your espadrille clad feet; your soft doe eyed stare wins over everyone you've ever met.
And I hate you.
I am the complete antithesis of you, and my hatred comes 100% from jealousy. No one will ever pine for me and my shiny brown hair, perfectly shaggy and disheveled, yet neatly coiffed at the same time. I bet you wake up first thing in the morning to the sounds of chirping birds, all Noxzema commercial glowing and lovely.
I look like ass first thing in the morning, with sheet marks on my face and arms that take about 45 minutes to go away, drool on my pillow and hair like some kind of demonic banshee.
But that's not why I hate you.
I hate you because I'm finally old enough to recognize that my dreams of being adored for all of my fabulous quirks and having my world open up like a proverbial oyster are never going to happen.
I have to work really hard to be lovable. Zooey, you most certainly do not. If I tried to pull any of the hipster non-committal yet 'please, allow me to string you along forever' stunts that you did, I'd be written off forever as some kind of psycho. And you stroll around, breaking hearts and ruining perfectly nice guys for the rest of us. Am I ever glad I got to mine before someone like you did.
A guy I used to hang around with used to tell me that my neurosis were my charm - not part of it. But even then, I was neurotic and strange, not quirky and irresistible. Dudes judge my Dudes judge my record collection, not fall madly in love with its eclectic charm. If I knit on the bus, it's weird, not enchanting. If I decide to pull a vintage romper out of the closet and tool around town on a bike eating ice cream? Scorn, not sighs of 'she's so wonderful!'
And I'm pretty sure that no one thinks that my penchant for piling all of my laundry in a corner until said pile is taller than me is adorable.
But I bet that Zooey could get away with it.