FISH MONEY!!

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dear classroom boy

Dear Classroom Boy,

You came dressed in you skinny jeans again. But this time you don a beige fitted blazer, and an old worn polo, one of those perfectly trendy ones you find in downtown vintage stores. The look… you nailed it. Its funny though I thought it was annoying when I met you last week, this week it just seems to be what you wear. Although your kicks let me in that it might still be something more… also a caramel beige-y type colour, high top Nikes with little mouths at the front of the toes by the soles.

I’m sitting one row above you; your sketching graffiti. Its actually really good. I move on though, you have nice wrists, they are defined but not to skinny., they just have nice lines. Its funny because you have really pudgy fingers which don’t suit your hands… but they aren’t ugly don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to give you a complex or anything.


I feel like I’m almost making you up . I feel like any other time I might be in love with you or something, but I’m not. Anyone else reading this might suspect me of making you up. But your sitting there in the flesh breathing the same air as me, reading the same books as me. Come to think of it now its puzzling really that I’m not half in love with you. I don’t know why I’m not, but you are quite intriguing and now that I’ve started I cant really stop. I think if you were a band you would be something like a mix of the arcade fire, we are scientist, and maybe even a little clap your hands say yeah. Or maybe you would be me without you , all dark and yelling with splashes of hope and feeling.


Now that I’m writing a second time, I feel a bit silly. Watching, peeking, sneaking glances, always looking, looking, looking. Always making conclusions, guesses, stories. Perhaps I am making you into my own living post modern novel. Voyeuristic to the traces of insights. Voyeuristic I suppose but nothing freaky. Don’t get me wrong there. When I make you an image you’re a puzzle that I’m putting together. I’m not dreaming about you. I’m certainly not thinking about you in the shower or imagining slipping down your body in soft yellow light or anything. I just want to walk into your head, and then slide down into your heart and snoop a bit like a neighbor opening cupboards and drawers looking at cups and boxes of cereal trying to find something that will tell me anything about you.

I went out to catch a breath and you were taking a cigarette, we talked. You told me your mother hoped you would have been an architect. Then you laughed and said “that would never fucking happen’’. Later in class we talked about our fears, you said that ever since you saw the movie psycho as a kid you’ve been scared to shower. And that sometimes you let your dog in the bathroom, your little guard and protector. I didn’t think you would be one to admit your weakness, but I saw it in you the first day hidden away I though, but now I see that there was no pretension.