Submit. More Boys.

I’m ugly when I cry. I am not pretty to begin with (and I’m not just being modest) but when I cry, I am ugly. Bright red splotches splatter my already acne-ridden cheeks, the right corner of my mouth and the right corner of my mouth alone drags all the way to hell, and my eyebrows are permanently furrowed while my nose seems like it suffers from epilepsy as it shudders and whimpers and gasps for oxygen. And snot. And my already soaking sleeve wiping away the snot. And my hand that attempts to replace my sleeve but is vain for trying. No. I am not good looking when I cry. I discovered this a week and a day after my eleventh birthday—a week and a day after my parents’ divorce. I didn’t even know I was sad until I put down my sparkly notepad, paused for just a minute, and began gushing. Everything came all at once. No gradual ascent, no subtle transition from quivering lip to full on heaving; I was a broken dam and I was drowning. Somewhere among the wreckage, materialized the carnal desire to look at my reflection, because at eleven years, one week, and a day, I longed to see myself at my most pitiful state. And I was not disappointed. Just shocked. It was hard to try to take it all in as I pulled at the fraying carpet, staring at the full length mirror. My features were swollen and distorted underneath homemade bangs recklessly matted to the side of my head, and I could no longer distinguish from exactly which portal the most fluid was being excreted. I was a mess. I was a monster. I was pathetic. I was just enough to convince myself to avoid this vulnerable state of being at all costs or at least never let anyone else see me so susceptible to pain. So that’s exactly what I did: I replaced tears with laughter and suddenly, the weight of the world became lighter, everything became a joke, and the heaviest substances became my best material. Who cares if I’m sad, I just want to be funny. What began as a meager way to cope has indisputably become a part of me and slowly converted into a renewed sense of optimism. Even in the worst of times, I know that as long as I can crack a joke, I will be okay. I am not so terribly against the idea of crying anymore either, because every once in awhile, that’s what it really takes. Plus, I am continually comforted by the fact that after three rolls of toilet paper and an entire sleeve of Girl Scout cookies, somewhere out there is a one-liner that will keep me sane and keep me smiling.