2 June 2012: In which I make you seem complicated, cryptic, and desirable, which you are.
And everything's getting sticky, your upper lip in the sun, the backs of my knees in the sun, the way you won't kiss me. That's making things sticky. I'm used to getting what I want. You're used to being in control. You put me in my place for a minute there, but I'll win in the end, baby. I always win in the end, baby. And I can't decide if you're Judas or Jesus yet, if you're more like Satan or more like the Holy Father, and maybe you haven't really made up your mind yet. I can't get enough of you. You can't get enough of you. Spring likes to remind us she isn't done yet, like she'll sneak in and rain a little despite the sun, but summer is pulling out all the stops, Lest We Forget Her Beauty, Remember Oh Remember, and I'm into that. I think it's a nice idea, pulling out all the stops, Lest We Forget My Beauty, Remember Oh Remember. So tell me what I have to do for you. Look like a model? Talk less about books? Talk less? I'm not saying I'll do it. I'm just asking. I want to impress you. I want to baffle you. I want to stun you. I want you to wonder what I'm doing every minute of every day. I want to be something like famous to you. I want to be famous, books and papers about me, mostly lies about marriages I'm not having and divorces I'm not getting, and I want you to read about me, like I'm some sort of scandal that no one can get enough of. I want a picture with Freddy Mercury, despite the fact of his being dead, which sucks. So are you impressed by messy hair and pointless musical trivia? If so, I'm set for years to come. But the truth is, I just want to know everything about you. I want to prod you about God and your preferences in winter sports. And so far, here's what I've gathered about you: You get what you want, and you know what you want. You're true to that zodiac sign of yours, right down to your good ol' SPF 4. You might understand theories of the universe, and even if you don't, I think you might care a little bit about theories of the universe, which is, uh, pretty sexy, I guess. You don't like to be lonely, and you think about the presence of a higher power, and you sleep past noon, which is just so human of you, so teen boy of you. I love it. Your humanity makes you so harmless, makes you so dangerous, and oh my goodness, you're so handsome. That's a pretty toxic mixture, you know, because blatant humanity + second-glancy good looks + sometimes sleepless cynicism/usually sleepless hope just might = my downfall. For now. This is war. I can feel it. We're too alike. We're frighteningly different. And most of this has overwhelmingly literal undertones, but don't worry too much, darling, 'cause it's also kind of underwhelmingly metaphorical. You keep a good poker face. Literally. Metaphorically.
So, do they make SPF a billion? Because I want that. All my love, Addy