This Salad is Unsatisfying

She's searching her mind tucked neatly under her mass of hair curlers to try to find the right words. She likes to talk about herself like an omnicient narrator, so that maybe if she says something disturbing, or not quite right, no one will be the wiser that she's confessing all sorts of things about herself.
She feels average, so horribly average, and she's unable to express how much she absolutely hates this. Even in her mind the words get all jumbled up and tossed around, like her brain is playing Boggle and just throwing out any word it can find.
Someone asks her if she's alright. She's obviously not. She sighs and tells him that her salad is unsatisfying. He looks and her strangely, and turns to talk to someone else. She laughs to herself at the stupidity of her excuses. There's always been tension between him and her. Some sort of awkwardness you think they would have gotten rid of after these past two months of embracing and kissing in front of twenty of so people.
Secretly, she thinks he isn't rather fond of her at all.
She's partially given up at any attempt of beauty a long time ago, and can't take a compliment at all. She wears makeup, because she wants to cry if she doesn't. She's fine with showing her body, because she finds it so boring and ugly that it's absolutely hilarious, and she's always up for making a joke. Or being a joke. She lacks the self-esteem and decisiveness to tell the difference sometimes.
She breaks down at the worse possible times. Sometimes it takes something phyiscal to set off something emotional, and after he slaps her it's off to a secluded area to cry her eyes out over things she isn't entirely sure of. Sometimes the area isn't so secluded, and she needs to scream at people to stop touching her. She's convinced she'll be fine as long as she never actually has to interact with a human being ever again.
She has to say names she'd rather not hear, and all the sudden words and phrases come out that haven't ever been said. These are not in the script. They sputter off her lips anyway, and push their way into the air around her, for everyone to grasp at and hear. Her soul is trying to tell her something, but what? What is it that didn't work?
She'll pause to consider this for a moment, then remember she is not who she actually is, right now she is someone different, and this person doesn't have these issues. This person can't think of what didn't work and answer everything. This person is about to die in two minutes, and she needs to prepare herself to let that happen.

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