An a$$ kind of love

Your wannabe interest and my wannabe interest in going out, partying hard, and getting laid was strong enough to bring us together. It’s a bit weird having this type of a mindset for someone who’s commonly seen as a pretty oddly-reserved-for-no-apparent-reason type of person. You were everything that I objectified; dark haired and creamy skinned. And I was everything you objectified; dark haired and petite… as you say. It was love when I saw you by the swimming pool with trunks clung about your behind, and by the window at night; I saw you from another building window
your body fit and statuesque like that of a Greek god
as you took your shirt off near a fan amid hot weather
that memory is forever imprinted in my mind like some rom com. I probably looked like shit that day with my old shirt on,
but you always stood out like arm candy. If you’d known what I thought, you’d probably say I’m being too hard on myself, but it’s tough being with a guy that you believe looks better than you.

I mean, you’re always smiling, even when you’re annoyed; you got this curve about your lips and chicks come running at your feet… I mean, I did. Maybe I was just a number one fan. But anyway, it was the best thing ever
having nothing else in common but our interest for making out and grabbing each other. I think the deepest conversation we ever had was on the beach that night when I asked you what you were thinking, and you gave the most ‘umm… like are we supposed to be thinking?’┬átype of pause and said something pretty cute and mediocre like, “It’s a nice night… I’m with a nice girl…” Inside I thought, ‘that’s it?’┬ábut looking back, welp, that was it indeed… and hey, it was honest.

Good times, nice ass, and a lot of funny situations. We had the most amount of smiles and never really talked.

He said I was the best girlfriend he ever had, and likewise, he was the nicest piece of a$$ I ever got. Man it was so fun. I love him forever and deeply, just because of that.

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Convo about caterpillars

I don’t even remember his name, but we participated in a really boring field research job in college. I worked with him quietly for a couple of sporadic days, and one day, I just decided to randomly ask him:

“So if a caterpillar falls from an airplane, is it gonna die or will it bounce off because of all its bristles? ‘Cause you know, they’re so fuzzy and all.”

“Uhhh… it’ll die for sure” he said adamantly while he thought. “I mean, there’s no way it’d survive it” he said.

He was an easy going guy. I normally didn’t talk to guys, and I had no attraction for him, but looking back; I could have.

That was the end of our conversation.

 

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The hazy blue world in Europe

She was a blonde high-school classmate who wanted to become a missionary one day. On the bus ride home, she told me about a time when someone she knew got into a car accident and almost became decapitated, or was decapitated. I eventually learned what that meant. Those days were cold and grey from what I recall. Sports jackets and pathetic blue jeans. Rice paper powder face and straight long hair. Cold wet basements and visions of a blue house along with thoughts on what it’s like to be grown and to be so far away from all this darkness here. Across the seas and straight to Europe, people probably lived a better life. Riding a car around blue hills with headphones on. From the basement window, the bleak daylight used to shine where I stood. And my heart would skip thinking about the college guy who could save me. He sat at the dinner table with a pack of cigarettes. He had a checkbook and a history of love affairs. I keenly listened and made glamorous assumptions about the adult world and was jealous of him and his freedom and all that. It was sad thinking about what could have been in those times of eye liners and flare jeans. Maybe weekend trips to California and a dark haired boy to go out on dates with and to brag about. But those were tied to dreams with the blue hills and convertibles; far out of my reach. In order to live you have to have cheap thrills so that’s where his cigarettes and stories came in. Those were hopeless cold times and my skin was pale and the clouds were grey and my eyes twinkled at whatever that flickered before me.
HazyBlueHills