I Won't Be Home For Christmas
I step out of the bushes in the quad.
Oh, Joy, only you would fit in the bushes.
Later, as I sit at my desk frantically scribbling love poems…
Don’t forget the explicit drawings as well. They are quite descriptive of your feelings…and fantasies. J
…and programming my calculator to somehow get him out of my system.
Is that why you program your calculator? And here I thought it was just a hobby for a little genius to pass time. But now I see you have a darker motive. Some people bite their nails, chew on their lips, and generally make slavering idiots out of themselves—and you program calculators. Charming.
I have to study twice as hard for history now because my mind is cluttered with little useless facts about him, like the heights of his sibling and his Social Security number.
He might be content if you know the music he prefers, what he likes to do his spare time, things like that. ^_^
Don’t worry, I don’t use this information for evil.
But I’m sure that in your more desperate moments, you have thought about it. You could threaten him with your knowledge of his doings and whereabouts, and he’d be so frightened he’d cave in and love you hopelessly—and probably embarrassingly.
In my spare time I read books and research things that, through secret sources…
“Secret sources” as in his friends? There is a visible conspiracy here. Your love should be afraid…very afraid. Everyone’s out to get him. Oops, wrong phrasing. Not get him as in people want him…(and your hit list expands by the billions)
…I have found that he likes, hoping to wow him the next time I talk to him, which could be months from now because it takes me days even to gather up the courage to speak to him.
Even if you were the Encarta Encyclopedia, you'd find it hard to wow him. He's too wowed by himself.
No. I don’t have a life.
You do. It just centers on him and the important things he does, like blowing his nose.
Why can’t I spend my time like a normal person and not spend every waking moment adding a new girl to my hit list for talking to him?
It’s a good thing he’s not quite the prize you value him to be. J Woe to the world if he was a gorgeous, brilliant young man with a great future and the girls were crawling—or wanting to—all over him. Thankfully, he’s not, and accordingly, they’re not. J
Every day I resolve anew to hate him or at least not spend hours wondering if he knows I exist, but I can’t help it.
Oh…he knows you exist. Even if he doesn’t act on his knowledge (whether from fear, insecurity, or simple boorishness) he knows. J
I still think about him all the time, even though it pains me when he forgets my name or doesn’t notice me.
The world comes to a crashing halt when he blinks. Yes, we know. :)
And yet, I don’t mind the pain.
For some reason, I have a sick pleasure in peeling scabs. Is this the same sensation?
It is something for me to do on those rainy days indoors.
Most people twiddle their thumbs.
I can take out my scrapbook and look through my collection of photos taken from the back, locks of hair and pencils that he’s touched.
I’m sure that if you could, you’d probably take apart whole rooms that he’s been in. :) I can see you cutting out slabs of concrete he’s stepped on, hoisting chairs he has sat in, pressing reverential kisses to the tables on which he has written. Or something like that.
“Falling in love seems to have a similar effect on the brain as using cocaine,” according to a bbc.co.uk article on first love. “It’s so pleasurable it’s almost like an addiction.”
I read somewhere that pornography is as addictive as heroin. But that has nothing to do with anything, and it’s not like I’m interested in the “subject.” Obviously…
You are in love with love, darling.
Stopping is not as easy as waking up one day and deciding ot hate him, and condition yourself to stop thinking about him by punching yourself every time he pops up in yoru mind is not going to help either (Trust me, I’ve tried.)
Is that the real reason your glasses were broken? Aaaahhh…it all becomes clear. Try washing your eyes out with salt water. You’ll stop thinking about your love object…very fast.
Eventually, though, you will find that there are other people out there.
Yes…about 6 billion others, in fact. I take it you haven’t yet entered this phase?
No...must...leave... (computer is forcibly wrenched from my grasp) Not quite done here.
Actually, I really did mean "elfish", though now I come to think of it, "selfish" sounds a lot better...:)
I am calmly ignoring the first part for the blatant lie it is and accept the second with my usual dignity.
I don’t feel very elfish after a huge buffet. I certainly look more like a Santa Claus. I can imagine squeezing myself down the chimney (after much huffing and impressive squelching), and you and Sheena screaming in terror and running to stuff me back up. Oh (groan in mortal intestinal agony) stuffing…turkey…argh…
Still not back from a Christmas season in hell :) (surrounded by ice at Lake Tahoe)
Skiers and snowboards look like ants going down a sugar mountain. This was a random observation.
I miss home and everything related to it. :(
Merry Christmas!
Oh, Joy, only you would fit in the bushes.
Later, as I sit at my desk frantically scribbling love poems…
Don’t forget the explicit drawings as well. They are quite descriptive of your feelings…and fantasies. J
…and programming my calculator to somehow get him out of my system.
