TERRY: Don't talk of stars burning above. If you're in love, show me . . .
July 5th, 1997: Post-Sixth Year
I got yet another irksome owl from Seamus a few days ago:
I have spent another worthless summer afternoon, compiling a list on the back of one of Mam's grocery lists:
a) You, Terry Boot, are not demonstrative enough. I read your bit about the snogging before class and that's all well and good when it comes to shocking the passerby, but you need to, I dunno, be more . . . Well, he'll kill me if I say "romantic," won't he? But that's what he wants. Cliches are only silly if they aren't being done to you. Then they're embarassingly lovely. (Recommended films: Breakfast at Tiffany's, The Princess Bride, Say Anything . . .)
b) Be a little more serious and a little less caustic and flippant. Blaise is too serious for his own good, but you ought to take him a little more seriously anyway. (He may also be too . . . Well, "emotionally fragile and given to distrust and cynicism" is the phrase that comes to mind, but at any rate, keep that in mind, too.)
c) If he tells you he loves you or asks you if you love him or in any way, shape, or form requests a candid expression of your emotions towards him, fucking tell him you love him, all right?
d) If you find yourself undertaking (c) without meaning it, or trying out (a) or (b) as if they're chores, then I suggest you seriously rethink the Blaise situation. And get away from him before you do anymore damage.
Yours,
Seamus
I never knew Seamus could be so well-thought-out and eloquent. Or so horribly, horribly right-on-target. I know that Blaise secretly (or not so secretly, really) wants all that silly, sentimental shit that I couldn't care less about. You know, hearts and flowers and moonlight and fodder for Valentines and sap-drenched sonnets. But I hate all of that, and I've told him . . . So he tries to appease me, but I think he might resent it. Just a bit.
And I know that I should answer his serious questions with serious answers, but I don't know what those answers are yet. Until I do, I'm going to keep giving him my flippant bullshit and hoping he'll forgive me for it.
He always does.
Which almost makes it worse.
So it boils down to this: What do I do? What's my Big Bold Gesture of Love? Or, at any rate, my Big Bold Gesture of Caring a Whole Lot?
Generally speaking, I hear the standard is immediate passionate love-making. You know the scene: Naked, sweat-soaked bodies writhing in unison on tangled bedsheets . . .
Oh, Jesus. That actually sounds good right about now. All these nights alone in Knockturn Alley with just myself to keep myself occupied--
But I digress.
The opera. Blaise said once that he wanted to go to a Muggle opera. But I haven't got the money or the means for that. And I hear it's terribly dull, but I suppose I can stand that for Blaise.
But the opera wouldn't be an appropriate demonstration of human affection, would it? I mean, human affection isn't fucking boring like operas are. At least, not usually. But then I'm left with . . .
Well, I'm left with the tangled-bedsheets-of-sex scenario, for starters. But that's not what I'm supposed to be going for, is it?
Okay. I know what. I'll just wing it. As always. Who knows? This time, it may work.
I got yet another irksome owl from Seamus a few days ago:
I have spent another worthless summer afternoon, compiling a list on the back of one of Mam's grocery lists:
a) You, Terry Boot, are not demonstrative enough. I read your bit about the snogging before class and that's all well and good when it comes to shocking the passerby, but you need to, I dunno, be more . . . Well, he'll kill me if I say "romantic," won't he? But that's what he wants. Cliches are only silly if they aren't being done to you. Then they're embarassingly lovely. (Recommended films: Breakfast at Tiffany's, The Princess Bride, Say Anything . . .)
b) Be a little more serious and a little less caustic and flippant. Blaise is too serious for his own good, but you ought to take him a little more seriously anyway. (He may also be too . . . Well, "emotionally fragile and given to distrust and cynicism" is the phrase that comes to mind, but at any rate, keep that in mind, too.)
c) If he tells you he loves you or asks you if you love him or in any way, shape, or form requests a candid expression of your emotions towards him, fucking tell him you love him, all right?
d) If you find yourself undertaking (c) without meaning it, or trying out (a) or (b) as if they're chores, then I suggest you seriously rethink the Blaise situation. And get away from him before you do anymore damage.
Yours,
Seamus
I never knew Seamus could be so well-thought-out and eloquent. Or so horribly, horribly right-on-target. I know that Blaise secretly (or not so secretly, really) wants all that silly, sentimental shit that I couldn't care less about. You know, hearts and flowers and moonlight and fodder for Valentines and sap-drenched sonnets. But I hate all of that, and I've told him . . . So he tries to appease me, but I think he might resent it. Just a bit.
And I know that I should answer his serious questions with serious answers, but I don't know what those answers are yet. Until I do, I'm going to keep giving him my flippant bullshit and hoping he'll forgive me for it.
He always does.
Which almost makes it worse.
So it boils down to this: What do I do? What's my Big Bold Gesture of Love? Or, at any rate, my Big Bold Gesture of Caring a Whole Lot?
Generally speaking, I hear the standard is immediate passionate love-making. You know the scene: Naked, sweat-soaked bodies writhing in unison on tangled bedsheets . . .
Oh, Jesus. That actually sounds good right about now. All these nights alone in Knockturn Alley with just myself to keep myself occupied--
But I digress.
The opera. Blaise said once that he wanted to go to a Muggle opera. But I haven't got the money or the means for that. And I hear it's terribly dull, but I suppose I can stand that for Blaise.
But the opera wouldn't be an appropriate demonstration of human affection, would it? I mean, human affection isn't fucking boring like operas are. At least, not usually. But then I'm left with . . .
Well, I'm left with the tangled-bedsheets-of-sex scenario, for starters. But that's not what I'm supposed to be going for, is it?
Okay. I know what. I'll just wing it. As always. Who knows? This time, it may work.