the first kid i ever dated was very clever. he was actually a bit too clever for me, i couldnt keep up. i like this in a guy. he was also painfluly, cripplingly shy. hmmm, i think that really attracts me to someone. there's something innately appealing about the whole 'still waters running deep' gambit. anyhow, figuring out his sexual identity was always a daunting task at best, as he never seemed prepared to make a declarative statement about his orientation. not a problem. what was a problem was that he seemed to have a fairly-well developed crush on a girl i worked with at a department store. i liked the girl, (whose name was Laura) and i liked him. they had been friends long before i'd become acquainted with either of them. i understood his confusion, and tried not to be jealous of this girl, because, hey- this was my first relationship after all. everything was fine until one night when he woke up in the middle of the night, and rolled over. stroking my face he said:
"I wish you were Laura O'Brien."
that made me feel pretty not so good.
later he explained that he had been having some crazy dream and that wasnt what he had meant or something. anyhow, that guy and i broke up when he moved, and i hadnt thought much about him until yesterday, when a friend called to tell me that the infamous Laura is featured in this month's issue of Marie Claire. i bought the undesirable rag and searched through it, eventually finding her picture and the short accompanying segment. i was surpised to feel that i missed her- we hadnt spoken in almost two years.
when someone you're attracted to wears glasses, there's nothing quite like seeing them without their glasses for the first time. it's like a simpler, more personal kind of nudity. when someone you like depends upon their glasses but agrees to remove them...i don't know. trust. communion.
i'm so glad it's thursday. i wait all week for thursdays, the one night where i dont have to go to bed early or hang out with friends. the one night a week when i can rent a movie and buy a six-pack and sit on my couch for hours, with nothing to do. unfortunately, i'll probably this thursday night getting wasted on the couch and tearing pages out of Marie Claire and shredding them, in between vitriolic, murderous thoughts about that fucking JERKOFF i dated who wound up dumping me to get engaged to some other girl who i never met, but who i'd like to imagine looks like fucking arsenio hall with tits. i like to think that.