Bedtime Stories 11 – Happy

Sunday’s post explained why Lauren insists to never date a writer. Just like she swore to never buy Dani’s book. Naturally, within 48 hours she’s sucked in, over her ears, hopelessly entangled in something that can only lead to heartbreak, drama, and a juicy new blog.

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Happy, couragous or plain stupid? Is there a difference?

 

Tuesday April 15 , 2014

Dear Elliot,

If your email compensates for not writing for so long? Honey, any story involving you, a gay Go-go dancer, and a parking lot would suffice to make up for anything. From forgetting my birthday to stealing my credit card. So yes! I loved reading it. And the fact that you were still a minor makes it a guilty pleasure read. Was this story told to me to illustrate why leaving this muscular steel blue eyes drop dead gorgeous Go-go boy was a good thing? For that, it did not suffice I’m afraid. Because right now I would have you jump in your car, speed towards him, kneel, bow, undress, and offer any services required to indicate you’re all his, you’re really sorry, and he can have his way with you. So I may need an extra story to illustrate why staying away from Matthew is a good idea and throwing yourself at his feet in full submission, is not. Make it count.

Meanwhile I’m dealing with my own weak spots here. It’s about Dani. Remember? The writer who I don’t fancy based on his looks (as opposed to the rest of Holland-with-ovaries, who appear to be savagely taken with him) but whose book I bought despite my resistance towards him as a person, or rather towards him as a phenomenon. The topic intrigued me. Young male, living in Amsterdam, has it all, but blows it all. And in the process breaks a million women’s hearts. He is the kind of man you wish only bad things will happen to for the rest of his life. And they probably will. So far as to why I read the book. But there is more. Because why else would I contact him?
Not directly, no.
But I poked the tip of my pen in the right direction for him to notice me almost immediately. It was before I even realized what I had done. Or why I wanted it. The desire to speak to him was so strong that I had acted out of impulse, undetected by my poorly tuned common sense radar. And as opposed to Sam (whose messages contain two sentences max), Rafael (who never contacts me in private), or Henry (whose wife and children seem to be waving from between the lines), this writer had it. Dani had it. His words had that emotion to it, that charm. That thing that melts, wins you over, and that before you know it, would have you wild with desire to be savagely taken.
Okay STOP!!!!
Rewind.
Why am I doing this?
Why am I exposing myself to someone whose moral compass is even looser than that of a gay Go-go dancer with a criminal record. What the fuck is wrong with me? And while I was eagerly waiting for his reply, scratching the inside of my elbow like a relapsing heroin addict, I realized I already knew the answer. And it starts with one question: How much have I told you about 2010?

Late 2010. I was new to Twitter. And through a combination of factors (one of them me being vulnerable when it comes to young men) I started emailing with a journalist who was physically attractive by all standards. All, except mine. And there must be all kinds of eloquent ways to describe this, but right now I can’t think of any so I’ll resort to the limited vocabulary that is still available when thinking about this painful time.
We wrote and I fell in love.
I just let it happen, not too worried. It wouldn’t last if I saw him in person. But then he made me cry. In a good way. Something in his email (I lost all of them when Hotmail changed to Outlook) moved me so much I had tears running down my face. Same way it happens when I listen to Pharrell’s Happy. You can’t explain it. It the operative word. The same it I was referring to in Dani. It’s that way the words tap into your brain. As if they first dance alongside your thoughts, and then they take your hand, and you trust them, and he takes you somewhere of outstanding beauty. And he says he understands. And that he’s there. And that one day he’ll be there with you in person. And about that time he hooks up with a girl, they do drugs, they have sex. He mentions it casually. Like you’re not supposed to care.
And you break.

Dani’s message came quickly. It was cheerful, and I could feel his pink wiggling to my hand.
“Listen, lets meet okay?” I said, as I pulled away. “I know how this ends. Your messages will move me to tears before I know it. ” We couldn’t set a date this week. Maybe later. But at least the stream of words has stopped. And no one is crying. So when I made that decision yesterday, to contact him, I think I wanted to see what would happen. Would I let myself be sucked in, like I did in 2010? Would I see him in real life, unlike 2010? And if I did, then what would happen?

Was there now, or had there ever been, a possible outcome, that did not involve getting emotionally savaged?

 

 

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