I know I should be mad at you, but I can’t prove it, so here we are again. Love. I hate you. That fucking face.
He is always in the back of my mind. Or on the forefront, depending on where I put him for the day. I am sure this is weird, an atypical experience, but this is my life, almost two years in the making. I have tried dumping him, I have tried. Whenever I’m done, a little voice in my head: why do you want to destroy a good thing?
Good point, voice in my head. Good point. I don’t, actually. Shall we keep going?
I am stuck with him. It occupies my thoughts from sun up to sun down without boredom in between. Obsessive, maybe. Has anyone else been here before? I don’t know. I have never in my life. Most bizarre phenomenon of my entire life.
I do the nastiest things in my head with him. I’ll be reading and “doze off.” Then, for some godless reason, I’m interrupted, and I am just like Excuse me, I was about to finish.
I remember the first time I saw him. Cute and kind. That was the word. Of all things. Kind. Him. Biggest asshole I know. Kindest man on Earth. He is the one who says “ass” rhymes with “glass,” no matter what, and did you know? “Fart” rhymes with heart,” every time. Most useless writing advice ever. I want to throw him away sometimes. Worst editor in my life. Doesn’t have the guts to be mean. We are completely different, like night and day, which prevents us from massacring each other.
Could I write this without him? No.
It took me like three weeks to decide if he was even cute. I had a debate in my head. What if he’s shorter than me? No. What if he’s taller? That’s okay. Is he cute? I don’t know yet, let me analyze this. Cute at first. It graduated. It went in gradations. The first time I saw him write a non-essential clause, it went to whoa, you’re fucking hot.
One day he went on and on about the origin and “correct” meaning of some Latin phrase from the Dead Poet’s Society. Etymologize on my face. Kill me with your sexy.
Am I wearing a bra? Also, no.