The party was awesome. I had great craic, saw a buncha people I hadn't seen in a while, got dressed up like a hobo, marvellous. Now to the interesting part, the part where I start thinking about myself, for I think of nothing else. I'm an artist, y'know.
Aye, so there's a beltin lookin girl there, beknownst only to me as 'white hat girl'. She had a white hat. She was pretty as hell. And Amy had a great scheme for me to go talk to her. She would occupy her friend wi idle banter, while I smoothed in and engaged white hat girl in all kindsa witty talk and charmin word-flirtin. The very idea terrified me, and it was no small relief when the scheme, Wile E. Coyotean though it was, din't work. Turns out she had more than one friend at the party, which is really where the operation fell down at a conceptual level. Point is, I was scared shitless. Not only at the thought of puttin myself in a situation where some demands might be made of my personality, not only at the possibility of rejection, but at the very idea of turnin somethin from an idle fancy into reality. This problem is only too easy to see: Even on this page alone there are pictures of women I've got all sortsa romantic childish notions about. Look at Audrey Tautou, there, would you ever. Gorgeous, she is. And just the kinda woman about whom I could imagine all kindsa romantic shite, like she only ever bathes in a bathtub fulla finest silk, an her day job is bein a muse for poets an artists across the land, who bask in the soothin glow of her beatific visage.
The fuck that's what she's like. She probably enjoys gettin wankered like anyone else, and laughs her arse off at fart jokes. The fuck I know what she's like. And alas, I've a tendency to do the same for real people. Too many, in fact. It's fucked up, and I'm not sure from where it stems, but it's somethin to be dealt with. Hopefully from this day forth.
The essay's progressin, though it ain't terribly good. Shite, you might say.
Thanks for readin,
Dave.
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