Today I realised that I was wrong about you. I predicted that you’d always want a girl with a big personality, a girl who can stand up for herself. In truth, I wasn’t that person when we first met, but I became that person and it makes perfect sense to me now why there is no longer any chemistry between us. I am not who you want me to be and you are not who I want you to be. I thought I was the archetypical girlfriend for you but really, I just grew into this skin. I used to be sad and meek and insecure and that was what you wanted – for whatever reasons – and that’s what you want now. The quiet ones. The ones hiding in the background. I guess I was lucky back then but now I’m different. Or you’re different. No, you’re the same. Still full of cynicism. I used to always think this quote applied to us: “Beneath every cynic there lies a romantic, and probably an injured one.” That was us. I was the injured romantic. I’m not anymore. And you are more than welcome to your sad, weedy girlfriends. Meanwhile, I am more than content hanging out with my flaming homosexual friends. I think their energy suits me better than you ever did.
Or maybe I’m being too sentimental too late? Not that any of this matters. I mean, my mind just wanders and I draw conclusions five years later.
I’m not sure what my type of boy is. My friend Danny says that I am a sucker for a lost cause and that’s certainly true. Tortured soul? Mysterious? Problems with alcohol/drugs? Well, come on over! I’m very drawn to troubled boys, or boys who appear to be troubled. But the mystery! The mystery just kills me. I find nothing more intriguing and attractive than knowing absolutely nothing about a boy, seeing him around, occasionally hearing him speak. Tall dark stranger. Dark hair, a beard? Dressed like a homeless person? Oh God. I’m yours. (In fact, the last couple of boys I’ve fancied have all met this criteria.)
But how does one capture such a dishevelled boy? I’ve toyed with the idea of dressing in a more scruffy manner than I usually would, maybe wearing trousers too short. Or proffering some of my anti-depressants in welcome. Mi casa es tu casa. You know. Alas, I have yet to get my hands on a badly groomed young man. How sad.