Girly jibber jabber about *hearting* the Cap'n

January 19, 2005 - 12:42 a.m.

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If you came here looking for any sort of talk that does not involve a handsome suitor, then you should skip today and I’ll see you next time. Hey asshole, why can’t you just be happy for me?

For the next 1,223 words, it’s all about the Jet Pilot, ok, because he’s tattooed inside my eyelids and I can see nothing else.

Did you ever notice that I don’t like anyone? Is that ever conveyed in my writing here? I wonder.

The sad fact is that it feels unnatural that I actually like a guy. It’s very foreign, and I just stare at his face, and think, “Huh, I really, fully like him, like 100%.”

He invited me over to his house for dinner (which, by the way, was A++, possibly better than the Salmon last weekend) and I was walking around looking at the artwork and photography, including a dope little drawing of his own house. I don’t know if this will make any sense at all, but being in that house makes me genuinely upset because it’s so beautiful it’s overwhelming. I just stared at every tiny detail, flawless, flawless.

Where do you buy enormous 10 foot long airplane propellers? Wood ones? When’s the last time they used wood on airplanes?

I’ve been in many rich, fancy houses, mostly modern, but I don’t believe I have ever seen an interior so exquisite. Maybe I am totally making this up because I already like him so I’m seeing it in a skewed light. I used to work for a hook-nosed interior designer/ art dealer and I saw the inside of all the major loft and condo developments in the city, and a handful of suburban homes. I don’t remember staring intently at crown molding for 10 minutes.

I just keep wondering, Who is able to have such beautiful things, and why was I invited to be a part of it? I know that sounds annoyingly melodramatic but that’s pretty much what I was thinking. I'm totally uncomfortable there, completely out of my element, and while I feel connected with him when we're at my house, I just can't seem to make the connection between him and that house.

After dinner I asked him to show me his photo albums. You really never know what you’re going to get when you request this. It could be innocent baby pictures. It might be the awkward teenage years, or it might be a photo log of vacations with all of his ex-girlfriends.

When I asked him to show me his photos I thought it would be like sucking down a nice peanut butter and banana smoothie, with all of its smooth, creamy PB&B yum-yum for me to suck on slowly and sweetly with a smile on my face.

Instead, I got to choke down a crunchy bowl of All-Bran Ex-Girlfriend Death.

*choke-choke*

It wasn’t that I was playing the “who’s cuter – her or me?” game, because all of the girls looked so different from me it would be like comparing apples to oranges, and who cares anyway.

My real point here is that it really sucks to hear the answer, “I did that with my ex-girlfriend” in response to every question. Have you been to Alaska? Scuba diving? Mountain climbing? Eaten squid ink? Been in a car accident? Played poker? Been mugged? Been to the symphony?

“I did that with my ex-girlfriend.”

Yay. So what is left that I can do with him?

I would like to have unique experiences with him. I want to be first at something. This is about as petty and girly that I get.

I wish we lived in an age where people married the first person they dated and we just had one lover in a lifetime. It sure would be more romantic to share all of those memories with one person and not 10. Nothing is more unromantic than knowing that everything you do with your current beau, he has already done with someone else, maybe 50 times over. I want to wipe the slate clean and start over, and I want for things to be *special*.

We did go to the Steppenwolf Theater Saturday night, to see a play called “Intimate Apparel.” It was about a black illiterate seamstress from a hundred years ago who makes lingerie for rich white women. A stage full of black people! What could be better?? The black lady falls in love with a Jew, but he’s Hasidic and cannot return her affection! So she marries a Panamanian Canal digger who’s an illiterate asshole. He screws her virginity with no lovin’! And he steals her money and fucks her best friend who’s a hooker! And she spends the rest of her life alone, illiterate, with no money, no Jew and no husband! And that’s how it ends.

None the less. It was still a stage production and I loved it.

Afterwards, it was minus 20° so we went to my house and ate pizza and watched Fight Club. I watched the movie with my ear to his chest and the *thump-thump* went along really well with all the punching and/or fucking. Then I showed him the picture of the Marla Singer titties and he was all *heart*.

I did a bunch of other shit this weekend, including lunches with friends, bar hopping with Hardon, Belle, and Sara, attending my niece’s birthday party, screaming at Belle, and having a bunny piss on my lap. But I’m really not thinking about any of that shit because I have boy brain. Oh wait, one thing though. My niece named her rabbit “Stu” as in RABBIT STEW. She is so much like me, look out world.

My mind has just uncontrollably drifted back to the boy and I have to tell you that he sent me a photo of him with his shirt off, boxing, and I suffered temporary blindness. It’s like looking at a picture menu, like at Denny’s or McDonald’s, where you know exactly what you’re getting before you even sink your teeth into your meal. And fools, I’m getting me a gourmet meal someday soon and it’s gonna be delicious. *ROWWWRRR* I can taste it.

He also sent a picture of him in his captain’s uniform, which…I mean, do I really need to say it? There’s a reason why those dudes always cheat on their wives.

We smooched in front of the fireplace in the Sherlock Holmes library. (Kissing only, very innocent). Take a picture, stab me in the heart, and put the picture on my tombstone, because I’m done. That’s all I needed out of life, I’m ready to go now. That was better than making out on a Caribbean beach or anywhere else in the world.

And you thought it couldn’t get any better than this…He's trying to get a flight for Acapulco. So I can fly with him for work and have a mini-vacation. Please don’t hate me.

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