It might have been last night, if you just pretend that it is. He’s just somebody so insignificant, that it’s massive to think how he’s filling up the entire universe this second. No one said anything lasted for eternity, but if it did for a few minutes that night, then it might have been significant. I could go on and on about how he’s like a paint drying on a wall, but then that’s just a bit bitter. I can come up with a zillion reasons on how he’s so unattractive to me, mostly personality wise, but we were so similar in a brief moment together.
Similar in that we ran towards pretty things and thought that we were wild at heart. Thirsting for more and not satiated. We did talk about a thing or two together that clicked with us; including a few sentences about his douchey one dollar man-purse that his prestigious self got from a thrift store, and a picture of his flower painting that he was so proud to rave about. Really, I could have drawn that too but I had maybe one percent interest in drawing at that time. It was something that always felt innate, like breathing; something so insignificant. Why would it be something that you boasted about? But nevertheless, on that third or whatever unplanned meeting at the bar with him alongside a few acquaintances, I glanced at his mediocre painting and fake-ly rooted him on. Our conversation was dry, although I had cared enough to try at one time to make it better in our earlier meeting. I had given up by that third time or so.
It wasn’t like that first night when I saw a guy walking downtown as I waited awkwardly in an acquaintance friend’s car. She got out of the car saying “Anthony!” and hugged him while I wondered who he was. She was a socialite and he was just another one millionth friend. I was way too shy in comparison.
Inside the bar, as a consequence of our desperation, I flashed a smile, stayed quiet, let the music ring, watched him get drunk and allowed him to open his heart to say some really insignificant things that I don’t, for the life of me, remember at all. Whatever it was, I guess he was vulnerable, and although I didn’t drink, I was just as desperate and lonely too. It was wild enough that he asked for my number sometime before we left; another very insignificant thing. But what made my heart beam that next morning was a text message from him (back in the day when texts were sort of not that common) that read
“You are amazingly beautiful.”
Fuck. That made my day. It was validated that I was smoldering and uncontrollably gorgeous by a vulnerable drunk and desperate art-major dude from my university one night. This dude was it; I had always sort of wanted to be with a hipster liberal dude as I had thought that maybe we would have some significant things in common, and virtually all guys that I had encountered were so average and lacked depth. I wanted it, all this artsy wild stuff, while I pursued my studies in science like a sheep among the immigrant herd. But if you assess him, you’d see that his rich parents were lawyers and he just “wanted to” do art ’cause it probably tickled his fancy somewhat. Like with everything, he was halfway there. Like me, maybe, if I was in his shoes too…
Amid our boredom, he was the next big thing for me for maybe a day’s worth of significance in my life. Desperate I probably looked, asking him to develop some films for me after I hunted him down at his temporary art library desk job. It was just a business affair, you know, I wasn’t realllly trying to get to the next level with him. He could smell it like a wolf, and had lost interest in me probably, like any artist would when something is within reach. Too bad I denied the hint then.
He never returned my films. What’s worse is that he followed Jenny. The same chick that happened to be there the first night we had met, but was on the sidelines. Why wouldn’t he? Besides the fact that I was bewilderingly beautiful and the queen of the universe in my head, she had bare thighs, thin dress, and long blonde hair. On the other hand, most likely I was average and wore choice less basic jeans. I mean why wouldn’t the artist NyNy go after Jenny.
As soon as he followed her, I lost my interest in him. I mean, why the hell would he go after dark haired girls when there’s Jenny’s bare thighs.
So that’s why I lacked interest in the picture of his mediocre painting on the thirdish night that we had encountered each other. I didn’t even mention that one additional night where we had hung out together with our mutual acquaintance friends and he accidentally burned my upper cheek with his cigarette. I still have a subtle scar from it. He was such a hot mess and he was genuinely so afraid and sorry. But I smiled through the agony of having my perfect skin get scarred with a peppy, “It’s ok!” and continued laughing about. His worried look over shone my fake ~okays.~ He could probably sniff that about me too, just like it was obvious that I was sort of after him early on. But he dropped the hint first, if he didn’t, I wouldn’t have cared. There were plenty of men in the sea anyway, but he just so happened to be there at that time.
What’d he do if he read this? If he saw how much I was into the shit that he was, too. Maybe we could have connected with each other in our disdain for desperate people. I probably completely lost interest in him after seeing that I saw a part of me that I hated about myself in his douche-bag behaviors. Arteeeestt, ha! Who the f majors in art anyway?
Because of his parents money.
His Italian American roots, and his fakery in trying to act all Anglo with his natural dirty blond hair. Changing up his last name and such so that it sounded more British American and less Italian. I mean, why would anyone do that? Chicks run after Italian guys. Clearly, he wasn’t comfortable in his own skin.
I had seen him a few more times in the large campus from afar. That itself was a miracle. During those times, he was chasing after a dark haired chick of eastern decent, who also happened to be an art major. He must have mentioned that sometime. Looked like Jenny didn’t make it long.
Not that I really cared, because I had lost all attraction to this tool (who was the embodiment of my inner tool-ness).
It could have ended right there. But then suddenly, Facebook blew up in college, and he befriended me and raved about my gorgeous photo. I took in that compliment with a slight smirk, but I was over this guy. Then he messaged me and said he converted to that prominent religion in the middle east.
Ha ha ha. He began with, “I remember that you didn’t drink…” Looking back, I’m surprised that he even knew that or even remembered it.
It’s hard to talk to people you don’t have an interest in anymore. That random moment of trying to rekindle whatever that wasn’t there anymore, fell through. He probably became embarrassed and deleted himself offline.
That was the last of him. I could search for him again, but I really don’t care.
What I do feel is that him and I are exactly the same for a split second; in our agonies and in our desperation. And what we had was so significant for even less than that fragment of a second.
If I was able to communicate better then, as I maybe can now, our encounters could have been more natural and less forced as I had made it. Maybe if we had even danced without talking, it would have been significantly more meaningful.
Nevertheless, he lives on as an insignificant, significant moment of my life.
Here’s to you, my half-assed, delusional, half sexy, half wise, the love of my insignificant life,
the friend, the foe, the other side of myself.
The red to the blue to the green.
The an to the tho of my NyNy.
Here’s to you, my other quarter.