2004-10-08 - 9:57 p.m.
Have you ever felt like ... there are these cement blocks, which are like the perfection of cement blocks, and by some wondrous chance of industrial accident they have fallen upon you and you are crushed and thrilled and crushed and thrilled and TERRIFIED and optimistic and pessimistic and TERRIFIED and crushed and thrilled?
There is a boy.
I don't know what I can tell you about him. I don't know what I am capable of saying, because he eradicates my ability to type with eloquence and MAKES ME WANT TO TYPE EVERYTHING IN CAPS BECAUSE ALL THE EMOTIONS ARE THAT SIZE.
There is a boy.
I can't call him mine. It seems too early, too surreal for possessive pronouns. And yet, I know that distinct pieces of me have him written all over them. As if he's snuck in at some point and scrawled his name in blue crayon.
And I could sit here and tell you about how he ... cracks me up, challenges me, encourages me, enthrals me ... but there aren't words to tell that to you, or him, or myself.
I'm sure I could easily compose odes to his loveliness but not without nauseating you, or him, or myself. I could tell you a hundred details about him, all of which float through my brain and conquer my attention at random but frequent intervals.
But do you really want to know about his zen perspicacity, or that I talk to him for hours at a time and it's never enough, or how the smell of him on my skin is thoroughly intoxicating? I doubt it somehow.
So this is what I'll tell you, I'll sum it all down to four words and let it sit here, a simple statement that can be your idiot's guide to Babs + This Boy.
He lights me up.
There is a boy.
I don't know what I can tell you about him. I don't know what I am capable of saying, because he eradicates my ability to type with eloquence and MAKES ME WANT TO TYPE EVERYTHING IN CAPS BECAUSE ALL THE EMOTIONS ARE THAT SIZE.
There is a boy.
I can't call him mine. It seems too early, too surreal for possessive pronouns. And yet, I know that distinct pieces of me have him written all over them. As if he's snuck in at some point and scrawled his name in blue crayon.
And I could sit here and tell you about how he ... cracks me up, challenges me, encourages me, enthrals me ... but there aren't words to tell that to you, or him, or myself.
I'm sure I could easily compose odes to his loveliness but not without nauseating you, or him, or myself. I could tell you a hundred details about him, all of which float through my brain and conquer my attention at random but frequent intervals.
But do you really want to know about his zen perspicacity, or that I talk to him for hours at a time and it's never enough, or how the smell of him on my skin is thoroughly intoxicating? I doubt it somehow.
So this is what I'll tell you, I'll sum it all down to four words and let it sit here, a simple statement that can be your idiot's guide to Babs + This Boy.
He lights me up.
