Messages

Last night, after leaving Duvet, I left two messages for two different people.

The first was for Blue: “So, I just wanted to clarify: when I asked if you would like to do dinner sometime, I meant just you and me. Like, a date. If you’re interested, call me. If not, call me anyway, but pretend I never left this message.”

The second was for Ryland: “This is an official booty call. I would like to make out with you sometime this weekend. Call me.”

I wasn’t drunk, so I can’t even blame it on that. I was feeling reckless and bored and I needed to put a message in a bottle and throw it at someone’s window. I needed attention, I needed stimulation. Action, I feel, is always better than inaction. So rather than waiting around for them to make a move and trying to interpret signals that probably aren’t even there, I lit those little Molotov cocktails and pitched them right at the boys who, by all rights, should be vying for my attention. If I had known where either of them lived I might have been tempted to go banging on their doors.

This is the sort of bold, desperate behavior that I find incredibly romantic. The type of guy who goes out of his way and oversteps the bounds of rational, polite courtship is the type of guy for me. I want to live my life like in a romantic comedy, where intense emotions illicit extreme actions. Such benignly obsessive attempts at seduction should constitute pivotal moments in a person’s love life. Instead they’re just blips on the radar, and cringe worthy moments we try to forget or excuse with inebriation.

Of course, I haven’t heard from either Ryland or Blue. I’m sure they’re both freaked out or embarrassed for me or something and have chosen, predictably, to ignore the fact I ever called them. I’m erasing their numbers from my phone immediately.