Yes, hello, did you call me?
Little miss too-cool-for-school, independent, totally capable of shanking an intruder, go to the movies by myself and don’t feel weird about it, play with my Nerf gun, have a fun blog, yadda yadda yadda.
The truth is, I’m also a crybaby. But I’m aware of this. So it’s OK.
Want to make me cry? Show me a malnourished stray dog. Or play a particularly good romantic song, show me images of people hugging at airports, make me watch The Land Before Time (especially the part where Littlefoot sees his own shadow in a cave and runs after it, thinking it’s his dead mom), ask me to talk about my family, or my friends, or my dog… whatever. I cry easily, so I try to laugh all the time. Otherwise the tears well up and, fight them as I may, the bastards will trickle down my cheeks, exposing me in emotional defeat. And I hate that.
It’s especially embarrassing when the person who sees you crying more than anyone else is your best friend – a boy. Oh my god, you’re such a crybaby, he’ll say, as I choke on laughter and tears, thanks to fucking Sarah Mclachlan and the ASPCA.
Naturally, when I found out that he and his girlfriend were moving in together, I had to fight the eye leakage. He didn’t tell me – there’s a sensitivity chip missing in men that doesn’t pick up on the importance of events such as moving in with your girlfriend for the first time in your life – she did, because she understands. We hugged, I told her how excited for them I am and proceeded to fan myself and look away because we were at his birthday party and I’m supposed to look cool.
I’m fighting back tears right now (not anymore, they won) as I search Craigslist for rentals I can forward to them, as they’ll need a larger (read: actually livable) space to share than the fantastically located bachelor’s sandbox where he now resides. I’ve known this boy since we were 18. He taught me Calculus through irrational tears, never failed to show me the bright side during hard times, and has patiently waited for me to come around and finally follow his advice, time and again (except for when it comes to watching Lost. Don’t care, not doing it). He is the most righteous dude and bestest friend a girl could ask for, and he is moving in with the nicest, funniest, prettiest, sweetest, coolest chick I’ve met in a long time, whom I’m happy to call my friend.
Except sometimes I wish he’d be more of a girl.
me: [attached link of awesome rental available five blocks from my building]
i think that’s exactly where you should live
stop looking elsewhere
want me to call and arrange a viewing?
the hallway has 4 closets
she won’t need to get rid of any of her clothes
you can tan on the roof and no one will laugh at how white you are
him: youre frightening me
me: no, no, it’ll all be OK
I’M SO EXCITED WE’RE ALL MOVING INTO FUN NEW APARTMENTS YEAAAAAAAY!
he signed off
Actually, I take it back. He signs offline when I start going off the deep end, explains physics to me, and occasionally introduces me to cute boys. I’m glad he’s a guy.