MANGOS & EGOS.

o n e . B L O S S O M

Not to be fake deep or anything but-

everyone knew how this started, but no one expected the ending. I met boy, boy met me type of romantic fate that people believed in.

I don't believe in that s**t anymore, or did I really?

I grew up thinking that a portion of success or what it means to have at least reached a level of achievements in life is to fall in love with a boy. To aspire to have the wedding bells and the intimate honeymoon and if we don't, my value is considered worthless. Sometimes the fundamentals of what boys can offer are boring conversations, d**k, and disrespect. Sometimes, like me, I settled for these things, maybe to fill a void, desperation, I don't know, but the point is I don't believe in love or the true when it comes with it, like, think about it: true love. Why do we need to add true in front of love itself? When was it ever fake? Is love an illusion like they say?

Along with true love, there are conditional ones too, like, does including unconditional mean it wasn't before so we love unconditionally since it requires no limitations or expectations and to just accept the person for who they are? Sometimes, people told me they liked me before, even loved, but the bargain left me empty handed. They only loved through me, for the attention and other, selfish reasons, and sucked out my energy for their own self-absorbed purposes.

Does love lose value somewhere and are we selfish human beings when we just say "love" at first sight when at that moment, it's a pure emotion, infatuation without the sacrifice? Do we even know what love is these days?

Relationships are a joke and I laugh when Katie in my English class gossips to her best friend that some guy named Jorge is the one. At twelve, we expect to bump into our crushes as our bodies come together in a collision where we would mask our attraction to one another with shy confusion and fluttering apologies.

All of it. . .was just reckless.

Critical Thinking and Writing Seminar was a higher level course of English and Literature that made you look good for universities once we transitioned out of community college. My four-year university friends, friends for a season and whom I disconnected with, secretly considered the community college students the "rejected university applicants", or "the dumb ones" or even "poor people" but I already knew a majority of them were trying to swim out of student loans.

And they are no longer my friends, due to other circumstances as well.

But as much as anything under the sun on how I felt about relationships, being here didn't make me any happier either. English wasn't my strong suit. It was quite boring and irrelevant to whatever major I chose to pursue besides knowing how to critically think and write for myself and yes—

I can f*****g speak it but typing essays until three in the morning is too much work for me since my English professor assigns essay lengths the size of novels, an infinite number of book and podcast to analyze and her favorite that helps her sleep at night, the infamous f*****g poetry drafts.

"Micah? Micah? I already called group names already. Who are you assigned with?" Professor Cooper sweetly questioned with concern slowly easing over her scrunched eyebrows to make her appear older.

I transmitted a careless and bored expression on anything about the project and presentation for today or who my group members were while my hand rested underneath my chin. She didn't seem to notice as she flipped through her scrambled documents.

"I work better alone."

"No, no, no, Miss Micah," Professor Cooper chimed in towards my discouraging attitude, flipping through another sheet, "you know how this works this semester from the syllabus. Group work and presentations are a big percentage of your grade. We have been through this over and over again. I emailed you last time about grades Micah, remember?"

"Well," I mocked, using a similar tone she used with me, "maybe repeat it over and over and over again for a real one Professor Cooper because if you read my email thoroughly, I mentioned how I refused to have procrastinating, lazy-ass students hold a share of my work or abilities on how I perform in this classroom. I even sent you screenshots of excelling work alone, versus with a group."

She probably would've hushed me on insulting her students but knew it was true. Professor Cooper liked playing these games with me. Never offended by my slick tongue, she always had a sense of high patience for students like me and used her inside voice when I got angry over my bad grade. She can be like that because it is not her f*****g career going down the drain. She probably enjoyed me sticking around her too, since everyone always had something good to say about her except me.

Maybe having me around would change my mind about her.

Fuck to the no and this stupid ass requirement.

Before Professor Cooper could sigh in weary at half the battle I was losing, a rushed presence fell behind me along with a soothing masculine voice.

I didn't turn around.

"Yeah, I'm late again I know- but the subway was packed for downtown." The boy took in a delicate breath, "Uhm, what are we doing right now?"

"Another excuse E for tardiness?" Professor Cooper shook her head in disappointment, "As I always say, attendance and tardiness, is also graded and part of your percentage in this course," Professor Cooper noted and quickly made eye contact with me, "make sure you come on time this week. Everyone's in groups for today's poetry project."

"I'm always five minutes early to this stupid class so I can talk to you." I snapped.

"I'll be better next time." The boy apologized, ignoring my comment to the professor.

Even though he didn't sound sincere, she bought it and that made me internally boil knowing his incident most likely happened before, she just likes him.

Once he left, Professor Cooper dramatically tapped her sheet of paper as if it were a long ass discovery of lost treasure. "No one was absent this day. . . Aha! Yes. Here we go." A dramatic groan escaped out of my mouth praying she mistaken to write my name down. "Micah's group for today's poetry is with Emma, Mees, and. . .

E."

Ugh, here we go. . .again with this bullshit.