next morning I awoke with a nasty hangover, but begrudgingly met my couple friends for brunch. They giggled and spoon-fed each other while I eyed them curiously over eggs and fried-green tomatoes. They've been dating for four years and they still make each other laugh all the time. Despite my loneliness, it was lovely to see them so happy. They were dreamy, blissful. It was a feeling I'd forgotten, a feeling I'd left in Virginia when I packed up my cheap crap in boxes and moved to New York alone. Alone. The word was a lead balloon. After brunch ended, I was acutely aware of all the couples I passed while walking home. They were holding hands, fingers interlaced. My palms dangled at my sides, empty. I caught a glimpse of myself in a storefront window and noticed that I looked bigger than usual. The couples swarmed around me and I was giant and silly like a nodding bobble-head. My temples pounded from my hangover, and I couldn't help but think of my crush, the one who doesn't like me back. The one who says I'm pretty, but I know the feelings stop at pretty. I grow stupid and slow around him, so I'm only a pretty girl, and pretty girls are only good for one thing. I could have cried at that moment, but no tears fell. My parents always taught me to never feel sorry for myself. Put a band-aid on it! There's somebody who always has it