Boys do not like me. I have matched with more boys on Tinder and Bumble than I can count, I get harassed in the streets on a daily basis, and boys ask me out on dates all the time. But boys do not like me. They call me pretty, buy me dinner, and desire to have sex with me, and yet, I can never shake the feeling that boys do not like me. And, honestly, I don't think they do. I am an actress, a model, a singer, and a writer. I even hope to direct one day. Most of that aside, however, my main point in this blog centers around the fact that I am a model and an actress.

Being a model, it is sort of a requirement that I be attractive by modern day standards. And I am. I am beautiful, and I am fairly marketable. I have the long legs, the long blonde hair, and I'm slim. I have eyes that change color, sometimes green, sometimes blue, occasionally grey. My nose is not crooked, I have always been told that I have a beautiful mouth. I have walked into rooms and watched everybody turn to look at me. I am, by all definitions, beautiful. So, why is that every time a boy calls me beautiful, or tells me that I am stunning, it makes me feel more worthless than ever before? Why is it when a boy wants to take me out and buy me dinner, I immediately want to sink into the floor, or become invisible? Some girls would kill to be asked out by the boys I have dated, some would get surgery to have some of the features I naturally have. Some boys would pay to have a girl like me grace their arm, or lie in their beds. Is this not something that I dreamed of as a little girl? I was not an attractive child. I was lanky and weird, and I dreamed of getting the attention I do now. By all means, if you saw my dating history over the past year or so, you'd certainly think that boys like me. But they don't.

Boys like my body. They like my choice of occupation, being able to say "Yeah, bro. She's a model." They like it when I grace their bed, they like using me as a trophy. They like my long blonde hair, good facial structure, and they like that I impress all of their friends with my appearance. They like that i remove my blemishes and unattractive spots with makeup, that I wear clothes that play up my assets. But that's it. They don't want to commit to me, or introduce me to their moms. They want to have sex with me for a couple of months and then drop me so no one really gets attached. I am like a toy that is only good for the first two weeks after Christmas and then sits on the shelf and collects dust for the next few years until it is thrown away or donated to charity. They do not care about my real dreams or ambitions. They do not care that I desire to be loved, not touched. They never really want to be around me for very long because they fear that if they do, I may begin to become unattractive, not only to them, but to their friends, and they lose the cool factor they've had recently.

So, I guess if I'm going to be frank, boys don't like me. I worry they never will. They like the idea of me. They like the dream of being able to bed me whenever they want, and parade me around on their arms, but they don't want to spend any kind of real time with me. They don't want to stay up until one in the morning talking on the phone. They don't want to meet my parents, or do anything special. They want to bang and get out. And, to be quite frank, that is the worst feeling in the world.

I desire relationship. I want to be loved and to love in return. I want someone to pick me up at three in the morning so they can watch the sunrise with me. I want him to meet my dad and I want my dad to like him. I want him to have my mom wrapped around his finger, and I want him to be able to sit and play video games with my brother for hours. I want hime to tell his mom that "She's my girl," and to tell his dad that he thinks that I could really be the one. I want to be worth fighting for and worth fighting with. I want the kissing and the making up, and I want him to be willing to wait to have my body. I want him to fall in love with my crazy cackle and with my sarcastic tendencies. I want to fall in love with the way he smiles and the way that his eyes light up when he looks at something he loves. I desire to be loved, and I need him to be willing to wait to make love. Because so far, that's all boys want from me. But I don't want their bodies. I want their minds, their hearts. I want them. We are more than our bodies. And I want more. No, I need more.

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A boy that went to school with me committed suicide  yesterday. My head is still reeling. I did not know him. I had absolutely no idea who he was. All I knew was his name. I had heard about him in passing conversation, but never really gave him, or his name, another thought. I didn't know what he looked like, where he was from, or even what his favorite color was. And, to be quite frank, I didn't really care. I'm not going to launch into one of those self-aggrandizing speeches about how he must have meant so much to so many people, and how I wish that I had been able to get to know him, because before now, i really didn't. I was living my life. Doing my thing, with my friends, and not really caring all that much about who was and wasn't around me. To me, he was just another face with a name, going to film school and living life. Even if I knew he was depressed, I still probably never would have talked to him. I just wouldn't have. I was far too comfortable in my little bubble to even really care about what people outside of it were doing.  

