...and in my head i paint a picture...
so i KNOW that i say that i hate grad students. and i KNOW that i especially say that i hate hate hate summer grad students.
HOWEVER,
there is one. and he is. absolutely. dreamy. he is in the library every day. he is in the playwriting program, i believe, and, my, is he scruffy. and tall. and beautiful. and everyday i see him going up the hill to the graveyard area. i don't know if that is where he eats his lunch or what. the fact that he eats his lunch there makes him more duh-dreamboat-attractive, also because i drive up there and sit and eat mine in the car amid the butterflies and blossoms and tall grasses and hay bails. but i do not walk there. but the wind blows through my open windows.
and here is all i would want:
i do not know his name. i do not need to know his name. he, apparently, lives in l.a. all i would really want is to strike up a conversation. and sit very close to him. and go on some local playwriter's adventure. and go to the graveyard and roll in the hay. literally. and have a few days of fun and sunshine. and we would drink coffee, maybe, and i wouldn't wear pants and he would write scenes and i would read them with him, and he could read my scenes and laugh at them. and then he would have to leave on the 27th of july and go back to where he is from, and i would say, "oh, we'll meet again," and i would inspire a character in his breakout, best-selling, world-renowned play, garnering major awards and published in several different languages. and i would pick it up in a used book store years down the line and say, "i don't read a lot of plays, but this looks interesting," (because, remember, i don't know his name) and i would read myself.
that's what it comes down to. narcissism.
HOWEVER,
there is one. and he is. absolutely. dreamy. he is in the library every day. he is in the playwriting program, i believe, and, my, is he scruffy. and tall. and beautiful. and everyday i see him going up the hill to the graveyard area. i don't know if that is where he eats his lunch or what. the fact that he eats his lunch there makes him more duh-dreamboat-attractive, also because i drive up there and sit and eat mine in the car amid the butterflies and blossoms and tall grasses and hay bails. but i do not walk there. but the wind blows through my open windows.
and here is all i would want:
i do not know his name. i do not need to know his name. he, apparently, lives in l.a. all i would really want is to strike up a conversation. and sit very close to him. and go on some local playwriter's adventure. and go to the graveyard and roll in the hay. literally. and have a few days of fun and sunshine. and we would drink coffee, maybe, and i wouldn't wear pants and he would write scenes and i would read them with him, and he could read my scenes and laugh at them. and then he would have to leave on the 27th of july and go back to where he is from, and i would say, "oh, we'll meet again," and i would inspire a character in his breakout, best-selling, world-renowned play, garnering major awards and published in several different languages. and i would pick it up in a used book store years down the line and say, "i don't read a lot of plays, but this looks interesting," (because, remember, i don't know his name) and i would read myself.
that's what it comes down to. narcissism.