And Now For The Commentary

Mr. ‘I’m Emo And I Straighten My Hair Every Day So Much It Looks Painful’, would never pay attention to me. He’s always got his head down and his fringe out so much it must give him a crick neck. He’s cute though. Those semi-muscular legs with sparse hair say that he doesn’t have a hairy chest and from what I’ve seen of his face, ever, he needn’t shave. He has a lip ring. The first mark of individuality after primary school. Though he didn’t need it to attract anymore attention to those gorgeous lips, they stayed that pout-y ‘little-boy-with-a-basin-cut-pink’ all the way through his life. And not that I’ve seen his eyes since then, but he had these eye lashes that and girl would feel weak at the knees for. I remember those eyes. Look at me, Mr. Emo, I could deal with the clichés of a high school romance even if you couldn’t. It could be our misery and our joy. It’s a perfect paradox for poetry, don’t you know…?

He thinks he has a talent for the invisible. But I knew him, I remember him from primary school, I remember the things that he did as much I remember what someone I wasn’t friends with did. But I never thought like ‘that’ about him, even though I had the capacity. I was too busy chasing his friend, as was he, but not for the same purposes. Maybe it makes us more alike than we think. He has friends on the bus though. They were the only ones who were civil to me, to a point. Doting friends, like girls and gay guys. Or tom boys and guys. But then there were the Emo girls he brought home. He likes girls who look like a social stereotype, who fit somehow. As he does. He’s so Emo he’s above all that. No-one has ever talked to him to cause him for being as such, his black hair and his pose. He is invisible. But I’m just scary enough to be poked and teased. What does he need me for? How do you even start a conversation about a decade ago? We don’t even have Emo in common. He is very Emo and yet manages to avoid the abuse and bad connotations, but I am only Emo by association and yet I get all the abuse. It could never work.

But he is cute. Cuter than Mr. Blonde Pretty Boy Catholic School who crammed himself so far up the wall when I sat down that he feel asleep on his iPod. It’s just crazy, and also very funny.

You know, I’m shallow for him. He is the thing to bring out all my shallow qualities, in a ‘matter of a fact’ way, not an ‘I hate myself for it’ way. I like the way he looks, I really do. It’s just he’s so close to the idea of the perfect ache for their beauty Dylan Moran/Nick Zinner/Billie Joe Armstrong/David Tennant gothic musician thing that even if he was a complete arsehole I would still admire his looks. It’s all about the aesthetic; I would look and feel great with someone like that. It feels genetically pre-programmed. With all my confidence and front, practicality and resolve – he is the type of guy that can put me back in to that high school locker stalking crush mindset. It’s like Connor Oberest and Amanda. I could never ‘be with’ him. I know him, but then I don’t know what he is really like.

I don’t picture long excellent inspiring conversations, romantic gestures, a relationship or heaps of fun with him. I merely see myself sitting next to him on the bus, brushing his floppy fringe out of the way and lightly and nervously touching those magnificent high cheek bones before kissing him slowly and passionately on the mouth, for a long time, with meaning and fire and absolutely no words. While not a soul looked our way and I could be invisible and accepted for a few seconds. And I would stay, just for the trip, be close to him, hold hands; give us both the human contact that we crave. If he would consent to that, I would be satiated and never speak of it again.

But teenagers just don’t do that. I’m not even sure they think of it in terms like that. I find it strange that random things like that take a certain amount of maturity (whilst one is sober that is) to execute without anyone screaming rape. But things like that only happen in movies and very rarely in only the exactly right type of peoples’ lives. You have to know that it is consensual. And it takes ages to learn to read the signs of attraction and to know what ones you are displaying. Teenagers, myself included most of the time, have to ask. And that ruins the romantic spontaneity of the whole thing. I know a guy who said that the whole sudden but gentle random kiss thing was about the hottest thing he could think of. And although he admitted that he would be fine with any averagely attractive girl doing it, he’d never do it to anyone. I bet there are more people like that. This is what I was saying about my feelings for Mr. Crushing, people waste too much time thinking about what they would like people to be doing for them, and not enough time doing that for someone.

Ah, but it’s not as noble as it seems, not in this situation. It’s a good hypothesis, but what would I be doing? I’d use him for my wanton desires and seek nothing more. Even if he doesn’t like me that’s cold. What if he did want more, by the way everyone avoids me I don’t think he’d have the guts to ask what the hell was going on. I’d most probably feel terribly guilty regardless. But if you want to get down to it there are many reasons why this can’t happen.

One: the only place I see him is on the bus.
Two: nothing can happen there because of the reactions of the immature occupants.
Three: he’d never look up even if I did sit next to him.
Four: I can’t sit next to him because when I get on he always puts his legs across the seat to prevent me from doing so.
Five: ergo, he does not like me.
Six: ergo, he would fight me off and scream rape if I tried to kiss him.
And seven: I wouldn’t have the guts to try anyway.

Sometimes I like to scold myself about Mr. Crushing; that if he looked like Mr. Emo, I would have done something long ago, and none of this would have been awkward. But people with minds a certain way don’t look that way – ever. I am obviously not a type. Not anyone’s type. No-one aches for my beauty or thinks of using me for any random acts of passion, no matter how selfish. But that wasn’t the point of the exercise. I’m not even after that. I’m mush more amused by my own thoughts on the matter and the blog. I’m just existing, observing, waiting, and hopefully making sense of it all.

☆Anika☆