The Real First Post

This is actually a repost from elsewhere, but it needs to start off this blog:


There's this girl.


 I mean, there's always a girl. It always starts with a girl.


"She walked into my dingy office like a hot knife through cold turkey, with legs that went all the way up and hair that never stopped. She was murder in heels, and I knew it, but I was going to listen to her, and then I was going to work for her, to try to get her out of whatever trouble she was in."


There's always a girl. Then there's THIS girl, THE girl. And she will eventually ask that really hard question, "Why me?" And, like some Siberian Husky trapped in a hot Georgia summer, you stand there with your tongue hanging out, unable to do anything other than pant in the heat caused by that look in her eyesAnd you'll try to answer- "It was that conversation we had,' or, "It was the way you sat there," or, "I loved the way you smiled at <that other person>."


The truth is that you were compelled and committed in that one single moment when your eyes locked, when it didn't matter who was dating whom, or whether or not Alan Dean Foster knew what he was writing in "Splinter of the Mind's Eye." What mattered is that you lost something in that briefest of instances... eye contact, and then look away in an attempt to save whatever that something is. Look away, look away now! No! She captured it! She has it! And she doesn't even know it, so she can't give it back knowingly... she'll have to be asked.


You don't want to ask. It feels too good having her keep it, even if she doesn't know she has it. Maybe it's safer that way- she can't hurt it, and she can't expose it. That part of you, that incredibly fragile part of you, becomes armored and steeled, and it can never fail as long as she has it. So you go one with life, protected, guarded, maybe even enshrined by this girl, the girl who also goes on, carrying with her that part of you.


Then it happens, that moment when she discovers that she's held that fragile part of you for weeks, months, years, decades... for your entire life, it seems. And then comes that moment when you candid, when you are vulnerable. This is worse than Superman with Kryptonite, worse than Batman with a gun in his mouth. This is who you are in the hands of THAT girl. Everything hinges on her.


And she smiles and kisses you, and that time,those hours of missing her, those days without her, they slip away, a blanket covering you on a warm night, slung off by the body underneath being too hot and needing to breathe, to break out and shine!


Why you? Because I had no choice- you kept me too safe and for too long.


"She walked into my dingy office like a hot knife through cold turkey, with legs that went all the way up and hair that never stopped. She was murder in heels, and I knew it, but I was going to listen to her, and then I was going to work for her, to try to get her out of whatever trouble she was in."


There's always a girl. Then there's THIS girl, THE girl. And she will eventually ask that really hard question, "Why me?" And, like some Siberian Husky trapped in a hot Georgia summer, you stand there with your tongue hanging out, unable to do anything other than pant in the heat caused by that look in her eyesAnd you'll try to answer- "It was that conversation we had,' or, "It was the way you sat there," or, "I loved the way you smiled at <that other person>."


The truth is that you were compelled and committed in that one single moment when your eyes locked, when it didn't matter who was dating whom, or whether or not Alan Dean Foster knew what he was writing in "Splinter of the Mind's Eye." What mattered is that you lost something in that briefest of instances... eye contact, and then look away in an attempt to save whatever that something is. Look away, look away now! No! She captured it! She has it! And she doesn't even know it, so she can't give it back knowingly... she'll have to be asked.


You don't want to ask. It feels too good having her keep it, even if she doesn't know she has it. Maybe it's safer that way- she can't hurt it, and she can't expose it. That part of you, that incredibly fragile part of you, becomes armored and steeled, and it can never fail as long as she has it. So you go one with life, protected, guarded, maybe even enshrined by this girl, the girl who also goes on, carrying with her that part of you.


Then it happens, that moment when she discovers that she's held that fragile part of you for weeks, months, years, decades... for your entire life, it seems. And then comes that moment when you candid, when you are vulnerable. This is worse than Superman with Kryptonite, worse than Batman with a gun in his mouth. This is who you are in the hands of THAT girl. Everything hinges on her.


And she smiles and kisses you, and that time,those hours of missing her, those days without her, they slip away, a blanket covering you on a warm night, slung off by the body underneath being too hot and needing to breathe, to break out and shine!


Why you? Because I had no choice- you kept me too safe and for too long.