Walnut street. 7 am. Blasting Jimi Hendrix (Stone Free was played about 36 times) with all windows down to air out some suspect odor that has developed in my car. I think it’s a mix of spilled coffee, an old renegade French fry, cigarettes, knock off Jean Paul Gautier perfume with just a tint of hopelessness.
So as I’m driving around all recklessly, scaring very professional looking white men as I zoom by with no side mirror, faulty window wipers and huge ass sunglasses (with no sun in sight) I replayed the whole night. And somehow, through the tint of my $5 Canal St. lenses, and smudged blue eye shadow, it became pretty damn clear what I was going through.
It’s a sadly familiar situation for me. My friends always say I need a reality show. Or that maybe I’m a victim of reality shows. Every scene that occurs in my life never feels like “reality”. It all feels scripted. Like there should be a Dashboard Confessional song playing in the background, and a little location description on the bottom of the screen, like on The Hills. Maybe a little description of the other person in the scene with me. “C. Lark’s third tier friend.” “C.Lark’s faux-crush” C.Lark’s heart sinking into the bottom of the world.”
For example.
Setting: Christina’s faux-boyfriends house. Time 5:06 am.
Appropriate Background song: Such Great Heights. The acoustic Iron and Wine version.
The discussion: How long can I continue to keep falling for someone, who doesn’t even have time to sit down for 5 minutes and take a sh*t. Nevertheless have a *gasp* relationship.
The appropriate decision: Leave now. Before irreparable harm is done. I have about 25% of my heart left. Just scraps and burned pieces and distorted leftovers that I’ve managed to regroup and collect and sew back together. Sort of like making a quilt out of all the crappy drapes your grandmother left for you. Trying to make something beautiful out of something everyone else over-looked as just trash. So I need to preserve what little bit I have left. In order to have something to give the person that I still think is out there.
The ending line: Him: “so you’re not going to see me anymore? “ Me: “no I’m not”.
Cut to the dramatic “morning after” scene. I tried to sneak out in the rain, with my shades on and my heels in my hand as to not disturb anyone. And of course, because I’m the smoothest person in the world (and because this is a movie and not real life) I left my fuggin phone in the apartment. So I spent about 25 minutes ringing the bell and banging on the door to get back in.
Ironic.
The point of this. And maybe I shouldn’t have been that personal with this blog but whatever. Is that now it’s 10:06 the next morning. I’m working on 2 hours sleep. Sitting at my desk at work. I somehow managed to pull together a cute outfit out of random crap in my trunk. Skull printed Vans. Cute black and white scarf. Lathered myself up in some fruity azz lotion and walked in the building as if I was a real person. As if my whole soul wasn’t just left behind in a small apartment in Philly.
All I can do is think of him. Since the first night I met him really. Its been a wonderful and amazing experience. I never expected I would like him this much. He literally just popped up in my life.
“…And then she arrived
Like day break inside a railway tunnel
Like the new moon,like a diamond in the mines
Like high noon to a drunkard,sudden”
(mos def love rain.)
Literally every single thing he does I’m infatuated with. Even the bad parts. Even the horribly annoying things that would drive a normal person crazy. (Like rocking back and forth in the seat of the movie theater so hard that I thought he was going to propel himself into the front row.)
He literally talked through a whole film, (my BIGGEST pet peeve on Earth) and it didn’t even bother me.
Because it was him. He was next to me.
He asked me what I wanted. What I wanted from him. And I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to say “just you.” All that you are. That sorta sh*t would literally freak a motherfather out. I literally don’t want anything. Just for him make me smile. I told him that. He said I should want more. What is more than happiness??
I don’t care if its one day a week. I don’t care if its one day a month. It’s not about the amount of time spent together. I could spend 56 days in a row with some sub-par negro, and it would amount to the same thing. In that one day. In that one smile. My whole world stops. And it’s just the two of us. So it might literally only be 3 hours in bed together. But in my mind it was a 3 week vacation in Hawaii. It’s just that good.
Ok ok enough. I’m making myself sick.
