An Album of Sorts

A few months ago I came across some journals from high school.

They are painful to read.

In one of the more painful entries I recount an interaction between a boy I had a big crush on, his ex-girlfiend, and me.

I don’t go into detail – but apparently there was some kind of evening event (maybe a game, or dance – who knows, the entry assures that I’ll never forget, but I have) – either way, I apparently found myself standing next to the object of my affection, and he (as reported by me: “in good fun”) used his fist to knock on the top of my head and ask if anyone was home.  Many of the cool kids witnessed the knocking.  Lots of them laughed.

I noted that it kind of hurt, but the whole ordeal actually wanted to make me cry for other reasons.  Later on, when whatever not-so-memorable event was ending, I wound up standing in the school parking lot, next to his ex.  That’s when he suddenly felt the urge to ask if he could talk to “just me.”

He apologized. I told him it was no big deal, and then asked if he had another piece of gum.

He didn’t…but he did take the piece he was already chewing out of his mouth, rip it apart, and give me half…And.  I.  Fucking.  Melted.

It’s the closest I would ever get to swapping spit with him.

Nearly everything about this entry makes me feel bad.  It’s poorly written.  It’s so (so, so, so) obvious…and my expectations couldn’t be lower – I mean, I’m pumped about a piece of ABC Juicy Fruit.

BUT – and I think it may be a big BUT – at least I had the guts to record it.  And the recording may be all I’ve got…but it’s something.

 

 

 

 

 

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