...Is who I'm listening to right now. Say what you will, but her Bob Dylan cover is infinite leaps, bounds, black holes better than Ke$ha's. Maybe you think that doesn't say much. Trust me, it does.
Again, I was watching Wings before falling asleep, and, good news, the intro gets infinitely better in the middle of the third season.
So, I was about to fall asleep, when I remembered I had an envelope in the car that I had originally planned to mail last week. It was a handmade birthday card for a boy. A guy. A friend. A wishing-we-were-more-than-that friend. For years.
The card itself was harmless. It didn't have a fifteen page love letter or anything, though I could probably fill twice the pages with the conversations I've had with him in my head. I would have made a similar card for any one of my friends. I would have sent those. I guess, I thought, if the card traveled the 1400 miles to Texas, it somehow wouldn't be harmless anymore. Somehow, my feelings would be too obvious.
[I just spent eight minutes trying to come up with a metaphor for how the stamps on the envelope were like wearing my heart on my sleeve. Fuck it. Over it.]
I've put myself out there before, and, let's use the word "unlucky," but it's not that I wouldn't do it again. I've gotten past those unlucky spots. I know it can be done. I just think I'm going to hold on to these feelings for a while longer, while they're safely buffered by Arizona and New Mexico. I don't even feel like posting this, but it is what kept me up at night and it kind of sucked to write and I think that means some sort of something.
And I had to put two stamps on that envelope, a good ninety-cents due to this week's increase in postage costs. I would gladly spend that on this guy, so it's not a waste, but it's a good, unused envelope. So, if any of my friends receive a red envelope, probably filled with Samantha Mumba articles from Nick Magazine, know that you're worth it too, and I like you just as much. But I don't like you-like you, you know?