I had a curious feeling yesterday while I was half-napping on my sofa. I swear someone knocked on my door and when I got up to answer it there was no one there. but I smelled it. Hugo Boss. There was a time I would get fluttery and girly when he would walk around doused in that cologne. I bought it for him for Christmas one year because I liked the smell and I always had and I never had anyone I wanted to gift it to. But so help me, smelling that scent and it being so freezing cold and dusky outside I just started to cry. I was ding dong ditched by the ghost of a memory of an old love. I can't get it to leave me: not the smell, feeling, or terror of "what if." Is it worth being alone the rest of your life because you can't get past your own morals? I hate even asking myself that question because I just know that somewhere in an alternate time zone is a person who is sitting on his bed whose sheets haven't been washed in forever. He is in his underwear with his computer in his lap and no lights are on except for the glare of the screen. He is eating nutty bars and swiss rolls, lunchmeat and tacos. He is drinking milk straight out of the jug and like, chugging it. He will have not much else in the fridge but there will be plenty of Maruchan in his dresser that he uses for a pantry. Is that what I loved? Not that specifically but I loved him, and I really thought he loved me until I realized I was a fetish, another type of girl to add to his mental collection of body types, personalities and demographics. I imagine the evil witch in Return to Oz with a room of heads. He has a computer of girls.
