John Cusacks of the world
July night you woke me up midnight with your stereo playing my favorite song outside my window. I waved to you and closed the blinds. You called me at two am and told me about your passionate obsession with an obscure band. And I, drunken with sleep, downloaded the song and we rocked out over the phone. You ranked your top ten favorite political films. And I told you I thought Death to Smoochy was a political commentary. You told me you were a geek in high school (and yes, I believed it). I told you I was a goth (and no, you didn’t believe me). You confided in me your heartbreaking crush on a girl you’ve only seen once. I complained about a guy who pretended to be an activist, and was quickly sold out by the “Terrorist Hunting Permit” pasted on the bumper of his red pickup truck.
My psychic italian mother asked me your name one day, waving her spatula over a grand pot of something delicious.
“What’s his name?”
“John Cusack”
I know what you’re thinking. John Cusack? But that’s the first name that came out of my mouth. John Cusack. Can you blame me? I have to admit, at first I thought it was an act. Some rare or adorably geeky game to get me into bed. It was genius. I mean, who doesn’t love John Cusack? I might’ve let you win too, if I wasn’t so suspicious.
When we met, we sat in the dog park and watched the animals playing. I like really big, slobbery dogs. I told you that I wanted to live in Chelsea, wear a mini skirt and heels and walk a huge Newfoundland around Union Square every day. I told you that I have a secret love for really small dogs, the ones that have rain jackets and matching rubber boots (but don’t tell anyone). You told me you liked labradores. Faithful, not too big or stupid, but not too smart either.
The thing about you, John, is that you blow it every time. Sure, in the movies, it always ends up well, you get with the girl nextdoor and everything is fine. But this is reality. Reality like the time I woke up in october to hear a different song playing outside my window. I opened the blinds and you had moved on. You had moved on to the girl nextdoor. Maybe that’s the thing about people like us. We know our roles. You may be John Cusack, perpetually misunderstood, perpetually falling in and out of love. And I am not the girl. I’m not even the girl nextdoor. I’m perpetually the girl next to the girl nextdoor. And you’ll pass right by me.
My psychic italian mother asked me your name one day, waving her spatula over a grand pot of something delicious.
“What’s his name?”
“John Cusack”
I know what you’re thinking. John Cusack? But that’s the first name that came out of my mouth. John Cusack. Can you blame me? I have to admit, at first I thought it was an act. Some rare or adorably geeky game to get me into bed. It was genius. I mean, who doesn’t love John Cusack? I might’ve let you win too, if I wasn’t so suspicious.
When we met, we sat in the dog park and watched the animals playing. I like really big, slobbery dogs. I told you that I wanted to live in Chelsea, wear a mini skirt and heels and walk a huge Newfoundland around Union Square every day. I told you that I have a secret love for really small dogs, the ones that have rain jackets and matching rubber boots (but don’t tell anyone). You told me you liked labradores. Faithful, not too big or stupid, but not too smart either.
The thing about you, John, is that you blow it every time. Sure, in the movies, it always ends up well, you get with the girl nextdoor and everything is fine. But this is reality. Reality like the time I woke up in october to hear a different song playing outside my window. I opened the blinds and you had moved on. You had moved on to the girl nextdoor. Maybe that’s the thing about people like us. We know our roles. You may be John Cusack, perpetually misunderstood, perpetually falling in and out of love. And I am not the girl. I’m not even the girl nextdoor. I’m perpetually the girl next to the girl nextdoor. And you’ll pass right by me.
posted by Jessica @ 8:06 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home