she'll be perfect and beautiful. But what if she isn't? What if I force her into self-hatred and despair? What if she never becomes who she was meant to be? A great doctor or an accomplished writer or whatever it is she's supposed to be. Moreover what if she hates me? I have such an ideal view of this daughter, so many hopes and expectations and dreams that I fear I'll crush her underneath them, in the same way I felt crushed by my own parents who only encouraged good marks, encouraged none of my writing or my reading, excepting the funds to buy books. Parents who every time I brought a bad report card home I cried and cried, despairing that I was worthless. Not exactly a high point of my life. But when I finally brought home a good report card I felt like I'd grasped the world in my hands, only I hadn't. Good job, keep up the work. I'd meant to write none of this. I'd meant to write a drabble, not spew about my sad life and my hopes for a daughter. Certainly not imagine Vanessa and my brother. Certainly not write about unicorns and virginity and what is love? (Baby don't hurt me). But maybe I have to infuse myself in this, maybe this is right. Maybe I don't need to worry over the beauty of my drabbles for that contest, for certainly they'll do well if they have half the truth and beauty and tangled-ness that this has. And maybe I'm stronger than I thought I was. So independent and so needing someone to take care of me, and then love came into my life and I fretted over how I wasn't ready for love to be a part of my life. Despite my worries of being forever alone, of living in a room with no one to care or call, no one to keep me company except books and pieces of writing. But no love came a knocking, and I refused it and cried for a whole day and night. But I made my first true friend in my new home that day. And I called my mother, because mothers have a way of soothing hurts of the heart, and sorting out how things should be. And I spoke with him, on a balcony when I was supposed to be writing a paper due the next day, and told him I didn't know anything about love, oh I knew whatever can be found on the internet about sex and intimacy and what scholars say love is, but I didn't know about love. I imagined love was the healer of all bruises caused by lack of love, and it is, but it's not a magical cure all potion, oh no. Love is something that brings two people together, it makes you laugh and cry, and fight over stupid things. It makes you smile, it makes you go: Men! in that suffering tone (or maybe Women! in men's cases...) But through it all, it seems as if most of your hurts go away, you feel lighter, you smile more, all the depressing loneliness and self-hate and worthlessness is gone, because someone finally feels that you are worthy of being loved and you're amazing and love is something like that