Friday, November 23, 2012

Sometimes when I see Tats online, I think "is he looking at my name, wondering if he should message me too?"  I imagine this must happen, sometimes.  Because we're all human and we all think of things.  I like to imagine we're two proud wolves, or some type of predatory animal.  Foxes, wolves, snakes.  We are aware of one another, we both have a desire to connect, but we're too proud to actually do it.  To make that move.

I often let my pride slip first.

Either that or he doesn't think these things.  Which would also be reasonable and acceptable, but far less poetic.

I want to write stories about him.  I want to write a novel about this chapter of my life, more than any other chapter.  I hate the other chapters, in a way, because they all end with I Want To Marry You and then the inevitable Heartbreak.  This one is exciting.  This one seems like an adventure.  If I had more words stored in my brain, ones that could link together to form sentences, structures that people would find fascinating, I would do it.  I would write a story based on my experience. But I would need more experiences.  I would want to be a journalist, covering him, solely the story of Tats.

Maybe I will.  Maybe I should.  Should I start here?  The more pageviews this post has, the more I'll be tempted.


Can you tell I'm bored?  I've read two books today, alone.

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