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And Now For the Magic Basket of Awesome I Was Going to Be

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Pepper and I could have been roommates. I wanted beaded curtains too.

But mostly I wanted to be quietly, transparently soulful, with simple clothing that hung off my shoulders and hips, with naturally dewy skin, with eyes that Said the Things My Mouth Never Could. I would be insular, withdrawn even–and yet people would see the depth. They would look into my impassively clear face and they would sense the intelligence. I would have a dull surface, but my sparkling wit and constantly-moving mind would light me from within.

I would walk along bridges, stare out over the grey polluted water, and contemplate the future. Somewhere not too far away, a slightly malnourished band boy with glasses would pine for me in verse. He’d say he wanted me to take him home, but really he’d want love, because, after all–isn’t what that what everyone wants?

For reals, yo.

And he would give me quirky-pretty gifts, like glass swans and dark cherry coffee tables engraved with poetry. And we would share umbrellas, and feed ducks, and talk about Important Things.

Our lives would be scripted by the writers of the Levenger catalog.

I would never have to explain anything. I would never have to hatch from the shell of my loneliness, because my bespectacled band boy would chisel the shell away himself. Music would follow us everywhere. It would rain, and always be fall, and the air would smell like wet leaves and spices.

My apartment would be quirky too, kind of charmingly inconvenient, with steep winding steps and a stupidly-placed mailbox. (Blocking my doorway, perhaps.) I would have some kind of awful waitressing job that I hated, but then one day…

There my guitar-strumming lovely would be.

We would get each other. Or something.

Because, you know, as a quiet, thoughtful girl working in the service industry, I’d have seen a lot. I’d have seen the sadness and desperation of humanity, that all-consuming longing for companionship. I’d be able to separate the ones worth saving from the ones worth disregarding. And my scruffy scrawny college boy and I would save each other. (The saving would involve copious amounts of red wine and some nice fleece blankets.)

Mmhm. Well, ten years later, I do have a delightfully quirky apartment with steep steps (and almost no straight walls–God I’m awesome). I have a crappy waitressing job that does nothing to restore my faith in humanity, and currently, it is fall.

But it never rains here, and the bridges are lame, and guys are morons, and I play my own damn guitar. My life is scripted by Jerry Seinfeld, and that’s okay.


About Paprika

Paprika Davis is a perpetually annoyed twenty-something college student waitress who would rather be a squirrel. The lack of commas in the previous sentence bothers her, but her laziness overrides her desire to improve the writing.

One response »

  1. Yes. We play our own damn guitars. Amen.


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