M
MarloweDore
Guest
Hello again.
I’m here to ask for some advice concerning romantic love.
Two years ago I had met a young man during a study abroad trip to France. He, being from the UK, and I from the USA, were both anglophone and soon became confidants about our issues with those French snobs. I had been made aware of him 3 weeks before he showed up (hiding, from me, maybe?) by the dorm manager recommending us to eachother as friends. When said young man (let’s call him Pierre, as he was half French) approached me it was when I was in the middle of reenacting the epic saga of mental illness, my reconversion to Catholicism made possible by my past crush, my karate sensei, who I was convinced was dabbling in the occult, possessed, and exploiting my “schizophrenic hallucinations” to actually make me believe I was crazy.
I was so engrossed in entertaining what would become our mutual friend with the story of the supernatural ordeal that all of a sudden I saw a tall, floppy, skinny, dark-haired pale guy with a big smile come over and sit down with us. I thought he was absolutely adorable and awkward from the beginning and to this day I can’t remember what we said in introduction, but can only recall the inner seizure of cute I had just by looking at him.
The reat of the night was epic. He thought I was hilarious and blunt/refreshingly genuine andas when he came back from his room with a freaking cobalt-blue bass guitar and started playing it for me, I knew I was entering crush territory so deliciously painful there would be a long climb of withdrawl before I would finally get myself out.
By the time midnight came around and we were were saying out goodbyes, I knew I could start turning back now or fully commit to finding out if he liked me too (unlikely for 19 year old boy to realize/admit that so soon after meeting someone, but I was alwaya a dreamer.)
By the second hang-out we had, I already had a thorn festering in my heart that he didn’t even realize I liked him. He was distracted by a problem that I could not see and would not admit he had as he beamed at my jokes and tried to be interested on my joys and heartaches.
The nights of hanging out went on and I was disturbed to observe that he didn’t think he was attractive or know that anyone liked him. Simultaneously, I was in a mood too because very frew of my French classmates reciprocated the effort for friendship I had lavished on them (I eventually made the best of friends with a warm, open French-girl (they exist) in my emphasis). In my border-line rage and sadness I sarcastically said, “Whatever happens to me ia fine - if I get raped and killed in France, it’ll be just fine because at least I got to go to France, right?” Pierre stared at me, patient in his discomfort for a moment (I love the audible
uncomfortable sniffles he makes!), and replied,“And you said I had slow self-esteem…” Lol, I did.
The nights of hanging out were few and far between, and sometimes I didn’t even see Pierre for two weeks at a time, but for him power-walking to his room to do his homework from the University, ignoring everyone’s greetings in his wake. “Un peu moins vite, s’il te-plaît,” his best friend said from across the dining table where we were eating as Pierre slammed the door to his room further down the balcony corridor never to be seen until diner-time.
When he did want to hang out, hang out we did! From 20h-3h! “Don’t forget to sleep.” Said out dorm manager as midnight rolled around.
It wasn’t stereotypical fun with him. We were very different: he erred on the side of Compassion, I on the side of the Truth. I was linguisticaly, explicitly specific, combative, and reasoned in my political-socio-religious theories and he was moved by the invisible current of empathy, emotion and implied belief/logic. But my heart raced when I could speak with him, especially about the existential crisis of a stranger in a strange land we endures then, and the prior self-esteem baggage we still couldn’t shake.
Basically, I felt like some kind of super-goddess when we hung out. And sometimes I could get confirmation he thought I was one too when I was in the throes of laughter he stared at me searchingly, a huge smile on his face and seemed to forget his belief that he wasn’t beautiful.
~*~
I’m here to ask for some advice concerning romantic love.
Two years ago I had met a young man during a study abroad trip to France. He, being from the UK, and I from the USA, were both anglophone and soon became confidants about our issues with those French snobs. I had been made aware of him 3 weeks before he showed up (hiding, from me, maybe?) by the dorm manager recommending us to eachother as friends. When said young man (let’s call him Pierre, as he was half French) approached me it was when I was in the middle of reenacting the epic saga of mental illness, my reconversion to Catholicism made possible by my past crush, my karate sensei, who I was convinced was dabbling in the occult, possessed, and exploiting my “schizophrenic hallucinations” to actually make me believe I was crazy.
I was so engrossed in entertaining what would become our mutual friend with the story of the supernatural ordeal that all of a sudden I saw a tall, floppy, skinny, dark-haired pale guy with a big smile come over and sit down with us. I thought he was absolutely adorable and awkward from the beginning and to this day I can’t remember what we said in introduction, but can only recall the inner seizure of cute I had just by looking at him.
The reat of the night was epic. He thought I was hilarious and blunt/refreshingly genuine andas when he came back from his room with a freaking cobalt-blue bass guitar and started playing it for me, I knew I was entering crush territory so deliciously painful there would be a long climb of withdrawl before I would finally get myself out.
By the time midnight came around and we were were saying out goodbyes, I knew I could start turning back now or fully commit to finding out if he liked me too (unlikely for 19 year old boy to realize/admit that so soon after meeting someone, but I was alwaya a dreamer.)
By the second hang-out we had, I already had a thorn festering in my heart that he didn’t even realize I liked him. He was distracted by a problem that I could not see and would not admit he had as he beamed at my jokes and tried to be interested on my joys and heartaches.
The nights of hanging out went on and I was disturbed to observe that he didn’t think he was attractive or know that anyone liked him. Simultaneously, I was in a mood too because very frew of my French classmates reciprocated the effort for friendship I had lavished on them (I eventually made the best of friends with a warm, open French-girl (they exist) in my emphasis). In my border-line rage and sadness I sarcastically said, “Whatever happens to me ia fine - if I get raped and killed in France, it’ll be just fine because at least I got to go to France, right?” Pierre stared at me, patient in his discomfort for a moment (I love the audible
uncomfortable sniffles he makes!), and replied,“And you said I had slow self-esteem…” Lol, I did.
The nights of hanging out were few and far between, and sometimes I didn’t even see Pierre for two weeks at a time, but for him power-walking to his room to do his homework from the University, ignoring everyone’s greetings in his wake. “Un peu moins vite, s’il te-plaît,” his best friend said from across the dining table where we were eating as Pierre slammed the door to his room further down the balcony corridor never to be seen until diner-time.
When he did want to hang out, hang out we did! From 20h-3h! “Don’t forget to sleep.” Said out dorm manager as midnight rolled around.
It wasn’t stereotypical fun with him. We were very different: he erred on the side of Compassion, I on the side of the Truth. I was linguisticaly, explicitly specific, combative, and reasoned in my political-socio-religious theories and he was moved by the invisible current of empathy, emotion and implied belief/logic. But my heart raced when I could speak with him, especially about the existential crisis of a stranger in a strange land we endures then, and the prior self-esteem baggage we still couldn’t shake.
Basically, I felt like some kind of super-goddess when we hung out. And sometimes I could get confirmation he thought I was one too when I was in the throes of laughter he stared at me searchingly, a huge smile on his face and seemed to forget his belief that he wasn’t beautiful.
~*~
