I once had a dream where my friend and I had been professional wrestlers prior to our current employment. Everytime we spoke, we would begin with an anecdote about how we did things back in the “good old days.” The idea of two skinny twenty-something in Mexican Luchador masks is indeed a laughable one, yet it seemed so true to life. I had (have) a nasty habit of telling war stories from a better time, watching the imaginary sand in the metaphorical hourglass get more and more empty with the vain hope of recapturing those days.
I had one last great moment of glory before I took my hopes, dreams and ambitions behind the shed armed only with a shotgun and a tear in my eye. A young girl and I sat face to face on the top of her bed. Whether or not we made love beforehand I can’t remember (nor is its detail important to this story, you pervert!), but I do remember the deep stare she had on me. It was as though she was trying to lock me into some hypnotic state, and I was all too willing to give in. My insides felt like someone recklessly splashing an entire paint can on a blank canvas. Reds and blues and greens and yellows all mixing together into some bastard color that would both revolt me and show me the true meaning of life simultaneously. I guess that’s what love feels like? Maybe I’m wrong on this? Either way, we sat there, cross-legged, quietly staring for what seemed like an eternity (but was probably only five minutes) before one of us spoke. As someone who always has something to say, yet never anything of any worth, I let her go first. Just to be polite.
“X (an equation where X=My Name), I love the color of your eyes. They’re just so…um…ah, ah! Expressive, I guess? They’re so pretty!” She giggled. She wasn’t the smartest person I had ever been with, but at some point I had decided to take on the responsiblity of thinking for the both of us. Her earnest stupidity turned me on more than any physical part of her body did. Yes, I am aware that sounds mean, no need to remind me! But I prefer my women to be honest, even if the truth may be ugly. Sorry! Anyways, the story. It was my turn to respond. My chance to say something wonderful and smart and poetic and would keep her close to me through the good times and the bad. I never had to take too long to come up with something like this, since I am a burger flipper with a diary after all (I tell pretty girls that I’m a “writer”)! So I opened my mouth and…
An embarassing, Goofy-esque “HY-HYUK!” The best thing I could say! It was ludicrous! She giggled, I think. Again. She thought it was cute, I was told.
I forget what happens after that, but it’s now the present day and she’s nowhere to be found. Most stories in life do not have good endings, and the ones that do built them off of someone who had a bad ending. So there you go.