Itallicize Everything
This is going to be embarrassing. I'm uncomfortable. I don't want to write this. That's unusual for me. I like to think I'm an open book. God knows I've written that here more than once. More than a dozen times, I imagine. But this is something I'm not very good at talking about. You know...love. Romance. I'm a fan of the stuff, though not much of a believer. Universal, Christ-like love, sure, I can buy into that. Romantic love though is a frilly fairy tale that wears off, often pre-coitus.
To call what I'm experiencing romantic love is beyond a stretch. It's ridiculous. I've talked to this girl maybe five times. It is infatuation. A crush. You never really leave first grade, do you? Well, maybe you did, but I haven't. So what I'm experiencing is, at best, interest and maybe (probably) entirely one sided. It's cool, though. As I said, that's my default position when these situations arise, though they seldom do. I'm more often than not disinterested in relationships. I put foil on my windows to block out the light, I struggle to acknowledge people I know, I can't drive the world out fast enough. Another person in my life, in my house, in my fucking bed is an irritation I do not need or want.
Given my history, I'd take this newfangled interest in stride, dreaming about it a bit, before eventually moving on. This one is slightly more public, though. People know about it. I've been told that it's cute. That I'm adorable. Adorable is not a state I achieve easily, so you'll excuse me if I bask in how absolutely adorable I am for a moment. My adorablacity is slight, I'm sure, so I won't bask long. There. I'm done. I'm glad you were patient.
I'm like Mr. Good Will Hunting, just without the genius or the criminal record. See, the story goes that he met a great girl and didn't pursue it because he knew he'd find out she wasn't as perfect as he fantasized. And of course, he couldn't remain perfect, either; you let someone in, you can't stay the same. Next thing you know, your bathroom is pink and your bookcase has been moved to make room for pictures of chubby angels and little children dressed in their parents clothes.
But I like my life. I like being perfect. The idea of a girl my equal or (gasp!) my better is too much for me. My relationships are clearly marked out. I'm challenged properly, in a comfortable fashion, and if it gets uncomfortable, my room or my office are available. But someone you can't get rid of? Someone who won't leave? Someone worthwhile? Terrifying. Still, think how great Indiana Jones would be if he weren't afraid of snakes. If Superman weren't allergic to Kryptonite, why, he'd be a Super Superman. So whatever happens, friend, lover, enemy, nothing at all, I shouldn't stay afraid forever.
Ironically, the song on my iTunes right now is Song For the Dumped by Ben Folds Five. Omen? Nah.
To call what I'm experiencing romantic love is beyond a stretch. It's ridiculous. I've talked to this girl maybe five times. It is infatuation. A crush. You never really leave first grade, do you? Well, maybe you did, but I haven't. So what I'm experiencing is, at best, interest and maybe (probably) entirely one sided. It's cool, though. As I said, that's my default position when these situations arise, though they seldom do. I'm more often than not disinterested in relationships. I put foil on my windows to block out the light, I struggle to acknowledge people I know, I can't drive the world out fast enough. Another person in my life, in my house, in my fucking bed is an irritation I do not need or want.
Given my history, I'd take this newfangled interest in stride, dreaming about it a bit, before eventually moving on. This one is slightly more public, though. People know about it. I've been told that it's cute. That I'm adorable. Adorable is not a state I achieve easily, so you'll excuse me if I bask in how absolutely adorable I am for a moment. My adorablacity is slight, I'm sure, so I won't bask long. There. I'm done. I'm glad you were patient.
I'm like Mr. Good Will Hunting, just without the genius or the criminal record. See, the story goes that he met a great girl and didn't pursue it because he knew he'd find out she wasn't as perfect as he fantasized. And of course, he couldn't remain perfect, either; you let someone in, you can't stay the same. Next thing you know, your bathroom is pink and your bookcase has been moved to make room for pictures of chubby angels and little children dressed in their parents clothes.
But I like my life. I like being perfect. The idea of a girl my equal or (gasp!) my better is too much for me. My relationships are clearly marked out. I'm challenged properly, in a comfortable fashion, and if it gets uncomfortable, my room or my office are available. But someone you can't get rid of? Someone who won't leave? Someone worthwhile? Terrifying. Still, think how great Indiana Jones would be if he weren't afraid of snakes. If Superman weren't allergic to Kryptonite, why, he'd be a Super Superman. So whatever happens, friend, lover, enemy, nothing at all, I shouldn't stay afraid forever.
Ironically, the song on my iTunes right now is Song For the Dumped by Ben Folds Five. Omen? Nah.