A Collection of Spectacles

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Maybe this should be renamed A Collection of Muses. This has turned out to be a museum for those I loved when I was 16. Maybe one day I’ll put together a reader’s companion for this online diary, which would finally divulge who I’d written about and what my experiences were. First note: I was 16 and in love with a boy who constantly toyed with my emotions. Years later he would mention that he thought I was the one he was supposed to marry. He never did though, and now I’m in love with someone else, because love stories are rarely picturesque nor do they always work out as originally intended. The perils of consuming neatly packaged and unrealistic romance tales can be found on any Facebook feed, where women in their mid-twenties still pine over the princesses of their youth (also known as the Disney Effect). At 16, I loved a boy who was incapable of love and listened to too much post-rock. Well of course I was an adolescent too, so armed with works by Kathy Acker, J.G. Ballard, E. E. Cummings, a tendency to overuse punctuation, and dreams of postmodernism, I set off to write this online journal with the hopes of logging my experiences while avoiding the pitfalls of oversharing.

You asked why I still put up with you. I despise reading love stories but enjoy standing on the precipice of requited passion, the pained moment when you’re unsure of how you’ll be perceived so you’re hyper-aware of your actions. Maybe I’m not even that interested in you in reality, but I enjoy that you’re difficult to read. You had your hand in my underwear, beneath my stockings, and you brought your face close to mine, but I couldn’t move. Do you find it odd that I’ve never kissed you? The ultimate Millennial move, leaving a direct question in the middle of a ranting blog post in the hopes that you’ll find it.

I had a dream that he was still alive. I knew he was dead in real life the moment my mind conjured him up so I was angry at myself. I couldn’t figure out why I wanted to tease myself with his face, making me wistfully and pathetically ask the question every child has phrased at least once: why won’t you just come back?

You’re next to me, snoring with your mouth open because you’re allergic to our cat but you adore him anyway. If I had to make a list of all the ways in which I love you I’d most likely fail, because I see you so often that I probably take you for granted, which is a shame.

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