It's Not What It Looks Like

Blair's POV:
I wouldn't say I've had a sheltered life. My parents allowed me to watch satanic cartoons like the Telly Tubbys and CatDog. I was allowed to listen to horrendous pop music on the radio. I wore shorts that were undeniably too short to school when I was fifteen. Although my dad didn't like that, my mom told him soon I'd realize how silly I looked and expect all of the photos of me in them to be burned. She was right. My parent's don't suck. Dad still coaches high school football, mom is a personal stylist for all of DC's elite. Which is mostly half assed politicians but still, she is proud. My little sister is alright, although she feels the need to defend my honor to the hundreds of thousands of 'Directioners' who say 'mean' things about me online. I've told her I don't mind it (because really, I don't), but I think a part of her likes to do it. She LIKES that I've become some badass menace to the popculture society. Her big sis is a relentless bitch, and she fucking adores me for it.

I came home last summer and she forced me to tell her everything (which I did), she wasn't sure how she felt about the band she thought she loved so much. I think finding out that the boy she was going to marry was a self righteous masochist, she's moved on to a new boy band. She's since taken down all of her many posters. We had a 'Fuck One Direction Party' one night when I was especially depressed and burnt them all, making s'mores with the smoke of a burning life sized Harry Styles cardboard cut-out. I was not depressed about what people thought, or because I had left, but more because of what they had taken from me.

They didn't steal my innocence, I know that. My innocence was long gone at that point in time. But they took something that I consider to be much more precious. They stole my peace of mind. I couldn't sleep or eat for weeks. I would scream and cry for no reason at all. I was angry. I resented them. I resented myself even more. I resented that I had allowed five british fuckfaces to wedge themselves so deep under my skin, that I could no longer do anything without reminding myself of them. What was worse? Horrible pop music they had written was jammed into my skull, not leaving a single drop of sympathy for my current state of mind. It was as if the world was playing a cruel joke on me.

I had been happy when they called telling me my sister had been chosen for that summer. I had a new job that was set to begin in the fall (I lost it after they realized I was too publicized to be in such a neutral position), I had a loving boyfriend who wanted to knock me up and take care of me in the God-forsaken town I knew as home, I had a great family (who's still great), and a life that many people would kill for. But that's the problem with us humans, we're constantly in the mind set that we could have more. An opportunity was presented to me that seemed like a no-brainer. Cute boys and a free summer vacation before life in the real world was going to begin. I thought I was going to get trashed in a bunch of different cities. Maybe make a new boyband friend who I'd call every once in a blue moon to congratulate for one of his awards and he'd call me and congratulate me on my engagement to the boy everyone knew I was going to marry when I was 6 years old. It would be the one thing in my life that stood out from the ordinary. I had the opportunity to do something cool and different and I took it.

What I didn't realize is that you cannot have everything you've ever dreamed of. You will constantly look back at your depleting life and say to yourself, 'Wow, I wish I had appreciated how great shit was two years ago'. Two years later, you'll say the same thing. That's where you make a choice, do you start to enjoy your life now so that you break the cycle of self-pity? Hopefully you do. I, on the other hand, do not.

So here I am, hating my life while the five boys who I let ruin me are prancing around singing to twelve year old girls and making millions of dollars. They are happy. They have won.

I made a list of things I hate when I was about fifteen. It was like a journal but just filled with useless bitching. I'm a generally happy person so I try to tuck my hatred for things in the back of my mind and whip out the mental notes at the end of the day to get it off of my chest. I do it everyday, without fail, and allow myself to repeat things if I indeed hate them that day. Recently, I haven't hated the boys. I had let that hatred fade away. Maybe it was still there, but I wasn't thinking about it as much. Sometimes you wake up one day and the shit you found so heart breaking, doesn't really matter anymore.

But as of today, I hate them all over again. So I took out my journal as I sat in my driveway at my parents house and began writing my list of things I hate.

-Pop culture
-High heeled shoes
-British people (I'm pigeon holing and I'm not fucking sorry about it)
-Liam Payne
-Zayn Malik
-Harry Styles
-Niall Horan
-Modest! management
-My inability to block out their attempts to get into my head/heart again
-sobriety

I left Louis off of my list because I truly did not hate him today. He smiled at me when he saw me on the stage, he allowed me to throw him under the drug-addict bus and didn't say a word, and for the first time since I'd met him, he looked very sober. Louis had gotten clean and I was happy for him. Louis was going to live to see thirty and for that, I loved him today.


I walked into my house and into the kitchen where my family was sitting, eating dinner. Bridget had on a black hockey jersey and light faded jeans. She looked effortlessly pretty and I envied her for surpassing her 'awkward phase' at such a young age and her ability to wear boys clothing and still look gorgeous.

I sit down next to her and nudge her with my leg, "You look nice Bridg."

She beams, "Thanks B. I'm going a date tonight."

