After discovering my grade seven diary, i remembered the long buried conversations with emily r. who first introduced me to the word gino, who was so cool she told me they wore ADIDAS and said, All Day I Dream About Sex, and jesus christ, i was twelve and i went home and wrote this pretty piece of flesh...i mean fiction...
"But ANdrew, why did you turn the lights off?"
"Because, Chrissy, here in the dark, it feels like I'm lost in space and all your skin and all the sheets are like these galaxies when I reach out and touch them and out there is space, and I'm so far from home and everything I've ever known. ANd it's like I've "arrived". I suppose I could die out here...but..."
"I could live out here," I think.
"Nothing. Also, I suppose I can't stand to see my hideous hands and arms and legs and body next to you. It's as though, for a moment, I've stepped out of myself and I'm someone else watching. Someone else who cares about you, and can't stand to see him nearby. Nothing about me is perfect. Nothing."
"But, Andrew, I'm not exactly perfect either."
"But you're Andrew!"
"What's that supposed to mean?"