For Canadians, A Northern Chorus is surprisingly good
"I wish you could talk to me sober."
"I do too. Without a drink I might have the vocabulary to tell you how I actually feel."
This was the ritual. I'd get loaded enough to call Lauren out in San D -- three, four in the morning, midnight her time. I could go into why my preposterous infatuation was worth sharing, Why before she left she took up a residence in my brain that had only grown in her absence.
"You knew I cared for you. I told you as much. I just don't get why you keep calling me."
"Because that hint of you is still worth more than all the actuals."
It made sense when I said it. It still did, frankly. That little bit of real, honest, love had stuck, going on two years now. No number of one-night stands, no amount of "I just like to party!!!"'s could fill that little bit of me that only Lauren had seen. I hadn't even kissed her.
"I like to talk to you, I do, but I'd rather talk when you have a little more... control."
"Whaddayamean!?"
Is what I said. What I should have said is I know. What I should have said is I'll talk to you later when I can come up with adjectives. When my nouns are better than y'know that thing that time.
I should have told her I'd call her back and tell her the deeply complex longing that she had planted. I should have told her I'd get back to her when I wasn't so marinated that I couldn't tell her just how much her smile had meant to me, That it was probably why I was still alive.
"I'm busy. What do you want."
"I, er, uh..."
She's less receptive tonight. I've worn out this modus masturbatory. I want ten minutes of her beautiful voice. I want to be reminded of the first time she ever said hello and I felt like I was ten, being tucked into bed. I want someone on the other end of this piece of plastic to remind me that the stupid fucking delusion of love that I've been spoonfed since I could watch PG-13 movies had some basis in truth.
But I've asked too much, too much from someone from whom I was too scared or too stupid to ask anything of in the first place. The conversations in my head are different. There are promises of cross-country voyages and promises of fidelity. There are verbose recitations of real love. They are Shakesperean. They end tearfully, and for some reason I look like Paul Rudd.
"Oh nothing, I just went out with my friend Jake tonight, some crazy club...."
"FUCK HIM. FUCK THAT!!"
I want to say. I'm burning to yell. I feel bubbling up through the calloused loneliness.
What can I expect of her, now? What right do I have to even bask in the half-memory, half-fantasy that she's become? I love you, I think. I want how you made me feel. Please, please, make me feel like that again.
You weren't stupid. Or mean. Or self-centered. Or pointless. Mostly, stupid. I miss you because you made me feel wanted.
"I was just calling to say hey, hadn't talked to you in a while."
"I do too. Without a drink I might have the vocabulary to tell you how I actually feel."
This was the ritual. I'd get loaded enough to call Lauren out in San D -- three, four in the morning, midnight her time. I could go into why my preposterous infatuation was worth sharing, Why before she left she took up a residence in my brain that had only grown in her absence.
"You knew I cared for you. I told you as much. I just don't get why you keep calling me."
"Because that hint of you is still worth more than all the actuals."
It made sense when I said it. It still did, frankly. That little bit of real, honest, love had stuck, going on two years now. No number of one-night stands, no amount of "I just like to party!!!"'s could fill that little bit of me that only Lauren had seen. I hadn't even kissed her.
"I like to talk to you, I do, but I'd rather talk when you have a little more... control."
"Whaddayamean!?"
Is what I said. What I should have said is I know. What I should have said is I'll talk to you later when I can come up with adjectives. When my nouns are better than y'know that thing that time.
I should have told her I'd call her back and tell her the deeply complex longing that she had planted. I should have told her I'd get back to her when I wasn't so marinated that I couldn't tell her just how much her smile had meant to me, That it was probably why I was still alive.
"I'm busy. What do you want."
"I, er, uh..."
She's less receptive tonight. I've worn out this modus masturbatory. I want ten minutes of her beautiful voice. I want to be reminded of the first time she ever said hello and I felt like I was ten, being tucked into bed. I want someone on the other end of this piece of plastic to remind me that the stupid fucking delusion of love that I've been spoonfed since I could watch PG-13 movies had some basis in truth.
But I've asked too much, too much from someone from whom I was too scared or too stupid to ask anything of in the first place. The conversations in my head are different. There are promises of cross-country voyages and promises of fidelity. There are verbose recitations of real love. They are Shakesperean. They end tearfully, and for some reason I look like Paul Rudd.
"Oh nothing, I just went out with my friend Jake tonight, some crazy club...."
"FUCK HIM. FUCK THAT!!"
I want to say. I'm burning to yell. I feel bubbling up through the calloused loneliness.
What can I expect of her, now? What right do I have to even bask in the half-memory, half-fantasy that she's become? I love you, I think. I want how you made me feel. Please, please, make me feel like that again.
You weren't stupid. Or mean. Or self-centered. Or pointless. Mostly, stupid. I miss you because you made me feel wanted.
"I was just calling to say hey, hadn't talked to you in a while."