Oh my god am I rusty..
Remind me to start writing again on a daily basis. I'm actually embarassed.
Sex, Bourbon, and 105.5 - The Bay
I don’t know how I end up in these situations. Situations which I am completely not hard-wired to deal with. I don’t know if it’s just a unique perspective shared by many girls from Maine, or if while incubating in my mother’s drunken womb I missed out on a key aspect of human relations. How to socialize.
The girl I worked with at the coffee shop was talking about her latest crush. Her big blue eyes and California surfer girl cool emphasized the importance of the topic. Even though she thought that he might be gay, she liked the way he dressed. He’d come into the store and take the money that we owed the daily newspapers, and bring the unsold ones back with him. For a while, he couldn’t keep the two of us straight. I guess all blonde coffee baristas look the same.
Yeah, well, a crush is a crush. I wondered if I should have a crush to in order to reciprocate. I briefly debated whether or not to tell her about the girl that I had an eye on. Her name was Mallory. Short chunky dyed black hair always tangled and plastered to the back of her head, she’d come in with her boyfriend about mid morning to get coffee. When she lost her voice and didn’t have enough money for Echinacea tea, I fronted her the .23 just to see her blush. Sometimes when she bent over in her boyfriend’s jeans I could see her tan-line. She looked like a feral cat. And I dig pussy.
I’m not the type of person to get crushes easily. The last one that I had ended up throwing a chair at me when I visited his house. It’s things like that when you’re of highschool age that can really scar a person.
Sure, I get attracted to people or find them interesting, but I’m not in the habit of discussing them with other friends with that certain look in my eye. The look of “ohmygod, they’re so fly...do you think that they might...do you think they are...green eyeshadow or blue...will they watch me when I bent over to pick up the piece of paper that I oh so casually dropped when they weren’t looking in front of his feet beside his chair in direct approximation of the direction in which they will glance after you cough loudly, cough damnit...”
But, on the other hand, I didn’t like this girl. She had been trying to get me fired. I guess it was blonde rivalry. So, to be social, in the awkward way I have, I said that I had a crush as well.
“Oh yeah?” Her eyes got big in that Big Sur sky blue way. “Who is it?” “He comes in here, right?” She was practically drooling with anticipation. Finally, some dirt to spread around the inside of her mouth and spew forth in coffee-shop gossip.
“He’s always in here buying Castaneda and ordering a press pot. Dark curly hair, looks a bit like Dylan Thomas before he ran to fat. I think he’s dreamy.”
“Oh yeah. He’s way cute. I think he’s gay though.”
Sex, Bourbon, and 105.5 - The Bay
I don’t know how I end up in these situations. Situations which I am completely not hard-wired to deal with. I don’t know if it’s just a unique perspective shared by many girls from Maine, or if while incubating in my mother’s drunken womb I missed out on a key aspect of human relations. How to socialize.
The girl I worked with at the coffee shop was talking about her latest crush. Her big blue eyes and California surfer girl cool emphasized the importance of the topic. Even though she thought that he might be gay, she liked the way he dressed. He’d come into the store and take the money that we owed the daily newspapers, and bring the unsold ones back with him. For a while, he couldn’t keep the two of us straight. I guess all blonde coffee baristas look the same.
Yeah, well, a crush is a crush. I wondered if I should have a crush to in order to reciprocate. I briefly debated whether or not to tell her about the girl that I had an eye on. Her name was Mallory. Short chunky dyed black hair always tangled and plastered to the back of her head, she’d come in with her boyfriend about mid morning to get coffee. When she lost her voice and didn’t have enough money for Echinacea tea, I fronted her the .23 just to see her blush. Sometimes when she bent over in her boyfriend’s jeans I could see her tan-line. She looked like a feral cat. And I dig pussy.
I’m not the type of person to get crushes easily. The last one that I had ended up throwing a chair at me when I visited his house. It’s things like that when you’re of highschool age that can really scar a person.
Sure, I get attracted to people or find them interesting, but I’m not in the habit of discussing them with other friends with that certain look in my eye. The look of “ohmygod, they’re so fly...do you think that they might...do you think they are...green eyeshadow or blue...will they watch me when I bent over to pick up the piece of paper that I oh so casually dropped when they weren’t looking in front of his feet beside his chair in direct approximation of the direction in which they will glance after you cough loudly, cough damnit...”
But, on the other hand, I didn’t like this girl. She had been trying to get me fired. I guess it was blonde rivalry. So, to be social, in the awkward way I have, I said that I had a crush as well.
“Oh yeah?” Her eyes got big in that Big Sur sky blue way. “Who is it?” “He comes in here, right?” She was practically drooling with anticipation. Finally, some dirt to spread around the inside of her mouth and spew forth in coffee-shop gossip.
“He’s always in here buying Castaneda and ordering a press pot. Dark curly hair, looks a bit like Dylan Thomas before he ran to fat. I think he’s dreamy.”
“Oh yeah. He’s way cute. I think he’s gay though.”