a blurred portrait

so marie doesn´t love me. big deal.
she´s a dyke, by the way. but I didn´t give that much tought.
I said, what the hell. I sort of like her, she could like me as well. I´m not that bad.
but it didn´t work that way. buuhh.


last night I sat with her and her gay pal, both blabbing about the hideous academic world, that apparently sucks, but they can´t get enough of it. I laughed at in-jokes, made movements with my head that indicated attention and understanding and it was no good. she´s the nervous type, you know. always picking at something, looking away, making questions and not waiting for answers... you get the picture.


she´s tall. I like them tall.
you may insert here at your pleasure some rancid comment on my need to submit to women. I don´t care. I just like the way they bend a little bit when talking to you. something akward about it. it touchs me.


she had nice feet and a way of keeping her hair on a precarious balance over her head. she has nervous tics and a peculiar face. and she doesn´t love me. big deal.