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Joop!

It’s like seeing someone for the first time, and you look at each other for a few seconds, and there’s this kind of recognition like you both know something. Next moment the person’s gone, and it’s too late to do anything about it. —Jack Foley

Now out of sight, I once spent three months doing Soderbergh. It was my drug of choice, where reality trafficked art, and no one cared. Thought I could make it on K Street, but where’s the potential there? UB? UW? I applied to Windsor late. Forever stuck being an informant, there’s no more sex, [or] lies, [on] videotape. This goes out to the girl in the verde, azul, and dorado dress. I think too much rojo ruined my relationships. With women, I’m the Carville to their Matalins, but how we fit together is what no one can figure out. It’s not rocket science, because I’m not good at that. I’ve tried both compatibles and opposites, and have only burned myself in the processes. This is the third degree. There’s no turning back. Next time it happens, I’ll have to give my heart a love graft.

Recess with swing sets, and old crushes; I don’t know where you went, and you don’t know who you are, respectively. I was a master at hiding, but no one ever sought me. I think that still rubs me the wrong way; that I could spend my childhood running from, but my adulthood never being chased. Walking through an air of JOOP! still makes my headache. Dizzy, no one should be surprised when I call off the wedding. Those two are not exclusive. One’s a constant, while the other’s an evolution. I used to want uniform black Benzes, or any kind of sleek car acting as my procession. Hard to believe now, but I actually had aspirations for a real movie wedding—that’s exactly what family called it after a direct translation—complete with commentary tracks, and behind the scenes settings. The only exception is that I’d edit out all the drunk dancing.

There’s no story past how we met. We don’t have the same vices. I talk a lot, and she drinks a bit, and one tends to smoke when she gets stressed. What’s mine, she asks? I say it’s her, but I don’t say it’s her. Instead I jot it down, so I know she’s safe from all my words. Except she is not safe, because this is the internet. Even with archival posts, she’ll no doubt see it soon. Just close your eyes and listen. Rain on the street glistens. It’s trying to tell you a story about last night’s big secret; the one you woke me to tell me at 2:52 in the morning. Except this isn’t a Gem Club song. It’s from the heart where you always stay, but don’t belong, but I can’t get everyone with me to keep playing along, and I’ve been telling myself  this lie for too damn long, when the truth is, I don’t want to be found out. I just want you to be found, even if it’s not by me.

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