I finally broke. I finally broke down and typed “Mand…” into the Instagram search bar and tapped on her name and scrolled through her profile. I’ve been resisting the urge to do this for almost eight years.
She was so lovely. I was a nervous wreck. She was into me for three minutes in college. She invited me into her room to watch Neon Genesis Evangelion one night. Eight years ago. Time is the worst. She said it’s her favorite anime. She said I’d love it.
At that time I didn’t know what it meant when a girl invited you into her room. I was 17. She saw something in me. She was probably one of those girls who found Michael Cera sexy. Intrigued by my inexperience. Eager to figure it out with me. Back then I was so innocent.
Neon Genesis Evangelion starts slowly but then after 26 episodes and a movie it blows your mind. We didn’t get that far. I watched the rest of it alone.
Tonight I went to see The End of Evangelion in a theater downtown— alone. There were a lot of guys there alone.
It’s even better as an adult. I am re-sensitized to the world. I immediately write something very ugly that no one will ever see.
Then I get home, it’s late and I’m in bed with my girlfriend, wondering: how did Mandy have such great taste at 18? And it’s been so long, I’m so totally over it, let’s see what she is up to now. I’m just gonna do it. I’m just gonna search her name on Instagram and there’s nothing weird about this at all. She’s just a person I knew for three seconds eight years ago. Then I’m dreaming of her all night.
2.
I looked at the girl doing the coffee today and saw Mandy in her face. The one I’ve recently become re-obsessed with. She smiles at me a little too hard, probably because I’m smiling at her and that’s probably because I’m drunk. I came from the bookstore and a glass of wine.
What should I write. More depressing journals. Knock knock jokes. Short stories. I wish I could produce stories that aren’t about cheating on the love of my life. But lately that’s all they turn out to be. Because you can only write your fantasy. You can only write about what you want to happen, or something that did.
I should write a story where I kill that girl from college so I don’t have to think about What If anymore. I should write a story where I track her down and randomly “bump into her” at some public place she frequents — I bet she does this, writes in public just like me — and find a way back to her place with her and instead of fucking her I fucking kill her. Through the story you think it’s about how the troubled narrator finally wins his long-lost love but then in the final scene it’s me choking her to death like Shinji in that movie. I’m sure it’s been done before.
Who am I kidding. I don’t want to kill her, I just want to stop thinking about Girls. I just want to only see my girlfriend and that’s it. I just want to be able to write about the city, or the birds, or the morning sun or ANYTHING ELSE… I want to write about the people I’ve spent my life with. I want to write honest but honestly all I seem to want the past entire year is to fuck some other random girl who is not my girlfriend.
I swear I have a life and a job and hobbies and friends and all that shit but really at the depth of it all is this burning never ending nagging desire to go back in time to my freshman year of college and tell Mandy Z I’m in love with you. Whatever people mean when they say I’m in love with you, I’m in love with you. I found my person, I’m done. I surrender. I don’t know why, I don’t care, we’re 18 and I’m in love with you.
And someday in the future you’ll realize you’re a writer and so will I and so together we’ll never get bored. We’ll keep each other honest, even though we lie for a living. You’ll edit me and I’ll edit you. And when my work gets weird or selfish you won’t shame me for it because at least I’m writing. You’ll spend long periods of time away from me and I will from you because to make anything worthwhile you gotta get away from the fucking noise Mandy, right, please tell me you get it. I don’t know anyone who understands. I don’t know anyone else who does this. I hate to be so needy but I know it would’ve worked. You have no idea.
Imagine receiving something like this. Almost a full decade later, what the fuck. But you’re a writer so you understand. I’m just getting words on the page. Please disregard.
