I'm sure if I tried, I could pinpoint the exact date and hour I first became aware of Hunter Makowski.
Some backstory: I am not the best at playing nice with girls. I can only tolerate the members of my whimsical gender when alcohol is involved. As a conversationalist, I dug deep and tried to pull the brutal honesty out of people. Men are more inclined to open up, particularly about sex. Women, however, assume that you're plotting to sabotage their existence.
He was unassuming; his uniform revealed him to be a security guard.
"You're a ginger!" Nicole annoyingly shrieked after he removed his ski hat.
We sat along the brick wall that hoards the smoking Starbucks patrons. He was seated across from us, intently listening and feeling his fingertips yellow as the flame kissed the filter.
Nicole was "engaged" for the novelty until she moved onto date and later devirginize Andrew, the dumbest guy in the greater DC area.
What were we talking about? I don't remember. Probably something about sex. What I do remember is that in the middle of making a point, I looked to you and asked you a question to support my theory. Or maybe I just made an off-handed comment. I remember the distance between our tables becoming smaller until you were sitting directly across from me, enraptured by our adolescent bullshit that, to us, seemed to be a dramatic and all sorts of deep. You thought Nicole was cute. My hair was long, blonde, and my boots matched the brown leather that made up my favorite bomber jacket. I thought that I was in love with Ian. I was high. You were six months sober with a car and with no internet.
You know what comes next. It was a Saturday night, and although I had to be at work early in the morning, Nicole and I decided it would be fun to get drunk. Silly, girly, nail painting, glittery drunk. Several beers were stashed in my car. Were we splitting a water bottle discreetly filled with cheap vodka? Yes, it's all coming together. I had caught a buzz but was not satisfied. With an impressionable gentleman sitting across from me, I sweetly asked how old he was. He looked to be fifteen.
"Twenty-three."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"You look younger."
"It's the braces!" Nicole confirmed, never failing to proudly state the obvious.
Knowing myself, I'm sure I was talking loudly about a sexual conquest
What the shit do I have control over?
When I first found out that I was moving, I was surprisingly indifferent towards the prospect of leaving. Now I'm feeling pulled back by the tenacious grip of comfort. My routine for the past two years has undergone zero renovation beyond the occasional (failed) attempts of working or going to school. I suck at routine, clearly.
Some backstory: I am not the best at playing nice with girls. I can only tolerate the members of my whimsical gender when alcohol is involved. As a conversationalist, I dug deep and tried to pull the brutal honesty out of people. Men are more inclined to open up, particularly about sex. Women, however, assume that you're plotting to sabotage their existence.
He was unassuming; his uniform revealed him to be a security guard.
"You're a ginger!" Nicole annoyingly shrieked after he removed his ski hat.
We sat along the brick wall that hoards the smoking Starbucks patrons. He was seated across from us, intently listening and feeling his fingertips yellow as the flame kissed the filter.
Nicole was "engaged" for the novelty until she moved onto date and later devirginize Andrew, the dumbest guy in the greater DC area.
What were we talking about? I don't remember. Probably something about sex. What I do remember is that in the middle of making a point, I looked to you and asked you a question to support my theory. Or maybe I just made an off-handed comment. I remember the distance between our tables becoming smaller until you were sitting directly across from me, enraptured by our adolescent bullshit that, to us, seemed to be a dramatic and all sorts of deep. You thought Nicole was cute. My hair was long, blonde, and my boots matched the brown leather that made up my favorite bomber jacket. I thought that I was in love with Ian. I was high. You were six months sober with a car and with no internet.
You know what comes next. It was a Saturday night, and although I had to be at work early in the morning, Nicole and I decided it would be fun to get drunk. Silly, girly, nail painting, glittery drunk. Several beers were stashed in my car. Were we splitting a water bottle discreetly filled with cheap vodka? Yes, it's all coming together. I had caught a buzz but was not satisfied. With an impressionable gentleman sitting across from me, I sweetly asked how old he was. He looked to be fifteen.
"Twenty-three."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"You look younger."
"It's the braces!" Nicole confirmed, never failing to proudly state the obvious.
Knowing myself, I'm sure I was talking loudly about a sexual conquest
What the shit do I have control over?
When I first found out that I was moving, I was surprisingly indifferent towards the prospect of leaving. Now I'm feeling pulled back by the tenacious grip of comfort. My routine for the past two years has undergone zero renovation beyond the occasional (failed) attempts of working or going to school. I suck at routine, clearly.
