The story posted below is really good. I read it Sunday and have re-read a few more times this week. It really made me think of a lot things which kind of made this part difficult. I was thinking of writing a blog about why you should wait to show your boyfriend or girlfriend your creative side because sometimes art needs explanation. It's a representation of the person or at least an aspect of the person so it's a good idea to wait, but I can't really get my mind off of how nice it is outside. The sun is finally out and I never thought I would be this happy about a forty-five degree day. This winter was pretty rough (aren't they all) but not in the sub-zero, three feet of snow sort of way. It was like the same day for 2 months straight: snow on the ground, upper 20's, gray and dull. It was like the movie Groundhog Day but with less laughs and Tom Skilling was delivering the weather reports, not Bill Murray. Finally a break in the pattern and everything feels a lot better. I think we can apply that to relationships: break in the pattern, things are in perspective and feelings start to settle. Now this part is tricky. I could write something about how when you are in a relationship during winter it's really nice to stay in with someone and then spring finally arrives and everyone in the city wakes up and can't wait to go outside. Then I would go on about how if you are waking up with someone you start to think about if you really want to go outside and hold hands or maybe just not go out at all. Then there is a chance that you wake up and you have this impulse to run outside alone in hopes that there will be a new hand to hold. We could go that direction and you would have to continue reading my honest (and completely cheesy) thoughts on love and relationships. I suppose I could go back and talk about my own shyness when it comes to asking a girl to read something I've written or come see me play drums or even look at a comic strip I drew while I was on the bus, but I really can't seem to get my mind off of how nice the weekend will be and how I took great pleasure in hanging up my winter coat and shoving it to the back of my closet last night. I wanted to be a meteorologist when I was a kid. I always called him 'the weather guy' and then my parents told me meteorologist is the correct term which made me excited because I really liked chemical sets and science. I was under the impression that any word with the suffix logist meant there will be an underground mad laboratory involved. Then when I was 12 I decided that I did not want to be the weather guy. I was in Virginia Beach and the guy on the news was not the type of guy I wanted to be. Long story short, I broke up with weather reports. We are still on good terms but obviously I chose a different profession, although it just hit me that the job title 'whether' guy is pretty awesome. As I think back to my past relationship with the part of the news I dread watching during January and February, I give you a Heartbroker's weather report:
Could be some rain on Sunday but for the most part we are looking at clear skies and sunshine with a chance of heartbreak. Should be a pretty good weekend.
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My unassuming tale of dating disaster can be summed up like this:
The Starving Artist….Normally, I can appreciate the creative type, but I should have known something was up when I stepped into his apartment for the first time, and out of the corner of my eye, I spotted him casually swat at millipede that was crawling along the ceiling with a rolled up copy of Art in America. Hmmmm….he showed me his original, over-the-couch, bigger than life oil painting…a self-portrait! Not bad, but I don’t really care much for portraits of guys wearing astronaut helmets on the streets of Chicago. The astronaut helmet in his self-portrait was round and it had big glassy eyeball coverings that magnified the eyes.
After showing me around his place and pausing in the bedroom for a languidly suggestive look at the bed, he offered me a glass of pinot (thank you…) and mentioned that it was not cheap (…for ruining the moment). We sat down on the couch (directly under the site of the smashed centipede, by the way, so I found myself squirming a little as he whipped out an acoustic guitar from nowhere and started tuning it up). A Grateful Dead tune soon followed. Draw your own conclusions.
I won’t go into the other fine moments of our date, but suffice it to say that the obligatory good night kiss was memorable for one reason: his skin smelled like layers of old sweat and insect repellent. Portrait of the artist as a millipede!