COMIC IN THE DOGHOUSE
BY LOU PARDI
I came across a love letter the other day. Not a tear-stained declaration from an ex, buried in a chocolate box at the bottom of my tall boy, or an anonymous Valentine, but a love letter from me, to a subject who will remain anonymous. Nonetheless, it’s not the poor letter’s fault that certain circumstances render it void. So, for your entertainment (and don’t think I don’t see the naffy ridiculousness of it… that’s why I love it…), my homeless letter:
There are about 100 things I haven’t said to you in the last week. ‘Coffee? Drink? Walk?’
‘Why are you looking at me like that? Are you teasing or do you feel the way I feel?’
I should ask. Do you want to sleep with me? Do you have pets? A girlfriend? A boyfriend? A wife? I should have asked these questions earlier. Or should I? Bathing in the glow of the crush is often far more rewarding than any action, any product could deliver. And so I wait, wonder why you’re flirting with me and whether you know that the density of the air in a room changes when you walk into it.
Is somebody looking over my shoulder? That would be embarrassing, the unrequited ramblings of a 30 year old teen.
One day perhaps I will say ‘Coffee? Girlfriend? Boyfriend? Career limiting manoeuvre? Sex? Breakfast?’.
But for now I’ll google you in my own time and wonder what it would be like to fall asleep on your chest.
‘Everyone likes someone’, a friend of mine says, and so it is conceivable that that someone is me for you, as at this point it is you for me right now.
Sometimes the crush fades quickly. An unkind word, an ideal clash, a girlfriend.
And what I miss won’t be you. It will be this state of me.
When you’re finished with the waste paper basket pass it my way? It’s not that I don’t see the puke-worthy daginess of it all. But there is something to be said for a fully blown blushing, giggling, completely-ridiculous-conversation making grand crushola. The kind that makes your stomach flutter in a manner that suggests you may actually have ‘abs’ after all, that makes you answer the phone at 10am in the husky rasp of a film noir femme fatale. As it turns out my fantastic foresight was correct – the dwindling light of true lust was extinguished a mere 48 hours from the penning of this (open-mic) poetic meandering.
I’ve tried to apply rhyme (see above for the beginning of motivation to abort that) and reason (was sold out), to no avail. On reflection, I can’t say there’s been a crush in my life that made any sense.
Many years ago I had a crush on my boss (problem 1). He was smart, classy, articulate and smelt brilliant. He was also the big boss’ son (problem 2). He wore gingham on gingham, shirt and tie. He was clearly gay (key issue). My only defence is that at the time I was wearing maroon faux suede, so clearly my powers of judgement were not fully developed.
Many many years ago (many many many) I… ok. I had a. I’m reliably informed that many of us did… have a crush on our cousins. To my immense relief I never actually propositioned him. He did more recently confess to being acutely aware at the time of my meeting with puberty. We shall never speak of this again.
I’ve had celebrity crushes, stage crushes, TV crushes (hello Simon Baker), ugly crushes, rock crushes, just-friend crushes, arrogant-loser crushes, even the ethereal girl crush. Each has been uniquely flawed. Never met them, couldn’t screw them, am not gay, loath arrogance, stabbed myself in the eye with the antenna…
Still can’t wait for the next one though.
