"Oh, right."

The phrase I say rolling my eyes at you complaining about your life. You sit on the other side of the backseat while I hold my books close to my body to be the least bother. You throw yours on the floor and tell the chauffeur you want to stop to pick up your shake at this hip place that has a name I cannot remember. Was it 'Protein Shack'? 'Protein Place'? 'Prote-inn'?

Okay that last one was silly.

"Little Miss Right"

I never had what you had. I could, but the fact that I am half a different cup of tea than you prevented me from it. By fifteen I was a disheveled kid and you were just gorgeous. Looking back on those times we both looked bad but man, everybody looked up to you and your friends. Clothes, phones, springs in Paris and summers in New York. There was no difference between you and the American girl portrayed in those late Nickelodeon shows. I don't blame you for acting like that, they, too, look perfect.

"Everything right"

I remember being at a hair salon while my mom was off buying some Redken for her strawberry blonde curls. I grabbed a caramel blonde wig and looked at myself in the mirror. It did not fit me. I was way better off with my black hair. But it did not stop me from wishing to be that pretty girl with light hair that had fun at the beach and laughs at pretty boy's jokes. "I really like your dark hair, why would you change it?" my boyfriend said, after telling him I wanted lighter hair like his. I replied with something about hair color being part of self expression but deep inside I know that's not my case. I just want to be pretty like the pretty girls.

"Right Teen"

Your parties are awesome. Or so I think. You have the food, the people, unlimited booze. People in trendy outfits with flower necklaces for the occasion take shots for every reason possible. People making out, chugging a mint colored liquid out of a bottle with a sticker of a smiling iguana. "This is true happiness" says one guy, handing me red solo cup while he looks at the crowd. It's not roofied, just filled with an obligation to keep chatting with this melancholic dude, which to a self-declared introvert, it's probably worse. But since I am not actually an introvert, I deflect the conversation successfully. "Cheers to that" I reply as I hold my cup to his. He acts accordingly and we each drink our poison.

"Right Experience"

"I want... to... hook up with..." She throws up in between words. I don't know her but in the five minutes prior to that moment we became best friends. I hold her hair away from her mouth and try, in my dizzy state, to not keep breaking the toilet seat from my friend's bathroom. While she continues to push the sugary alcohol from her body while mumbling an older guy's name I sit on her side and think. Do I like this type of life? No, but I would take anything to be like the pretty girls and have pretty friends. I think of the girl next to me and think again. Where are her friends? They probably know she's missing. Then why is it that the one taking care of her is me? I stand her up to get her water. Her parents called and I don't want her to get caught, so I fix her hair and spritz some perfume I found in my bag. I guess I'm okay with my actual friends.

"Right everything"

I thought this would end in college. But I decided to stay for a year while some of the pretty people went abroad to USC or Loyola. Those colleges like wealthy kids. After all, who wouldn't accept someone who could pay that stupidly expensive tuition? My comment comes from jealousy, I know. I'm still waiting for Loyola's acceptance letter. I finally created a Facebook account, but only because I wanted an Uber account for a ride. My friend told me they are safer anyway. I now get friend suggestions. I check them out of curiosity, but regret it afterwards. I just swipe through pictures of perfect teen lives. Great job Facebook, just what I needed.

"Right on the outside"

I enter the psychologist's office. I had asked her if I could interview her to write an article for college, and we agreed on a meeting time. As I greet her secretary, I see you. You are mad I recognized you. Embarrased, you hide your face and I, stunned, head to the waiting room. A pretty girl. Going to therapy. But you seem so perfect! You have it all! All these years thinking that if I just had everything you have I wouldn't be so miserable. But I was wrong.

Maybe we aren't as different as I thought.

Maybe we are both just humans wanting to be loved after all.