Somewhere at my school there is a radio that is always on and I swear it's always playing the same song. Something about I wish nothing but the best - for you-uuuuuuuu-uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu...... It's incredibly annoying, and now apparently it's audible even from my room when the window's open.
That said, the point of this journal. There was one. I've forgotten what it was.
So, my roommate Leah has put me on an assignment to try to remedy the none whatsoever. The cause of said none whatsoever has been clearly identified - when I find someone attractive, my response is 'Try not to get caught looking.' This is a difficult habit to break. The assignment is simply to be more interactive with people - whether they're of interest or not - talk with them, touch them, et cetera. Touching's important.
First day of the assignment, I did pretty well. Someone new was working at the front desk, and since harassing the front-desk people is one of Leah's favorite things, we went to pester him. Although maybe 'pester' is the wrong word - we just talked to him, and found out a little about him (he's got a really cool name, and is a bit of a geek, and I've seen him around campus but never talked with him before), and started up a game of Bananagrams. And I managed to not let Leah do all the talking, which she usually does because she's much better at random talking to people than I am, and at some point I actually asked Desk Guy if I could touch his hair, because, I don't know, it was right there and looking very touchable, so he let me touch his hair, and Leah was very proud of me. Because touching someone's hair is a huge accomplishment or something.
And that night of course Leah went into wild-speculation mode, shipping me with Desk Guy, and wondering if that would be a gay relationship or a straight one, and whether Desk Guy is gay, and what it would be if hypothetical people named Nancy and Jim-Bob got together, if Nancy was a guy and Jim-Bob was I don't even know what she was talking about. We were both a little asleep by that time, I think.
Next phase of the assignment was the Civil War Ball, where Leah wouldn't even be there to be proud of me, but she said that I had to 'find a cute one' and ask her to dance multiple times, and try to have a conversation or something. Which actually happened! So, success! Met a pretty stranger, asked her for three dances; we smiled at each other a lot even when we weren't partners, and when the dance was all over, she started talking nonstop - about theatre stuff, and how her mother was in the opera, and how she spent her childhood messing around in the lighting booths, and cows and horses and chickens and turkeys and I don't even know what-all. And then I had to leave, but there was definitely conversation happening. Or at least, she was talking to me, not sure if that's conversation if I wasn't talking much. But she talked to me!
Problem is, I think she's really young. It's more like I'm too old. Can't believe I'm nineteen. This girl, there's no way she's older than seventeen, and she looks like she could be as young as thirteen, I just don't know.
So I feel like a bit of a creep.
Except I don't, 'cause I don't feel nineteen years old around her, or anyone like her. It's more like a little schoolboy crush, more innocent than most thirteen-year-olds probably feel, actually.
I'm dancing a pretty girl with a young, innocent face, and I'm just a young boy who's never said or done anything dirtier than kiss her gloved hand after our second dance, and ask her for a third.
I forget that I'm maybe five years older than she is, I forget that I'm not a boy, I forget that I masturbate and that I'm attracted to men and that sexuality is even a thing that exists in the world, I forget that I've ever declared love to a woman and stalked her boyfriend like a total creep and danced in a dark room full of loud pounding music and tangling bodies.
And later I remember all those things and feel like a creep for ever having looked at the girl. And I wonder whether either is more the real me - the one who kissed the hand of the girl at the ball, or the one who lies wanking in a college dormitory room. They seem so exclusive of each other.
After the Ball, I spent the night with Regi, and felt strangely disconnected from her, in a bad way. Leah's taken the place Regi used to have in my life - the strange, lovable, manic girl with whom I share trust and love and friendship - and now holds it perhaps more completely than Regi ever has. But that's only because Leah lives with me and Regi doesn't. I'm sure that's the reason. Leah and I had never met, never even talked or written to each other, before we moved in together; Regi and I chose each other, way back in who-knows-when, and we've somehow managed to stay friends for - wow, thirteen years? Really? Blimey.
Regi's going to live with me next year. It's going to be fantastic. We're going to be the best friends we've ever had.
But we're not right now. Right now, Leah's the best friend I've ever had. Guess that's what happens when you live with someone, even if only by random assignment.
And we're dreading having to not live together anymore. Splitting up our 'imaginary polygamous relationship' (or, even scarier, trying to preserve it), figuring out custody of Ziggy and the steampunk Tardis and whether they'll even survive when we don't have a whiteboard anymore. All our real-world possessions are clearly divided into 'hers' and 'mine,' but the imaginary ones are very much ours, and, being imaginary, they're in serious danger of ceasing to exist when the two of us are no longer together to imagine them. We'll definitely visit each other a lot next year, at least enough to preserve our friendship. But even so. As evidenced with me and Regi, the bond won't stay as strong when we don't live together.
We'll survive. I'll have Regi, she'll have Amy.
It'll still be sad, though.
Sorry 'bout the really long journal about nothing anybody but me cares about. Don't expect anybody to have read all this. Ah well.