3.
one evening towards the end of freshman year we all went to the beach — 20 or more of us who lived in the same dorm.
i have very little memory of this night. I only recall that at one point we were all playing this stupid game where the girls listed all of the guys in the dorm and publicly rated them “would” or “would not,” “smash” or “pass,” something like that, and eventually it was Mandy’s turn and i’m laying on the sand flat on my back, eyes closed and she goes through all the guys and she gets to James and for some reason she says yes.
she says yes and a few people audibly react: WHAT? they can’t believe it, she’s so far out of my league and probably she was so drunk she doesn’t even remember this, or i was so high i dreamed it, but it happened— and when they got to me and asked come on James do it, do your list come on I just said “no to all of you” and staggered away, and probably got a laugh.
but really what i wanted to say was “amanda: no, megan: no, susie: no, jenna: no, taylor: no, sarah: no, holly: no, natalie: no,
mandy: YES! YES YES YES FUCK YES! YES SHE’S ALL I THINK ABOUT YES, GOD DAMN IT YES I’VE BEEN HOLDING IT IN SINCE THE DAY WE MET YES YOU’RE KILLING ME YES I’M PATHETIC YES YOU GOT ME YES THE SECRET’S OUT YES YES YES YES!”
but of course, i said none of that.
a few weeks later she sent me a message on facebook, about how she wished we talked more, and i was so insecure that i blew her off. because i was afraid. because my face was full of acne and i didn’t have the character to back it up. thank you whey protein.
over the summer she probably forgot about me. the University of Redacted is wonderful world of opportunity. tens of thousands of relatively intelligent supermodel nepo-babies: athletes, actors, musicians, engineers, everything. i was nothing. internally, too. i hadn’t started doing this yet.
about a year later I sent her a terrible text: “do you want to get food sometime” — the first message I sent in so long. i don’t remember her exact response but i am sure it was rejection. i am recalling this memory with bitter hatred. there is no one on earth who could have hurt me more.
and in retrospect, she wasn’t wrong for it. it really would have been a bad time. i was getting so high so often and still at that point had no idea who i was or what i wanted. all i knew is that i was in love with her. sounds romantic but really it’s just pathetic. i was just so pathetic.
eventually, over the years, i forgot about her, kind of, until last week.
4.
Today I took a long walk down to the Gay Liberal City Public Library to pick up a book: Best Debut Short Stories 2022. The book that girl is featured in. That girl who is a writer now. Who publishes. Stories. In Books. That girl I’ve been on about for the past several days. That girl who, somehow I miss her, I didn’t even know her and somehow I miss her.
When I found out she was a writer it broke my heart all over again. I’m at the library watching some guy watch porn on a bare bones 2006 HTML website. Full penetration. Sunday afternoon. The book is in front of me. I’m afraid to open it. I can’t remember the last time I was afraid to read something. Afraid I might like it, become even more obsessed.
Why do we read fiction. Why did I come here. Are there people who would do this for me. Do I even want that.
So I read it. It hurts but I read it. Immediate smile: you gave yourself the same pseudonym I did. Mandy. Just couldn’t think of any name closer.
I read the word Laundry and I remembered that one time you got so incredibly high and started doing laundry and you thought it was so funny. Laughter is anxiety. Maybe you were holding on to it. Who knows. I’m grasping at straws. I never knew her at all.
It hurts to read because I can’t stop thinking about myself. I can’t stop thinking about how the “computer room” really was what they called it in the late 2000s on the east coast, how I too was so painfully sensitive, terrified actually, of two-person porn, how I could only ever manage to watch one girl alone on-screen, really only the top half of her body, and how I eventually learned it was weird that I wasn’t watching two people fuck each other, how lonely that made me feel.
I can’t stop thinking about myself when you mention that shy droopy-eyed boy you were in love with as a kid, I can’t stop wondering why someone would be attracted to that kind of person, I can’t stop trying to dissect you.
I can’t stop worrying that someone might try to dissect me. That you might be dissecting me right now, and what you see is so ugly— that this was all a big mistake, that I’m making you feel worse, this isn’t enjoyable for you in any way, you’re feeling The Office-level second-hand embarrassment, except it’s not even funny. It’s just sad.
So I read the story and of course I loved it. Of course I want more. It’s you, how could I not. I was disappointed that there were only 7 pages, but I know, you gotta write 7000 to get 7. That you can attach your name to and show people: This Is Me.
5.
So this is me. I don’t think I want a response. I’m too fragile. This was just a writing exercise. Might as well be fictional. So grossly self-indulgent. But any moment spent at work is such a healthy moment.
I am taking notes, this is what I am basing my life on, these stories. You are entertaining.