He's an idiot.

With his cocky grin, and stupid haircut that I'd give anything to cut off, he looks exactly like the delinquent he is. He's always hanging around with the football jocks, and they all look at him like he's their new shiny plaything. He came from one of the other schools in the district, I didn't bother to find out, though. In the span of one day, he'd managed to violently wedgie a group of sophomores, stick his tongue down a good majority of the Cheerios throats and then convince Coach Tanaka to put him on the team.

I hate him.

He attached himself to Finn Hudson's hip the moment he walked into the school. And then proceeded to throw a blue raspberry slushie into my face.

Ergo, I hate him, with the burning passion of a thousand suns. I'm just sitting in my room, desperately trying to scrub the now-giant blue stain from my new Ralph Lauren wool sweater. Growling, I toss it to the ground and hug my knees, closing my eyes to fight back the tears.

I hate him. I hate him with his stupid, cocky smirk, and his stupid mohawk, and his stupid white t-shirt that made his arms and chest look stupendously lickable. I snort, shaking my head.

"That's stupid, Kurt. He threw a slushie at you! He's not gonna want in your pants," I mutter to myself, throwing my legs over the side of my bed and slowly creep up the stairs to the kitchen. When my father had asked how my day had been, I'd told him that it'd been great, more than fine. Super-duper, in fact. I blanch at my words, not understanding how my father could have possibly fallen for something like that. But instead of catching me in my lie, he'd just nodded his head and went to watch Deadliest Catchin the living room.

Once in the kitchen, I head straight for the freezer and pull out my favorite low fat frozen yogurt and sit at the table, shoveling spoonful after spoonful into my mouth. Licking at the spoon, I think back to the boy with the tanned skin who'd single-handed ruined what had been a good day. Sighing, I scoop another spoonful of yogurt into my mouth. The thing was, he was hot. Like, really, really hot, even though he had been hanging out with the Neanderthals, and thrown a slushie in my face. I guess that made me a masochist, because I'm actually looking forward to tomorrow. Maybe he'd even touch me. I groan.

Kurt Hummel, you are a sick, sick person.

After I finish my yogurt, I creep back down the stairs and climb under my covers, snuggling into the silk sheets. My last though before I drift into sleep is, I wonder what his name is.