pretty like a plastic bag

There’s sun. Warm on my right side. Showing off all the dust on this too heavy laptop. Showing off all my fingerprints and where I wrote “hi” on the screen a few days ago. I haven’t felt this kind of warm in what seems like weeks but is probably just days. And listen. Can you hear the wistfulness in me because it seems to be resting in all the little spaces that letters hold. It’s in the half circles of the lower case e’s. In the triangles of the upper case A’s. The u’s. They hold a perfect little measure of it. Filled up ever so carefully like cups of tea.

Yikes.

I’m such a girl sometimes. Like cups of tea and wistfulness? Good god. I promise I don’t carry around pink streamers and have absolutely no penchant for skipping. Further more, the last time I probably curtseyed while sober was in the 4th grade. But but but. I go and get myself into situations that pave the way for me to write things like “wistfulness” and “cups of tea” and further more these current state of affairs also make me stare out the window for up to 45 minutes at a time. Even worse, these situations occasionally force my head in his direction, soften my eyes and then implant the idea that my, he is quite lovely. Oh boy! Problematic! Wow! Nothing but trouble!

Can anyone lend me a hand here?

I need to be bubble wrapped and set in a safe place, say the garden spot in the Chocolate Factory, for about 6 – 8 months. I can have two visitors a day as long as they are unattractive and utterly lacking in creativity and spunkiness. I should be fed only hot cocoa and shortbread cookies and perhaps taken out for fresh air on Sunday mornings. In the unlikely event of a security breach and an interesting and darling would-be muse stumbles across my path, the following steps should be taken immediately: 1) more bubble wrap 2) more cookies.

So as you can plainly tell, I’ve accidentally fallen in love. And I mean that in the car accidentally kind of way.

This relationship is like a New York City deli at 12:15. I’m holding my number in my left hand and maybe I’ve gotten the head nod and I've maybe gotten the “I’ll be right with you.” but the fact remains that I’m holding onto number 34 and they are clearly only on number 29. So clearly in fact that it’s lit up in three foot tall red light bulb letters behind the counter. I knew going in it would be busy. I knew when I grabbed a number that I’d be waiting in line. But dang, if I’m not disappointed about it anyway. I had this idea that my number would be up right away because, well, I’m maybe the best thing since the sliced bread lining the stainless steal. I figured the sandwich guy would take one look at me and holy shit, that girl with the number 34 in her hand is about as wonderful as pastrami on rye. Step right up, sweetie - - I’m making you a sandwich.

But nope. I’m waiting in a line that might never move. Or move in a year. Or move in a decade. And then maybe I’ll get some email saying “Hey, where did you go and do you still want that sandwich” and I’ll be living in Sweden with some boy named Hans and that will be that. Two ships. Nighttime. No good.

I hate missed opportunity.

I know it’s a big big world and there are thousands of dark haired boys who will be able to make me laugh and who are in need of some type of corrective eyewear but DANG. I had my heart set on this particular one right now and there ain’t much I can do about it other than be sad for a little while. And hurt for a little while. And wanting to lay in traffic for a little while. Side street, not highway. But still. I woulda swam oceans for the chance of him. I woulda bet my mad knitting skillz on us being perfect fits. Instead, he’s sticking with something it’s not in the cards for me to understand. Hey it’s time to cue the theme song and roll the credits. Time to turn up the lights.