Things like this never happen to girls like me; but what is this, exactly?

Oh my, you were never a boy that I thought I'd see again. That humorously awkward moment at Warped in the beginning of summer, where you approached me because you swore that you knew me from somewhere. Then us repeatedly running into each other throughout the day, joking that you were stalking me. So who would've thought that several months later you'd find me on myspace.com. It's that embarassing kind of pleasant surprise. Because we all know the sad truth is that technology + romance = taboo. Oddly enough, we click ridiculously well and you've got me wondering why you're the boy version of me. So the grand total sums up to 1 meeting in the summer + 3 nights of witty-as-fuck conversation = plans to hang out Friday (being yesterday).

The approximately 5 hours spent were quite lovely. Most of which were spent on three things.

One. Sitting at a table outside Orchard Valley discussing nothing but music. And all without the (seemingly) inevitable pretentious comments from either of us, that often arise when it comes to topics like these. We discuss the scene kids we love to hate and hate to love, the rockstars we've met, the shows we've been to. How is it that we have so fucking much in common? I wonder if you have any idea how much similar musical tastes win me over. But let's not get ahead of ourselves.

Two. You suggest we go sit outside the Campbell library. Shade, thank God. In a concrete circle, I sit on some steps while you stand and pace while you talk. "Doesn't it suck that you're never where you want to be?" That's fucking beautiful. This time the conversation's turned towards literature. And look, some more too-good-to-be-true things. You're far from perfect, but the fact that you love George Orwell makes me forget that fact. If that's not amazing enough, we proceed to talk about Cather in the Rye and The Perks of Being a Wallflower. Again, all without the suspicious superficial undertones. By this time, I've already caught onto the fact that you're an intelligent boy. Oh, and you love English. Tell me doll, who how and when did someone give you the manual to getting me interested? It's exciting and surprising, all at the same time.

Three. This is where you etch memories into my head that have been on loop for the past 24 hours. I'm taking you home and we're in your driveway. You point to the windows to your basement room you were telling me about and then ask me if I want to come in for awhile. My unsuspecting self agrees, because it holds a heart that does not realize what she's in for. At that point, I'm still questioning attraction. But all that changes when we head down that short flight of stairs into your room. And it's nothing near sexual. It's the room itself. A drumset at the foot of your bed which you play for me. Ways to impress have never been sounded so loud, so good. You hand me a CD wallet, which I proceed to go through until you're suddenly sitting on your pool table to the left of me. "Hey, you wanna hear something cool?" Oh my fuck, you've got a guitar in hand. The two-piece team that are your hands score a ridiculous amount of points with my heart because you're playing something that's making my heart drop. For the first second or two, I'm not even sure what song it is, all I know is it's Brand New and it's a song I love. Then it hits me- The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot. And that's just the appetizer to this main fucking course that screams "eat your heart out". And I do. Because what else can one do when some boy you barely even know is playing guitar and singing for you?
Seventy Times 7
(oh)
Soco Amaretto Lime
(fuck)
Sic Transit Gloria...Glory Fades
(I)
And how about some:
(think)
Talking Shit About A Pretty Sunset
(I)
Saves The Day
(might)
The Martyr
(just)
Art Is Hard
(love)
Dashboard Confessional
(you)
.

At that point, I'm utterly comatose with awe. But you want more than that- you wanna see me fucking flat-line.

You begin to play the Punk Goes Acoustic version of Cute Without the 'E' and I instantly disintegrate. Then come by with a broom in the form of your singing to sweep up what's left of me. I could die solely from how completely fucking beautiful you look beside me- you with your guitar on lap, hair in face, fingers on strings, legs dangling over the edge.

I'd be blatantly lying if I said that I wasn't hoping for this to go somewhere.

--Lauren

[what was ... what will be]