take those damn tests.
That’s
where I saw her for the first time. In the school yard, waiting to go inside to
take the tests. It was quite sunny and hot outside. For the first time in my
life I genuinely believed that a girl my own age can be beautiful. She was kind
of skinny, to be honest, but still, I couldn’t stop staring at her. I wanted to
go and talk to her, I really did, and I struggled to find the courage and words
needed to do that, but I couldn’t. What would I tell her? What would the other
kids think about me? You know, it seems to me that whenever I think about my
life before high school, it’s clear that I behaved as if my mom had kept me
locked in a closet or something.
But,
dear Dexter, I should tell you something about ladies, so you can understand
that I am not an introvert anymore. There’s only one thing when it comes to
picking up girls, anywhere, anytime. You have to be willing to make a fool out
of yourself. That’s all. You just have to go there, without making wild
assumptions, without day dreaming about how that girl is going to be your wife
someday. No expectations, no trembling voice, no heart pounding like crazy
inside your chest. You look her in the eye and say what you feel like saying.
It doesn’t really matter, but it helps if you say something crazy or
interesting. But no clichés. Please, never try one of those pickup lines that
sound so smart but have been around for so long they’re entitled to have their
own drivers license.
But
honestly, Dexter, with a name like that you should better be good looking or
rich or both.
Let’s
get back to her. After that summer day, I didn’t see her. I didn’t know her
name or anything else about her. So I simply got over her and began to think about
other stuff.
I
don’t believe in destiny. I believe in luck, which is pure chaos, but I don’t
believe in destiny. But somehow, I saw her again on the first day of high
school. In the school yard, with all these kids I didn’t know (because I didn’t
know anyone at my new school) all I could do was stare at her and hope that she
would be in my class. You know, there were like seven classes of freshmen, and
so the odds were against me.
I
don’t know if it was destiny or not. All I can say is that we were classmates
and the fact that I was going to see her almost daily for the next four years
made me shiver with excitement. But still, I was afraid to talk to her. And I
didn’t for a month or so. Not a single word. Some part of me wished to be invisible;
some part of me avoided her at all costs.
That
is, until one day, when we ended up talking. Don’t ask me how or why or exactly
when. I am only human, and even though I pride myself with my memory, this I don’t
recall.
Looking
back at how I felt back then for someone I didn’t know, I honestly do think
that I was a bit obsessed with her. And we all know, from TV and movies and
books, that obsessions are never, ever healthy. But I didn’t care. But I didn’t
tell her how I felt either. As in, I never got the courage to tell her even a
little bit of the affection and weakness I had for her, which was far stronger
than the weakness a fat kid has for Nutella.
I
told you something about a kiss. Yeah, that happened during a New Years’ Eve
party, and I am pretty sure she forgot all about it the very next morning. And
I never mentioned it either. It was my secret, something that could keep me
awake at night, something that I could dream about, over and over again. It’s
strange, because words are so stupid sometimes, but I think the only words that
could explain how I felt all those years are these ones: painful pleasure.
Everything
was one sided in this strange relationship. She dated other boys, and I, well,
I tried my best to get into the school’s soccer team.
We
were close friends. We talked a lot, and I was, without really regretting it,
the freaking king of the friend zone. I made no attempts at escaping the zone,
but I
That’s
where I saw her for the first time. In the school yard, waiting to go inside to
take the tests. It was quite sunny and hot outside. For the first time in my
life I genuinely believed that a girl my own age can be beautiful. She was kind
of skinny, to be honest, but still, I couldn’t stop staring at her. I wanted to
go and talk to her, I really did, and I struggled to find the courage and words
needed to do that, but I couldn’t. What would I tell her? What would the other
kids think about me? You know, it seems to me that whenever I think about my
life before high school, it’s clear that I behaved as if my mom had kept me
locked in a closet or something.
But,
dear Dexter, I should tell you something about ladies, so you can understand
that I am not an introvert anymore. There’s only one thing when it comes to
picking up girls, anywhere, anytime. You have to be willing to make a fool out
of yourself. That’s all. You just have to go there, without making wild
assumptions, without day dreaming about how that girl is going to be your wife
someday. No expectations, no trembling voice, no heart pounding like crazy
inside your chest. You look her in the eye and say what you feel like saying.
It doesn’t really matter, but it helps if you say something crazy or
interesting. But no clichés. Please, never try one of those pickup lines that
sound so smart but have been around for so long they’re entitled to have their
own drivers license.
But
honestly, Dexter, with a name like that you should better be good looking or
rich or both.
Let’s
get back to her. After that summer day, I didn’t see her. I didn’t know her
name or anything else about her. So I simply got over her and began to think about
other stuff.
I
don’t believe in destiny. I believe in luck, which is pure chaos, but I don’t
believe in destiny. But somehow, I saw her again on the first day of high
school. In the school yard, with all these kids I didn’t know (because I didn’t
know anyone at my new school) all I could do was stare at her and hope that she
would be in my class. You know, there were like seven classes of freshmen, and
so the odds were against me.
I
don’t know if it was destiny or not. All I can say is that we were classmates
and the fact that I was going to see her almost daily for the next four years
made me shiver with excitement. But still, I was afraid to talk to her. And I
didn’t for a month or so. Not a single word. Some part of me wished to be invisible;
some part of me avoided her at all costs.
That
is, until one day, when we ended up talking. Don’t ask me how or why or exactly
when. I am only human, and even though I pride myself with my memory, this I don’t
recall.
Looking
back at how I felt back then for someone I didn’t know, I honestly do think
that I was a bit obsessed with her. And we all know, from TV and movies and
books, that obsessions are never, ever healthy. But I didn’t care. But I didn’t
tell her how I felt either. As in, I never got the courage to tell her even a
little bit of the affection and weakness I had for her, which was far stronger
than the weakness a fat kid has for Nutella.
I
told you something about a kiss. Yeah, that happened during a New Years’ Eve
party, and I am pretty sure she forgot all about it the very next morning. And
I never mentioned it either. It was my secret, something that could keep me
awake at night, something that I could dream about, over and over again. It’s
strange, because words are so stupid sometimes, but I think the only words that
could explain how I felt all those years are these ones: painful pleasure.
Everything
was one sided in this strange relationship. She dated other boys, and I, well,
I tried my best to get into the school’s soccer team.
We
were close friends. We talked a lot, and I was, without really regretting it,
the freaking king of the friend zone. I made no attempts at escaping the zone,
but I
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