I'll admit, I looked down her shirt that first day, and a couple of days since. But it's not my fault I'm an adolescent. Anyway, it was perfection defined there for a while. She was beautiful, smart, occasionally funny, and amazingly fun to be around. In that first month, I pissed her off pretty badly, but things were repaired quickly. It was truly one of the most frightening times of my life. She couldn't stop talking about how much she hated me, and then later that day, apologized "for being so retarded." I didn't think she was being retarded. I thought she had the right to hate me for being a fool. But I won't discuss that any longer.
So things were good. I loved her, she loved me, for that month of September. There were a million little things that we did, from sitting in each other's seat, to making hearts across the classroom, to calling each other the Russian word for 'beloved'. Never in school though, people would ask questions. We couldn't stop talking about how much we loved each other. I thought I wanted more from life, but now, I think that that was one of the best times in my life. After the events of the dance, I loved her (and she me?) more than ever. So I asked her out the week after the following week. But I didn't consider how emotionally messed up she was, with missing Morganton and all. I was a fool. Perhaps if I hadn't, things would be like they were now. But she said no, then yes, then no. Of course after she refused, we talked for five hours, exchanging "I love you"s every ten minutes, like we used to. This confused me even more.
Fucking women, how do they work?
So she prophesied "If we dated and then broke up, I couldn't be all sexual towards you and you wouldn't be my [Russian for beloved]." This turned out to be exactly right.
About a week after these events, the hugs and "I love you"s slowed down. Our relationship ground to a halt. She can't even bring herself to say "I love you too" or return a hug or sit on me anymore like she used to. Of course there were intermittent oases of love in this metaphorical desert of hatred and madness. The breezeway, and in Mrs. Norman's class, when Michayla thought I was trying to grab her ass. But now things are terrible. It kills me to see her hugging other guys all the time. I hate it, and I don't know what to do. She's not mad at me. It's not me, it's her. I don't know what to do.
So things were good. I loved her, she loved me, for that month of September. There were a million little things that we did, from sitting in each other's seat, to making hearts across the classroom, to calling each other the Russian word for 'beloved'. Never in school though, people would ask questions. We couldn't stop talking about how much we loved each other. I thought I wanted more from life, but now, I think that that was one of the best times in my life. After the events of the dance, I loved her (and she me?) more than ever. So I asked her out the week after the following week. But I didn't consider how emotionally messed up she was, with missing Morganton and all. I was a fool. Perhaps if I hadn't, things would be like they were now. But she said no, then yes, then no. Of course after she refused, we talked for five hours, exchanging "I love you"s every ten minutes, like we used to. This confused me even more.
Fucking women, how do they work?
So she prophesied "If we dated and then broke up, I couldn't be all sexual towards you and you wouldn't be my [Russian for beloved]." This turned out to be exactly right.
About a week after these events, the hugs and "I love you"s slowed down. Our relationship ground to a halt. She can't even bring herself to say "I love you too" or return a hug or sit on me anymore like she used to. Of course there were intermittent oases of love in this metaphorical desert of hatred and madness. The breezeway, and in Mrs. Norman's class, when Michayla thought I was trying to grab her ass. But now things are terrible. It kills me to see her hugging other guys all the time. I hate it, and I don't know what to do. She's not mad at me. It's not me, it's her. I don't know what to do.
