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Tales of a Post-Grad Nothing

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

This is How Crushes Die


Toulouse, apparently the boot-scootin capital of France


When you are with someone for a long-ass time, it becomes easy(ier) to imagine that life on the other, more single side of the fence is sexier, more exciting, and filled with a lot less talk about things like vacuuming the apartment and do we really need more toilet paper because I thought there was an extra roll under the sink? As such, flash-in-the-pan mini-crushes are easy to develop and typically begin and end with something completely mundane in the depths of my mind. Here is an example of the shelf life of a mini-crush:

Heeeeeeeey, check out that kid over there...the one in the glasses with the t-shirt that says something in German and has a picture of cured ham on it...Look at the way that guy talks to his friend, patting the other guy on the shoulder....I bet that kid is sensitive, the kind of guy that would want to hold your hand in the subway and walk on the outside so you don't have to get splashed by traffic...He's probably intense in the bedroom, falling in love easily and taking his time...We'll probably just want to lay around afterwards, talking about things like love and astronomy and listening to the sound of rain outside his hilltop apartment in Switzerland...Oh shit, that kid picks his nose?...Oh FUCK no...There's NO WAY I'm laying around nude for hours staring up at the stucco patterns on the ceiling of a Swiss apartment and thinking about God and rock n' roll and whether an orgasm really is like an explosion with a nose-picker...ugh...I bet that guy is the kind of kid that thinks Febreeze is the same thing as doing aundry...that guy probably can't hold down a job because he's too busy digging for bodily gold all day...I'm sure he dropped out of high school in favor of a career in something like backyard wresteling and when he couldn't make it as Balthazar the Destroyer or whatever, he settled for a t-shirt with ham on it instead. I bet he asks his dates to be ring girls and I will NEVER wear a thong and parade around for pasty men in flannel chugging Olde English....whew, that was a close one.

Fin.

The crushes come and go and by the end of it, I typically realize that I stay with the person I stay with for a reason (not picking his nose being one of them, a full repertoire of silly dances being another). Today I had to let a minicrush go the way of the fanny pack simply because he had stories ten times better than mine, and there's nothing I hate worse than being outdone. I've worked with inner city youth, well this kid has worked in a small village in Africa and mastered the language that only like 12 people in the world speak and lived there three different times....I think my dad is awesome because he hustled pool for a living for a long, long time, this kid's dad pretty much built a village for a lot of impoverished families in Brazil...wtf? Honestly.

The real clincher wasn't really being outdone or the slow and painful realization that my life has apparently been meaningless and distinctly unawesome, but just the fact that the kid genuinely was very sweet and sincere and humble about it. All I could do was think was that I had finally met someone who was actually too good a human being for me to hang out with, or even talk to. I just kind of stared at the kid in the way that you might look at someone who has been severely disfigured, trying to figure out what exactly separates your situation from theirs. In the end, the answer is always Very Little. Back on the prowl.

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