someone interview me so i can be condescendingly intropsective
zombie weather, she says, half looking at me—mostly she’s focused on something past me, outside of the car’s window. something in the 70 mile an hour blur. something only she can see. but she does this a lot i’ve noticed: say bland things to no one in particular coupled with the heavy weight of words meant for a lover. i don’t know. im just guessing.. and hoping that im that lover.
first off it was never about me; it was never about anything that even closely related to me so you can stop right there. instead, it was about her. about how she cried in the dark when she thought he was sleeping, crying because her heart was full and she thought she needed to fill his. and even though she couldn’t remember a time where she wasn’t always smiling, she still felt down. so you can get off your high horse and take a seat right next to her. and maybe you can hold her hand and tell her everything will be just fine, it will work out in the end. yeah, maybe you can lie to her but i can’t. because he doesn’t know why she is crying, and she doesn’t know that he is awake wondering what is wrong.
and this was the first that i’d seen of it, i mean, the hell she’s been put through was enough to write a Cannes movie about—and to win those awards too. but what did i know, i was 17 and the most action i’d received was 2nd base, but the boobs were bigger than i’d thought they’d be and i kinda laughed when the weight was put against my hands. what did i know though, i thought she was the one for me. anyway, we’re outside of this parking lot on the outskirts of chicago and most of my friends are loaded or based and i’m the only sober one but you know, i’m pretty fucked up myself.