It's always a little, for lack of a better word, funny how strangers act when someone commits suicide. Some people just go on with their lives as if nothing affects them, which, it probably really didn't. Others go on social media and post pictures that they got off the person's FaceBook or Instagram and write long speeches about how they "wish they could've been there for you" or how they "wish they'd taken the time to get to know you better." Then there are people like me. People that, if we're all going to be honest, are really socially unaffected by this tragedy, but relate in a personal manner. I didn't know Sixto (that's his name) but I do identify with his struggle. I know how it feels to look at your life and feel like everything is sinking around you. To feel so much pressure that you feel like you might physically break from the weight of it. I understand how it feels to look at your friends and feel like you're drowning in the ocean, and want to scream for help, but they're all smiling and so happy that you don't want to take a second of their happiness lest they end up like you. So, you internalize everything, and put on the brave face. The one with the bright eyes, and the big smile, and the loud laugh. Until one day, it all gets to be too much. Your face cracks and then it shatters, and you become very aware of the fact that you can't live like that. And then you shatter. No, you don't shatter, you explode in one single moment. That is the life or death decision. That is where you decide how you are going to walk away. Are you going to walk away from life, or will you walk away from death? But explosions are ratios. Some people make it out alive, some people don't. 

Someone once told me that suicide was the easy way out. It's not. It never will be. Whichever way you walk is going to have a consequence. Walking away from life means hurting the people you care about, and causing a ripple that hurts even those you don't know. Because your mom is laying on your bed, surrounded by your clothes and she won't even come out to see your father when he finally gains the courage to look at her again, because all he can see in her now, is the phantom of the happy woman that held you in the hospital, and the joy she had when she got to bring you home and put you in the crib for the first time. He still can't even look her in the eye because every time he does he swears that it might be you in disguise. Your mom keeps her eyes shut every time your brother enters the room because he looks just like you did at twelve, but she does pull him close and sob into his hair because your brother hasn't stopped using your shampoo so you can still be smelled around the house. And your best friends are sitting around in your favorite restaurant, totally silent, not even able to eat the food they ordered, and the waiter takes it away, telling them not to worry because it's on the house today. And your class is huddled together in the hallway thinking that they got it all wrong and that if you had just stayed, maybe everything wouldn't have exploded the way it did. That maybe they could've got you to stay. Nobody ever gets over it, they just get used to it. Your friends finally stop accidentally calling to invite you to coffee, but they always go alone and get your order so it feels like you're almost there. Your mom finally cleans your room, but she never stops freezing every time she thinks she might have seen you in the supermarket. Your dad can finally look your mom in the face again, but he never quite makes it to looking her in the eyes, because he still tears up when he sees those warm brown eyes with the gold flecks that make him believe you're actually alive somewhere. And your brother never stops going over all of the girl advice you gave him, although his smile never quite reaches his eyes when he uses the lines that you swear work. 

But living through the explosion isn't a cake walk either. As in most explosions, there is always a small period of waiting. Waiting for the toxins to get out of the air so you can move back and rebuild a life you never really wanted. And rebuilding is hard. It takes years and years to get to a place where you don't feel like death might just be worth it, because your mom and dad think it's their fault that you're so sad, and you can't take the hopeful face and the defeated eyes of your brother. But you do. You work through, and then all of a sudden, you're finally kind of okay. Maybe you met a girl that made you believe in love, and she shows you  happiness you never even dreamed of. But it's always there. Survivor's guilt. That's one thing that never goes away. You stay up at night, looking for any news of back home, hoping that it never happened to any of your friends. You find yourself staying up past midnight to start your first blog post in the memory of someone you've never even met. And you wish that things like this never happened to anyone but you, because you know that no one ever deserves to feel like that. And you'll always find yourself thinking "If only we had another day..."