Real Deal

It’s a rare occurrence for me to wash my hair. It’s such a chore, and I hate tackling it. My mom gets embarrassed at how greasy and smelly I sometimes let it get.

I never paint my fingernails or get manicures. My nail beds are horrible.

My gas station indulgence is Peach-O’s, and when it comes to the gummy goodness, I am a brand name snob. I will only eat Trolli.

I sleep in my Dad’s old baseball jersey. His nickname, Peavley, is stitched on the back.

I just learned to throw a bait caster. Come here bassy bass.

I still have drive-by’s/stalk in Scottsboro. Me and Hannah and Rebecca.

If you see me, and my hair is in a ponytail or a side pull-back, there’s a good chance I slept in that style the night before. My hair maintenance is just pitiful. I need Brenton in Scottsboro.

I shave my arms. All my friends complain I’m “prickly”.

I’ll never be accused of not showing enough leg or not wearing enough blush.

I cried in Ghosts of Girlfriends Past. There we were, in Paris waiting for a plane back to Rome, and I was sobbing my way through the French subtitles.