Disclaimer: This is the post where you’re going to think I’m crazy. Bat-shit crazy, obsessed crazy. I think everyone has a little of this inside of them, at least I’m hoping to god that they do. And I’ve already told Peter that I’m writing it, and he said “Write about me, I won’t judge.”
Ok, so maybe that disclaimer wasn’t needed. Because the thing is, I am a little crazy and anyone who reads this site with any regularity knows that. So much so that a friend that I’ve been recently spending time with said “my mom and dad wanted to know if you were on drugs. Nobody is naturally this happy, this crazy, or this energetic.”
I was flipping through the new Crate and Barrel catalog today while procrastinating going to the gym, highlighting the things that I love and/or want (what, you don’t do that?) I’ve realized this before, but I have never wanted to write about it or talk about it publicly. Because it is, in fact, something that will designate me as the crazy ex-girlfriend/whatever I am.
Peter and I have talked before (usually when he was trying to get me to sleep with him) about bookcases full of books. Our books, our bookcases. He says these things, mentions one day having an apartment together, and rightfully as a girl my mind goes ten miles further than his. I don’t imagine weddings or children or holidays with our families.
The thing is, in my head I’ve planned out what the apartment would look like. It’s never going to happen- we’ve already come to the conclusion that we could never work as a couple. And it’s never been the apartment as a whole, it’s always been the extra bedroom, the office/ guestroom.
I can’t even remember when I started imagining this room or why, but it’s always looked the same. His desk in the corner, a dark mahogony stain with his Iphone charging on top. Framed Ralph Steadman sketches, the black and white ones with sharp lines. A deep leather chair, where I always see him coming home from work to be reading with the dog (there’s always a dog) trying to climb in his lap. And the bookcases, of course in the mahogany stain. A wall of books, just books, spines subtly worn from us having read them, pages crinkled from where we marked our favorite lines. Our testament to being reading fanatics, our collections combined.
Everytime we have our inevitable breakup, I still see that room. Part of me thinks that I cling to him because I associate that room with him, that I see our impossible future as the only way of attaining that room.
Say it: I’m crazy.