I remember the first time I saw you there, so oblivious to my lascivious stare. I clicked through your online profile, soaking in picture after picture of you, each one revealing a new, exciting angle. I read your description and particulars to mounting excitement; you met the exact specifications my situation called for.
You’re like the picture of that adorable kitten on the string saying “hang in there!” except that you’ve been hanging for so long your paws are bloodied and gravity has dislocated your arm sockets. You’re a rag doll, a limp and impotent version of what you need to be, so quit your bitching and release your claws. It’s time to fall, whether you’re ready or not.
The scene opens to a black screen. A car motor can be heard running. A road appears, as seen at ground level. It is winter in the countryside and everything is covered in snow. A car speeds past and a cigarette is flicked out the window, landing in the center of the frame. Cut to inside the car and John McClane is covered in blood and bruises. He takes a swig straight out of a whiskey bottle.
You’re waiting for something. Waiting for an email or for the phone to ring. Waiting to be asked out on a date. Waiting to hear about a job. Waiting to hear about a friend or family member. Waiting to know if your apology will be accepted. No matter what you’re waiting for, it probably feels like you’re dying a little bit inside with every minute that passes and radio silence continues.
Online dating is dumb. I’ve never been on a date with someone I met exclusively online. I have spent some time perusing online dating sites, and once, I set up a mock profile. I was completely put off by the whole experience to the point that I can barely fathom why any sociable 20-something who isn’t completely deranged would bother with the farce that is online dating.
These should be updated around once a month, or when any significant changes take place in that person’s life. It’s like the reverseBourne Identity for friends—I’ll keep a file cabinet with a profile on each of you, and extract the relevant information before hanging / catching up to peruse and refresh my knowledge en route to rendezvous.
When you’re happy: you don’t care why. You just are and it’s fabulous and you want to indulge it by running outside in fields of wildflowers, holding hands with your lover and throwing puppy dogs over rainbows. You want to prance through streets being overly nice to bank tellers and deli guys and spewing out meters and meters of colored scarves to make the neighborhood children laugh with delight.
As cheesy as they were, these are some of the songs that made me, in pubescence, essentially see how being wronged by a boy was cause to call the girls to arms rather than an excuse to wallow in bed surrounded by tears and chocolates, listening to “Lovefool” on repeat.
There are so many Australians living in New York City that New York is more like a colony of Australia than a city in America. They say that every New Yorker has a drug dealer, a therapist and an Australian friend. You can’t go anywhere in New York without meeting an Australian, to the point where you have to wonder if we’re up to something shifty, like a very passive invasion.
I have a dad and a step dad, but I guess in a sense they’re both my dad, which is sort of awkward, in its way. My step dad came into my life when I was a child, and I was lucky I got a good one. Here are some things I’ve learned in the 20-odd years he’s been in my life.