To He Who Should Not Read My Blog

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I don’t write about my social or romantic life on my blog very often, if at all. This blog is not the platform for that- it’s supposed to be a blog about being a fuckin’ hipster, dammit- and in some areas of my life, I’m actually a somewhat private person. I also realize that saying roughly, “Oh hey, I just wrote about you on a public forum for anyone to read!” may or may not have the ability to freak someone out. In addition, it’s rare for me to feel compelled to write about someone- a truth that I’ve commented on before- but I guess, in this instance, that is finally not applicable. I’m writing this tonight because, honestly, it’s what is on my mind lately and being a writer, it would be silly to ignore.

And though I plead with you on a daily basis not to read my blog, you will anyways.

So, here you go.

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To He Who Should Not Read My Blog,

I haven’t known you for very long. 

This is a fact we discussed last night. However, with all that has taken place within that time it feels like I’ve known you forever. 

It is not just that though. Something about you is reminiscent and comforting- an observation I made the first night I met you, the night our mutual friend finally got us in the same space. 

The night you were wearing a light tan leather jacket from the 70’s and I was wearing a petticoat with tuxedo jacket. I was trying my best to look like Blair from Less Than Zero and you were just being you: A man who has a closet full of hand-sewn costumes and clothing from your youth that you still fit into. 
You know how to sew. I don’t.

That night we realized that our creative influence both comes from the same man- David Byrne. You started reciting dialogue from your favorite movie, True Stories, and once in awhile you and I will sing songs from the movie, though we may not always remember the words.

That night we realized we could probably talk to each other until we’re exhausted. 
Which is something that hasn’t seemed to happen yet. 
And I doubt will.

In the short time we’ve known each other, we survived: being shot at by punk kids while sitting in my car talking, and though the kids were really, really upset that you and I were not making out- enough to shoot a gun at us- you were a gentleman and didn’t kiss me until after we thought our lives were in danger; my car being broken into the night I went to see your film, which I was nervous about- the screening, not the window- and where I met roughly 100 of your friends and you later constructed a Muppets-themed cardboard window for my glass-filled car; SXSW, a void where life as we know it stands still, where we saw movies and walked for miles and waded through a sea of drunk people and stayed up late; carrying around a drunk celebrity we had to babysit and who tried to unsuccessfully convince me to sleep with him; you jet-setting to Europe twice, where you wrote to me every day about your adventures; me having a bladder infection; my illogical fear that someone is breaking into my house every evening and you coming to my rescue. 

In other words, there has never been a dull moment.

And though we could probably do without more guns and broken car windows and drunk celebs and infections, I’m looking forward to many more adventures with you.

It makes me nervous to post this, but I know you will probably like it and you will probably bring it up later today and I will probably try to change the subject and I will probably scold you for reading my blog…even though I’m secretly excited that you care enough to.