Bridget is now 15 and a sophomore in highschool. My dad visibly choked at her mention of the 'D-word.'

"You think so?" He asks, narrowing his eyebrows at her.

"Dad, you KNOW him! He plays for you and it's not like he's a senior or something," She cries.

Oh. She's good.

"That's precisely my point. I know how those boys are. I hear their locker room talk and they're a repulsive group of young men," He argues.

I stifle back a laugh, "Dad, sorry to break it to you but all boys are gross. Whether he's a book nerd or a football player, he's still a boy. At least if he's one of your players you can punish him if he brings her home late or something."

Mom raises her eyebrows at my sudden interest in defending the (probably horrible) boy who wants to take my little sister out. But my current opinion is as long as he isn't British or trying out for a singing television show, he's better than my taste in guys.

Dad points his fork at Bridget, "Fine but he needs to have you home by ten."

"12," She counters.

"11," He asserts.

She smiles and drops her fork onto her plate, turning her attention to me, "I watched the interview today."

I laugh, "Oh did you? What did you think?"

She shrugs, "Kind of boring? Besides the look on your face when they brought them out. That one was good."

I roll my eyes, "Yeah well Liam locked me in an elevator afterwards and cried 'bitch'."

"Blair," Mom fusses.

"Sorry ma, no cursing at the dinner table. We're the Kennedy's. I know," I chastise her silly rule.

She rolls her eyes and continues on her conversation with my dad. That's another thing about my parents, they don't find the slightest interest in the fact that their daughter spent a summer with a boy band. They seemingly forgot it had even happened. My mom held me when I cried a few nights but after that, she didn't really care about them. She hasn't treated me any differently and just sees them as some stupid boys I'll forget in two years.

"Well Liam got noticeably hotter in the last seven months so did you take that time to you know... patch things up?" She inquires sarcastically.

"Bridget!" Mom warns.

"Sorry Jackie," Bridget replies, not skipping a beat.

Bridget has also developed an extremely entertaining sense of humor. She was funnier than I was, that's for sure. But together? We were fucking hilarious. And our parents couldn't stand it.

"Yeah I did. You know we set the fire alarms off ten minutes in from all the steam," I proclaim.

"That's it. I'm done, dinner's over," Dad mumbles, standing up from the table and disappearing into his office.

"I'm finished too, you two enjoy your attempts at speeding up my premature death from shame caused by my daughters," Mom hisses before following after him.

I turn to my sister and rest my head on the chair next to me, "It was horrible."

She smiles sympathetically, "I'm sorry. You should go out and get trashed tonight. That always makes you feel better."

I nod, "I think I will. Maybe just head back into DC and go to the bar on Madison and Massachusetts?"

She shrugs, "I don't know which bar is best for which problem you're running away from? I'm 15 remember?"

I roll my eyes and stand up from the table, "I'll just go to the hotel. Have fun on your date tonight. Don't get pregnant, I'm too young to be an aunt."

She laughs, "And I'm too young to have an alcoholic sister."



I pull up to the hotel and bar I used to work at and toss my keys to the valet boy, not acknowledging him. He had always been judgmental and since I was 17 he said 'I already know how you're going to turn out. 40 and still drinking your problems away at this stupid bar.' Well now he was still working as a valet boy, 5 years later and I was out of college, drinking away my problems at the same bar. So fuck him, he's no better than I am.

I walked over to the security guard, Mikey, and he immediately moved out of my way.

"Hey Blair, warning, there's some special people here tonight so you can't get trashed and throw up on the bar again," He teases.

I had indeed thrown up on the bar before but I was 17 and hadn't drank like that before. Mikey hasn't let me live it down.

"Hey Mikey do your fucking job and suck a dick while you're at it," I grin.

"Good to see you're back."

I ignore him and walk towards the bar, fixing myself in my normal chair. It's in the corner so that I can see everything around me, but no one can see me unless you're sitting at the bar. Johnny, the bartender, walks over to me and hands me a Pink Racer. I drank them constantly last summer but I hadn't had one since then. And I had DEFINITELY never ordered one here. I always ordered the same thing and Johnny knew that.

"What's this?" I question.

He shrugs, "Your drink? I was told you liked them?"

"Who told you that?" I press.

"That guy over there. He's the one who ordered it."

I look beyond him to see a sympathetic smile staring into my black soul. Louis Tomlinson has ordered me a drink in MY fucking bar. But Louis looks to be drinking a sprite. Meaning that Louis is still sober. I don't hate Louis today. So although this is strange and unexpected, I will not be a bitch to Louis Tomlinson today.

Instead I wave him over to me and take a sip of my new drink, allowing the memories to flow in with the alcohol.

Notes

Hi loves! So my story, TWG, is nearly over and I'll be updating this story a lot more now that TWG wont be taking up the majority of my time. I appreciate you for sticking with meee :) love you all

xx, elle <3333