I wish the whole night could just be re-written. And directed properly. But Cameron Crowe. I wish they made a morning after pill for that.
Swallow Back.
So as I’m driving around all recklessly, scaring very professional looking white men as I zoom by with no side mirror, faulty window wipers and huge ass sunglasses (with no sun in sight) I replayed the whole night. And somehow, through the tint of my $5 Canal St. lenses, and smudged blue eye shadow, it became pretty damn clear what I was going through.
It’s a sadly familiar situation for me. My friends always say I need a reality show. Or that maybe I’m a victim of reality shows. Every scene that occurs in my life never feels like “reality”. It all feels scripted. Like there should be a Dashboard Confessional song playing in the background, and a little location description on the bottom of the screen, like on The Hills. Maybe a little description of the other person in the scene with me. “C. Lark’s third tier friend.” “C.Lark’s faux-crush” C.Lark’s heart sinking into the bottom of the world.”
For example.
Setting: Christina’s faux-boyfriends house. Time 5:06 am.
Appropriate Background song: Such Great Heights. The acoustic Iron and Wine version.
The discussion: How long can I continue to keep falling for someone, who doesn’t even have time to sit down for 5 minutes and take a sh*t. Nevertheless have a *gasp* relationship.
The appropriate decision: Leave now. Before irreparable harm is done. I have about 25% of my heart left. Just scraps and burned pieces and distorted leftovers that I’ve managed to regroup and collect and sew back together. Sort of like making a quilt out of all the crappy drapes your grandmother left for you. Trying to make something beautiful out of something everyone else over-looked as just trash. So I need to preserve what little bit I have left. In order to have something to give the person that I still think is out there.
The ending line: Him: “so you’re not going to see me anymore? “ Me: “no I’m not”.
Cut to the dramatic “morning after” scene. I tried to sneak out in the rain, with my shades on and my heels in my hand as to not disturb anyone. And of course, because I’m the smoothest person in the world (and because this is a movie and not real life) I left my fuggin phone in the apartment. So I spent about 25 minutes ringing the bell and banging on the door to get back in.
Ironic.
The point of this. And maybe I shouldn’t have been that personal with this blog but whatever. Is that now it’s 10:06 the next morning. I’m working on 2 hours sleep. Sitting at my desk at work. I somehow managed to pull together a cute outfit out of random crap in my trunk. Skull printed Vans. Cute black and white scarf. Lathered myself up in some fruity azz lotion and walked in the building as if I was a real person. As if my whole soul wasn’t just left behind in a small apartment in Philly.
All I can do is think of him. Since the first night I met him really. Its been a wonderful and amazing experience. I never expected I would like him this much. He literally just popped up in my life.
“…And then she arrived
Like day break inside a railway tunnel
Like the new moon,like a diamond in the mines
Like high noon to a drunkard,sudden”
(mos def love rain.)
Literally every single thing he does I’m infatuated with. Even the bad parts. Even the horribly annoying things that would drive a normal person crazy. (Like rocking back and forth in the seat of the movie theater so hard that I thought he was going to propel himself into the front row.)
He literally talked through a whole film, (my BIGGEST pet peeve on Earth) and it didn’t even bother me.
Because it was him. He was next to me.
He asked me what I wanted. What I wanted from him. And I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to say “just you.” All that you are. That sorta sh*t would literally freak a motherfather out. I literally don’t want anything. Just for him make me smile. I told him that. He said I should want more. What is more than happiness??
I don’t care if its one day a week. I don’t care if its one day a month. It’s not about the amount of time spent together. I could spend 56 days in a row with some sub-par negro, and it would amount to the same thing. In that one day. In that one smile. My whole world stops. And it’s just the two of us. So it might literally only be 3 hours in bed together. But in my mind it was a 3 week vacation in Hawaii. It’s just that good.
Ok ok enough. I’m making myself sick.
I wish the whole night could just be re-written. And directed properly. But Cameron Crowe. I wish they made a morning after pill for that.
Swallow Back.
Came to your blog from a link LaRell posted. Just wanted to say that you are a wonderful writer. This post put into words a feeling I'm very familiar with.
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