Thursday, April 27, 2006

forty eight hours and i wouldn't answer his calls

one time i met this guy.

made me wanna paint my nails made me wanna wear a dress made me wanna breathe. like i could breathe laying next to him.

made me wanna change my last name. made me wanna move to Minnesota and have ten million blue collar kids and sit under a hair dryer once a week and make a jello salad. and forget anything i ever thought i wanted.

made me wanna believe in god.

because talking to him was like reading a script i wrote myself and his delivery was perfect. i don't even remember writing this script but i know all the lines and you know all the lines i guess i wrote this script for you. huh.

sometimes his lines were so dead on i'd miss my cue and he would say what and i would say nothing, i'm hungover. (you're perfect).

perfect.

i was sitting on his bed scatching stars into the dirt on my ankle over and over and over and i looked down and realized i was bleeding all over his blue sheets. stars. scars. really it was more than i could take.

and then i remember he lives in minneapolis and i'm not bleeding all over his blue sheets i don't even know if he has blue sheets. he probably doesn't even have sheets with his ripped jeans and jameson and making me want to put on an apron and do whatever he wants.

this is fiction.

i mean is fiction even ever really fiction anyway?
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