What does it mean when she gives me a story to read and says "I have to be honest with you, this one is about EUROSTAR TRAINS and has you in it. Of course you never lived in London, and your name isn't Paul, but I just switched them out for Edinburgh and Steve."
Excerpts about me, chosen by me, that make me feel like a million bucks and an asshole, respectively:
But, of course, Paul was different from the unoriginal first-love sob stories of my girlfriends. The first time I walked into Paul's room I saw that, like me, he had maps of foreign cities on his walls... We both loved the rain, and agreed that a rainy day in Los Angeles could bring a redemption that intellectual conversation could not... he would send me postcards with song lyrics for no apparent reason... We agreed that tragedy in life is inescapable but beautiful... For a romantic, adventure seeking 19 year old girl, how could these things not add up to true love?
... as Paul just wanted to be my friend, and I couldn't imagine a more insidious pain. I had too much pride to openly argue, and I spent the week hiding my outrage at true love's betrayal with trips to St. James Park, the Tate Gallery, the Imperial War Museum, and many pints...
apologies to the author. (In more ways that one.)
*This post was edited at the request of "the author," and reflects the changes suggested in her comment to this post. That's why the comment looks so out of place now. Not cause she's a totaly neurotic freak, I swear. (Just kidding.)
Posted by orion at May 8, 2003 01:07 AM | TrackBack