Is that why you program your calculator? And here I thought it was just a hobby for a little genius to pass time. But now I see you have a darker motive. Some people bite their nails, chew on their lips, and generally make slavering idiots out of themselves—and you program calculators. Charming.
I have to study twice as hard for history now because my mind is cluttered with little useless facts about him, like the heights of his sibling and his Social Security number.
He might be content if you know the music he prefers, what he likes to do his spare time, things like that. ^_^
Don’t worry, I don’t use this information for evil.
But I’m sure that in your more desperate moments, you have thought about it. You could threaten him with your knowledge of his doings and whereabouts, and he’d be so frightened he’d cave in and love you hopelessly—and probably embarrassingly.
In my spare time I read books and research things that, through secret sources…
“Secret sources” as in his friends? There is a visible conspiracy here. Your love should be afraid…very afraid. Everyone’s out to get him. Oops, wrong phrasing. Not get him as in people want him…(and your hit list expands by the billions)
…I have found that he likes, hoping to wow him the next time I talk to him, which could be months from now because it takes me days even to gather up the courage to speak to him.
Even if you were the Encarta Encyclopedia, you'd find it hard to wow him. He's too wowed by himself.
No. I don’t have a life.
You do. It just centers on him and the important things he does, like blowing his nose.
Why can’t I spend my time like a normal person and not spend every waking moment adding a new girl to my hit list for talking to him?
It’s a good thing he’s not quite the prize you value him to be. J Woe to the world if he was a gorgeous, brilliant young man with a great future and the girls were crawling—or wanting to—all over him. Thankfully, he’s not, and accordingly, they’re not. J
Every day I resolve anew to hate him or at least not spend hours wondering if he knows I exist, but I can’t help it.
Oh…he knows you exist. Even if he doesn’t act on his knowledge (whether from fear, insecurity, or simple boorishness) he knows. J
I still think about him all the time, even though it pains me when he forgets my name or doesn’t notice me.
The world comes to a crashing halt when he blinks. Yes, we know. :)
And yet, I don’t mind the pain.
For some reason, I have a sick pleasure in peeling scabs. Is this the same sensation?
It is something for me to do on those rainy days indoors.
Most people twiddle their thumbs.
I can take out my scrapbook and look through my collection of photos taken from the back, locks of hair and pencils that he’s touched.
I’m sure that if you could, you’d probably take apart whole rooms that he’s been in. :) I can see you cutting out slabs of concrete he’s stepped on, hoisting chairs he has sat in, pressing reverential kisses to the tables on which he has written. Or something like that.
“Falling in love seems to have a similar effect on the brain as using cocaine,” according to a bbc.co.uk article on first love. “It’s so pleasurable it’s almost like an addiction.”
I read somewhere that pornography is as addictive as heroin. But that has nothing to do with anything, and it’s not like I’m interested in the “subject.” Obviously…
You are in love with love, darling.
Stopping is not as easy as waking up one day and deciding ot hate him, and condition yourself to stop thinking about him by punching yourself every time he pops up in yoru mind is not going to help either (Trust me, I’ve tried.)
Is that the real reason your glasses were broken? Aaaahhh…it all becomes clear. Try washing your eyes out with salt water. You’ll stop thinking about your love object…very fast.
Eventually, though, you will find that there are other people out there.
Yes…about 6 billion others, in fact. I take it you haven’t yet entered this phase?
No...must...leave... (computer is forcibly wrenched from my grasp) Not quite done here.
Actually, I really did mean "elfish", though now I come to think of it, "selfish" sounds a lot better...:)
I am calmly ignoring the first part for the blatant lie it is and accept the second with my usual dignity.
I don’t feel very elfish after a huge buffet. I certainly look more like a Santa Claus. I can imagine squeezing myself down the chimney (after much huffing and impressive squelching), and you and Sheena screaming in terror and running to stuff me back up. Oh (groan in mortal intestinal agony) stuffing…turkey…argh…
Still not back from a Christmas season in hell :) (surrounded by ice at Lake Tahoe)
Skiers and snowboards look like ants going down a sugar mountain. This was a random observation.
I miss home and everything related to it. :(
Merry Christmas!
you are too cool for school! thanks for the blow-by-blow. it made me feel much better when i'm suffering from Day After Christmas Syndrome. and a little better about exposing my heart for the 2000some student body to read (not to mention the person who it's actually about could read it too).
Even if you were the Encarta Encyclopedia, you'd find it hard to wow him. He's too wowed by himself. that cracked me up, because it is so true. well, it all cracked me up.
--a girl who thinks she is getting over her crush but it certainly wouldn't be helpful to see him as that could undo all the good done over winter break
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