1979- Smashing Pumpkins

I can't seem to get over this picture. Like something clipped out of an indie magazine. It's dark, just like the way I imagine his personality being. He seems to be completely lost in thought or looking away as if the rush of a passing train caught his attention. The street light gently bounces off his signature jacket. There's a bit of light balancing in between his middle and index finger, a classic sign of his classic habit. On my way to class back in September, he passed by me and I had an overwhelming need to write down something, anything about him. It's not much but...

"The cloudy blue halo hung lazily around his head before settling behind him, resting in his invisible wake."

I also drew him. Or what I see: Stubble, aviators, cigarette, and swirly smoke. I know, I'm crazy. We haven't even talked. But there is just something so compelling about him. I seem to always pass him or run into him, and he probably thinks it's on purpose. But I'm not upset when it happens. Maybe that's why it seems planned. And I'm sure his friend told him I was looking out my window while they were outside. She looked at me, I panicked and ducked. Very inconspicuous, I know. But I wasn't looking out my window because of him. I just always look out my window.

See, these are the things that I want to clarify, but I won't ever say. Because I'll never bring myself to talk to him. I'm stuck in elementary school that way. But it's good, in a way. He's bound to disappoint me. Any of my friends say I'm too cute for him, which I probably am, but that's not my reason.

I feel safe writing this because I know he'll never read it. But whoever does read it can make their own assumptions of how crazy or pathetic or hopeless I am. That's on you.

On a live wire right up off the street... you and I should meet.





It's 9:41 and my roommate and I feel pathetic. Because we have nothing to do. All the movies have been watched, the work has been done, the studying has been learned. I'm in my bunk writing, and she's using her toe to navigate the touch pad. She is now going to send me an IM with her toes. She cracks her toes like those cliche cartoons, where the character cracks his knuckles before sitting down at his typewriter. I'm waiting for her to squint one eye and have her tongue hanging out.

I hate feet. Though I would probably like mine better if it had a tattoo. I tried to convince my Mom that we should get them together. She said she had no desire. I'll just get one.

It's her birthday today.

XoTinkerbell(9:43:46 PM): hi
XoTinkerbell(9:44:23 PM): thaat was wiuth m y troe
XoTinkerbell(9:46:19 PM): love hac bigtcch
XoTinkerbell(9:46:43 PM): zkjhgtfredrtyujikjuhygtfrdtyhujk

Now, I'm going to stare at the ceiling and Kristen and me will ask each other what should we do and why we are such losers. And to think, I was about to enjoy a quiet night.