What reads like deceit is sometimes only corrupt for its reader

May 05, 2008 23:11

Excuse me while I gush.

Force of habit, I keep taxing every possible faculty for something to be fundamentally wrong with this boy, raking my every wit against the grain of some sinister fish's scales--and all the effort affords me is needlessly bloody hands. Neither from his mouth nor his manner, not from his friends or mine has a reason to be wary been revealed. The only thing awry here is my expectations of something being awry. I suppose I may just have to accept that this could be good. Not good; fucking amazing.

I haven't felt so good about anything as I felt these last three days for what seems like eons. I'm confused, but catastrophically infatuated.

I could, of course, pass countless pages and hours yammering about what has got me so retarded for this boy, but it's all irrelevant detail; the kernel is this: I'm blown out of the water, just now, beached and sucking for air because so quickly I find myself blithely and wholly enamored. Don't let me eat my words, god. Dulcet optimism. Thank you.
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