@bodytext: "I am a Romeo, am a Romeo with no place to go," goes the Sublime song. Amen, I say to that song. Amen indeed. By a show of hands who amongst those reading this has ever felt like a Romeo with no place to go?
OK, put your hands down because you're all wrong. You haven't. I, however, know somebody who has experienced just the above situation. He is a man of unparalleled constitution, intellect, and impeccable coiffure. The following is the story of this man who was beaten by love, and destroyed by the weight of his own broken heart. Everybody gasp: that man is ME.
Before I get started, this may be the second column I've written about women. (As you remember, the first was a women and sports treatise which earned the ire of, as a nameless friend called them, 'humorless skirts.' Of course I admonished him for calling them humorless.) However, please ignore this trend. My column will not center on the subject of women, as much interest as I have in the subject, and this very installment is really more about life than anything else. And about a woman. Oh hell, I give up.
Our tale begins in fair London, where our dapper young American protagonist is studying for the semester. A quick character profile: he's really cool. So, our really cool, dapper protagonist is spending the first months of 2004 studying in London and taking in the amalgamation of all cultures stolen from conquered and imperialized lands that is repackaged as Britain. Whilst there he doth meet the object of his affection, and this is from whence our Shakespearean tragedy doth spring.
Before I delve deeper into this wrenchingly pathetic episode in my inability to successfully communicate with girls, I must issue two disclaimers. Disclaimer 1: Any romantic notions of me as a womanizing ragamuffin should be discarded immediately. Seriously. Almost any attempt to talk to a pretty girls ends with me saying something stupid like "you have pretty socks" or "can I smell your hands?" Neither of which, I'm sure, Rick Solomon said to Paris Hilton before he videotaped himself having sex with her. OK, maybe he smelled her hands, but you get the point.
Disclaimer 2: This girl was absolutely freaking gorgeous. I'm talking Catherine Zeta Jones in that scene from "Entrapment" where she slides under the laser beam gorgeous. You all know that scene, and I assure you I AM NOT EXAGGERATING. Now take that beauty you are now picturing in your perverted little minds, and contrast that against the backdrop of jolly old England, the home of driving on the wrong side of the road, horrible, horrible teeth, and David Beckham. Close your eyes and immerse yourself in that mental image. Look around, and count the attractive people. Having trouble are you? Assuming you know how to count, the problem here lies in a basic human biological fact: all British people are pudgy, pasty, and just plain super-nasty looking. But wait, what's that in the distance. Be it an angel? Nay, it is but a woman! This woman was my reluctant Juliet. This woman was red coat girl.
For those of you outside the close group of 104 friends my facebook profile says I have, allow me to educate you on the phenomenon that is red coat girl. If you are one of the lucky 104, the chances are that you've probably heard more than your share about her, and you're just reading the rest of this as an act of charity. You patronizing bastards. Anyway, red coat girl was a vision of feminine perfection. She wore a long red coat that hugged her hips favorably and she walked with the gait of a goddess. Her long brown hair bounced gently and melodically with every step, and she had the pleasant facial features and soulful eyes of a movie star. I was completely hypnotized by her. Completely.
I, and I'm not ashamed to admit this, even did creepy things just to perhaps catch a glimpse of her. I'd go to the computer lab and sit down nearby when I saw her there. I'd organize my laundry cycle so we'd be doing the wash at the same time. I'd carve her name into my forearm with a razor blade. OK, perhaps I didn't do some of that, but that's not really important. What's important was that I eventually found my chance to woo my Capuletian love.
After an excursion to the local supermarket to buy my weekly victuals, with grocery bags hanging from my arms, my chance came. Just as she was entering the dormitory, I was approaching the entrance. "Carpe diem," I said to myself, and if you don't mind me saying I Carpe-d the bejesus out of that diem. "Can you hold the door please," I projected in the manliest of my manly voices, a voice usually saved for the fixing of flat tires or the purchasing of condoms at the pharmacy. Naturally she obliged and held the door open for me. THE METAPHORICAL DOOR I MEAN. Here was my chance to sweep my Juliet off her feet. "Thank you," I said to her as she smiled at me. And as she walked down the corridor to her room, and I down the opposite corridor to mine, I gave myself a high five and a pat on the back, because gosh darnit I deserved both.
Naturally that was the first and last time I talked to red coat girl. For those of you expecting a grand Shakespearean tragedy or some sort of resolution, I apologize, I know I told you you'd get one. Frankly, I'm a realist. Red coat girl was out of my league. Quick metaphor: imagine she was Justin Timberlake. OK, now imagine that I was Björk. By mine own eyes and convictions, JT doth NOT consorteth with Björk, not even in a peculiar Shakespearean realm. I was thinking practically. Had Romeo thought practically he would have probably lived a long and comfortable life. Granted he would have been trapped in a miserable banal marriage with Rosaline, but isn't that just where we're heading anyway?
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