Gawdamnit.
I love Nicole Rychel James. I like to pretend I don’t, and I further this fantasy by drinking to excess, reading too many books and watching an inordinate amount of Peep Show, but it does not change. Sometimes I imagine she is having sexual intercourse with a tall, tan man or a negro hipster, and enjoying it. This makes me ill, but does not really “work” for eliminating said feelings of love. I do not read her internet diaries, nor do I attempt to contact her. This allows me to go “She’s out with her new boyfriend while you’re here making kale,” which does kind of help. Then when I’m lying there trying to sleep it ceases to make much of a difference.
All in all, I love her. Literally thousands of songs either remind me of her, pull me from my reveries and make me contemplate her absence or seem like really heartrending/brutal things to stick on some vast and ridiculous “What the fuck?” mixtape that would drive her to suicide/the altar.
I want her in my life. I want to kiss her wing-shaped lips in the morning with my disgusting mouth that tastes like socks. I want to watch Shia LeBeouf movies with her resting on my chest, knowing it’s perverse to enjoy her enjoyment of that studly little bastard. I want to sit in the park for six hours and talk about everything and nothing, which I cannot do with anyone else. I don’t even try. To every person currently going “She wasn’t that good to/for you,” fuck you. It’s not your business and yes she was. I’m not this picky because I don’t know my girl when I’m holding her. And if I can’t have her, I certainly don’t want whatever’s up on the table.
I am a sad man, whichever parlance you choose.
James, I miss you.
[post scriptum: Kristin told me to delete this. Instead I made it larger. Oops.]
