You’re so vain you probably think this post is about you. (It totally is).
Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I think of you. Or maybe I can’t sleep because I’m thinking of you.
I do wish this were a “can’t sleep, can’t eat” scenario, but unfortunately on nights that are accompanied by thoughts of you, I find myself in the candy aisle of CVS (deciding between Cadbury crème eggs and discounted Valentine’s Day confections – who am I kidding, I buy both). So basically, you’re inadvertently adding empty calories to my diet. Thanks for that.
If I were fourteen again (or the female character in a Taylor Swift song), I would probably find hormone-fueled comfort in your unnerving apparition. I would smile to myself, my retainer glinting in the moonlight. I’d see you in algebra the next day and awkwardly avert eye contact when you ask to borrow a pencil.
At nineteen, I really just wish you would go away. (I mean, not in real life – you’re great. I just would prefer not like an infatuated middle schooler when I think about you).
Not only do I value my sleep – which you, by the way, are stealing from me – but there are other people I’d rather occupy my pre-sleep brain space. Where’s Joseph Gordon-Levitt? That cute-ish guy from my guitar class? The scruffy faced guy I saw on Trousdale? Nope, just you.
Tonight I had this really odd moment where I thought I was living out a romantic comedy version of Fight Club. (I guess you’d be Tyler Durden?) As in, I actually questioned if you were real. This brings a couple of psychological concerns to the forefront:
1) I would rather you be a schizophrenia-induced being than actually have romantic feelings for you.
2) The idea of a romantic comedy Fight Club actually appeals to me in my midnight-thoughts-of-you dilemma.
The real clincher to all this is not that I’m losing sleep, is not that I’m eating Cadbury crème eggs – but is that I’ve been programmed to not actually talk to you about this.
This isn’t Notting Hill. I’m not Julia Roberts (DAMN IT?) and I’m not going to barge into your metaphorical travel bookshop with corny dialogue about how I’m just a girl asking a boy to love her. If I took cues from any movie that has helped form my understanding of what to do in these situations, I would find myself batting my eyes at you from across a room. You’d probably ask if I need Visine. I would show up in the rain outside of your apartment building and cry my way through a monologue that would go something like this:
CAILIN LOWRY, 19, stomps down the sidewalk, drenched from the unexpected Los Angeles rain. The rain has mixed with the tears that are running down her strikingly average face.
YOU, 19, sees Cailin from his warm lobby. Being the stand up guy that he is, he opens the door for her.
YOU: Are you okay? Come in from this unexpected torrential* downpour?
CAILIN: I had to see you.
YOU: Is everything all right? Did you find an upsetting puppy gif?
CAILIN: I don’t know… I don’t know. (Throws hands up in exasperation. Wipes rain/tears/snot from face). I think about you.
YOU (trying to be funny): Naked? (Sees Cailin’s incriminating reaction). Oh.
CAILIN: I don’t know how to say this. But you make me eat Cadbury crème eggs. And watch trashy reality TV shows. I do literally everything to stop thinking about you –
YOU (still trying to be funny): Naked.
CAILIN: Just let me talk okay? I know we’re friends and I know this is crazy, but here’s my number, call me maybe.
YOU: Oh did you get a new number?
CAILIN: No. NO. I can’t do this. I WANT TO BE MAYBE MORE THAN FRIENDS BUT I DON’T ACTUALLY THINK I DO, I THINK I JUST MIGHT WANT TO TRY IT.
YOU: You have snot on your face.
Cailin runs back out in the rain, ruining her leather boots.
As promising as that scenario is, I think I’m going to take the mature adult route. Which is obviously writing an open letter to you on the Internet.
If I were a real life mature adult, here’s what I might actually happen:
CAILIN LOWRY, 19, confidently knocks on the door to your apartment.
YOU, 19, open the door after an appropriate amount of knock-time (which is approximately three seconds). You hug Cailin friend-appropriately. Cailin dies - just a little bit - inside.
CAILIN: Yeah, it’s been a while.
YOU: _____. ________?
CAILIN: No, I’m good.
CAILIN takes a seat.
CAILIN: Hey, actually I wanted to talk to you about something.
YOU: _____? ____!
CAILIN: Haha, no. Okay. This might come off as strange and might be unexpected, but I need to get it off my chest –
CAILIN: Shut up, not literally. I know we never bring this up… but do you ever think about that time –
YOU: ________? _______. ___________?
CAILIN: Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. And I’m not really sure why and I wasn’t going to say anything – but, well. Yeah. And you know that time you talked about _______? That’s how I’m feeling now and it’s really, really shitty.
CAILIN: Exactly. I just care about you a lot as a friend and as a human, you know? And I realize that this jeopardizes that, but it just felt like it was worth saying.
YOU: _____. ___________________.
Fade out: ambiguous ending to hypothetical scene.
Hypothetical versions of this conversation aside, I’m still awake thinking about you. And you’re probably sleeping soundly right now.
*I do not think you would actually say torrential.