Thanks For Being Humiliated With Me

I hoped that you’d get together but I hoped that too with Joey and Dawson and I’ve never recovered from that wrong choosing, even when I said I had, got determined to pick my own Pacey even though flaky men and downright liars aren’t my type, but some women are impressionable, impressed with bullshit stories and outdoor sex and boats and unbuttoned top buttons.

This is the 6 episode tease as the end unravels although, actually, the end started way back, when Mum birthed the last of us. Since then we’ve been treading water, ready to contaminate us all by 2018. Or, you know, a comet or something.

Penn Badgley

You know what turns you off when you see it. Before that, the delicious unknown swirl, the way his hair sticks to his head nonchalantly, like it’s better not to wash now, will make you heady, and you’ll sleep with your stomach elevated, your aesophagus threatening to slide right out of your mouth.

You remember what dating without talking was like – like a movie – and the familiarity of films, which makes you remember sidewalks and stores you’ve never been to, means you hanker for other, simpler men, who haven’t an opinion on Damien Hirst, don’t know who Tracey Emin is.

His fault wasn’t trying, writing, dressing, kissing, wasn’t what he said the first morning or what he’ll say the last. Some renovations you can’t make. The sheer energy in wood-sanding, carpet stapling is a full time job, and your career goals of princess, pop star, don’t leave room for almost men, slight ones, men growing their hair to pretend they’re Jeff Buckley, the sort of extinguishable genius that knowing is like touching a Ouija board. You saw The Exorcist when you were fifteen and have waited for transformation since.

You’re On My Mind So You Never Know

I didn’t think I could win you then I thought it and the possibility set on me like skin on hot milk, blancmange, a layer of Brie or thick gravy.

And it didn’t seem difficult, and at once impossible, and I thought how every TV show was preparation, the underdog, and every film in which the friend gets the girl at the end, was my impetus, the prophecy to fulfil.

None of my strategies were winning and you still ignored me in the halls or when I dropped by your house and your boyfriend was there and your eyes were apologetic, that gesture was all I needed to pursue you even when you weren’t technically up for pursual, even though you’re not.

If we were famous I’d write fan fiction about us, fleshing out moments we do have, implying what’s obvious in my head, not yours. If we just kissed I’d convince you. But I’m a steam engine. I’m dial up. I’m first wife when you’re ready for third. I’m Amiga.
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