in a clean room, you can think more directionally.
when people ask her, "so, how's old boy?" i'm sure she just says, "he's good." yeah, they call me old boy down there. i'm not sure if it's some sort of knock on my age, and the fact that she's twenty and i'm twenty five, or if their country voices can only carry the proper things to say about as far as they can stand to improve themselves. but i know that's what i say when anyone who cares to ask me asks. "she's good." i mean, what can i throw in for detail?
"she's good, man! she goes to her sister's volleyball games, and has this weird thing going on with her manager where he's sort of in love with her, but you know, she's in denial. um, her best friend, a male here ya know, left her a voicemail that says he wants to kiss her on the forehead and tell her how much he loves her. yeah, like, she's just working for gamestop, and chillin' out. i make her cry sometimes, i'm so scared over here and i project the fear directly onto her canvas! can you believe it?"
but again, there's that whole bottleneck effect. i mean, when they ask her about old boy, i'm sure she says, "he's good." if she wanted to really roll on about her end, it'd be something like, "yeah! he's good, i think. he just got offered his own store, but turned it down. yeah, something about wanting to work for two more months doing the same sorts of things, just with more people in the store. he plays a lot of games, and watches a lot of movies, for the most part alone. wonders why i don't listen to the cds he sends down here. talks way too much about sports, and is weird, i guess. says weird things. talks to himself out loud to me."
but i think about how little that defines me, yeah? i think a more accurate description of old boy as me would be:
"he's probably the best he's been in a very long time! listens to a lot of music that means a lot to him, more than it would if he had been through less. finds a lot of one liners in and out of those songs of his that mean more than they were intended. something about specific unintentions. he's found two of his best friends again, doesn't want to leave them, but wants to be with me, and is so confused about the whole situation. and we're getting married. we'll see as much as we can see for the dollar that we can spend. a vagabond life. drinks a little bit alone. drinks with his sister who's not really his sister a little bit, laughs/thinks more than he thought he was capable of. my baby he's beautiful because he's alive, thinks he's ugly because he's still living in that world of bodies."
found someone in her who i thought i'd never find. got the Little Lover and the Baby Talker in there, the one who says how much she loves me in twenty one different ways, each one progressively decreasing in age and maturity level. got the creator, the one who paints for herself and for me, and writes on a random whim; makes me think "what does that have to do with US," then remember if everything i wrote was about us, she'd probably be dead or armless by now. she thinks, and if i would just unleash a thought tornado at her just once, she might just have something to say about it.
my baby, i think she'd be so disappointed in me on some days.
on others, i think she's be so in love with me.
for the same reasons, yeah?
just move here and live life with me and do things with me, and live with me somewhere new. i'll keep you here, right next to me. and we'll be so happy.