+_tgif    from nancy LOL

You met her a few months ago, and somehow she managed to
seep into your subconscious like that “Suga how you get so fly” song.
Just like you have no clue who the hell sings it, you don’t know why
she’s there. But she is, whether you like it or not. You know her cell
phone, her room phone. You can dial her Aunt Doreen’s house in West
Springfield (where she goes to do her laundry every two weeks) faster
than you can peck-out 911. But she doesn’t know.

screenname, that generic one with her first name followed by three to
five random numbers or UMass, has its own category at the top of your
buddy list. Not only do you know what a “Buddy Alert” is, you’ve rigged
your computer to play “Fat Guy in a Little Coat” from “Tommy Boy” every
time her screen name changes from gray to black. Then her away message
comes down, and you have a decision to make. To IM or not to IM? These
are the ridiculous games that you play on a daily basis. But she
doesn’t know.

She’s it. All right, so maybe not “it” it. Not
necessarily Ms. Right, but closer to Ms.
But it’s about more than that. When is it ever about more than that?
Never. Not like frilly white dress, overpriced catering, embarrassing
drunk in-laws more, but closer to UMass sweatpants, two D.P. Dough Roni
Zonies, a futon and a movie you have no interest in seeing more. But
she doesn’t know.

She’s gorgeous, but gorgeous is an
understatement. More like you’re startled every time you see her
because you notice something new in a “Where’s Waldo” sort of way. More
like you can’t stop writing third grade run-on sentences because you
can’t remotely begin to describe something … someone … so
inherently amazing. But you’re a writer. You can describe anything.
That’s what you do: pictures to words, events to words, words to even
better words. But nothing seems right. More like you’re afraid that if
you stare at her for too long, you’ll prove your parents right: that
yes, your face will stick that way. But you wouldn’t mind.

wouldn’t mind that the questioning, “Hello?” on the other end makes you
want to smile and throw up at the same time. You wouldn’t mind worrying
about what to get her for her birthday and spending $300 when you only
have $17.50 and a Triple-A card to your name. You wouldn’t mind that
she left your TV on and the blaring infomercials wake you up at 4 a.m.
… because it gives you a chance to watch her sleep. You don’t mind
that you’ve slipped up twice when you were hammered and hinted at how
you feel, but she was too drunk to remember. So she doesn’t know.

she’s pretty, but it’s about more than that. You two connect. Anything
you throw at her, she can throw right back. You figured out what’s
going on in that predictable head of hers in under five minutes, but
something tells you her heart would take about five years.

remember everything she’s ever said to you, and when that freaks her
out you blame it on your photographic memory (which is a lie, you have
a 2.7 GPA). You can’t remember your teaching assistant’s name, and you
can’t remember that your Puffton rent check was due four days ago, yet
you remember the middle name of the kid who tripped her in fifth grade
and gave her that cute little scar on her shoulder. Maybe it’s because
you actually listen when she talks. When do you actually listen? Never.
But she doesn’t know.

But she has a boyfriend. The kid is a
tool, and you are not. He has no redeeming qualities, and you have
about 38, even when you’re hung over. You could kick his butt, and
you’ve never been in a fight in your life. He treats her like crap, and
you would treat her like the princess she believed herself to be on
Halloween in 1988.

But she loves him. He wouldn’t know what he
had even if she slapped him across the face and dumped him, but somehow
she still loves him. And somehow she still doesn’t know.

out of nowhere, she slaps him across the face and dumps him. She comes
to you. You’ve been there before, so you seem like the smartest guy on
earth. She cries, but your corny half-joke, half-compliment somehow
gets a smile out of her that almost makes you feel ashamed that you’re
the only one around who gets to witness it. It looks like you might
make her realize that all guys don’t deserve to have rocks thrown at

But nothing changes. She doesn’t know. You get that
library elevator feeling in your stomach that she’ll never know. You
get that feeling that you’ll be forced to write a cheesy Collegian
column about her that makes “Sleepless in Seattle” look like “Girls
Gone Wild.”

You go to sleep. You wake up. She doesn’t know.
You’re not in love. You’re not obsessed. You blame it on the fact that
you just need to get some, but still, it’s about more than that. It
would just be nice if once in your life, things worked out the way you
wanted them to.


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