I could spit on a stranger.

I’ll stop blogging lists for now. I’m tired from Munsci’s annual Bandage where I looked around and found out that my good ‘ole alma mater became a hell hole where the emo kids thrive. Suffice it to say, Bandage (our annual Battle of teh Bands contest) became a sappy, pity party with teenagers running around with faux eyeliners and black-and-white striped shirts. ZOMG.

BUT. Yes, there’s a big but. My old batchmates made it a joyous occasion filled with hugs and sweet “I miss you’s.” I did miss high school, and it was nostalgia all over.

Various news surprised me to death. Like Nicole having somewhat a boyfriend (finally!), Karen Castro bringing along her boyfriend, Issa making chuva with Phillip Magnaye, etc. etc. But for Kaytee, Kaisel, JM, and I: (well, scratch JM out, he’s been holding hands with Vika all night long) it’s a wonderful night to reminisce of high school romance.

Which then leads us to the inevitable thought of the evening: Why is love so hard to find?

Just in time to salt my wound even moar, I re-read this poem which was posted on Raisia’s blog. It’s called Crushworthy, and it’s from Big Poppa E. Somehow, in some weird intergalactic spacial parallel, this poem appealed to me in so many levels and is sure to appeal to my favorite emo readers, too. Suffice it to say, it felt like high school (and it fucking hurts).

——

Crushworthy
Big Poppa E

I want someone
to have a crush on me
for a change

to notice
when I don’t come to class
and wonder if I’m okay

to get nervous
when I enter the cafe,
to fumble
with her papers
and books,
to pick at her clothing
and check
her reflection
in salt shakers and napkin holders

to catch her breath
when she sees me from across campus,
tug on her best friend’s collar
and point with her eyes
and whisper loudly,
“There he is!”

to run around the block
as quickly
and nonchalantly
as she can
just to walk past me
make eye contact
and smile

to look into my big brown eyes
(such long lashes!)
from across the room
and think, “Yes…”

to look at my full kissing lips
and think, “Oh yes…”

to hear my voice
and imagine
how her name
would sound

if I said it
if I whispered it
if I…

“Oh yes…”

I want someone
to make up nicknames for me

to talk about me in code
“I saw Backpack Boy today
in the library
in the Romantic Lit. secion…

I saw Steel-Toed Boots Boy
talking to some girl
(some girl!)
in the bookstore today…”

I want someone
to go straight home
every night
and check her answering machine
just in case
just in case

and check the phone cord
and check the battery
and check the tape
and make sure the goddamned blinking light
isn’t burned out

just in case

I want someone to say,
“You’re wrong about him
because you don’t know him
the way I know him,”

because she can just tell

that I’m a good person
must be
a good person
gotta be
a good person
because I write poetry about my mom and my cats

and because she likes me so much
for some reason
some unexplainable psychic supernatural reaction
to me

me.

I want someone
to mark her calendar
“He talked to me today”
to wonder
what I would smell like
after a long warm sleep
under a down comforter

to close her eyes
and picture
what our kids would look like

to write silly wretched wonderful
poetry
about me

for a change