Hey, Brennan. Or Brendan. Or Brandon. I’m not really too sure.
I remember our beautiful, Notebook-ish cinematic moment where you first laid eyes on me. The romantic, sensual breeze embodied the sweet smell of cheap vodka and regret, which is all too familiar. You commanded the room in your toga, constructed tastefully with dorm room bed sheets with stains on them that I will not speculate about, accessorized with the expected but nonetheless classic red solo cup.
As if the love gods of the universe wanted us to be joined together by the mysterious forces of nature, the song “Gas Pedal” suddenly came on. All the shwasted girls in little black dresses paired with push up bras up to their chins squealed in excitement. They tried to climb you like a corporate ladder. But no, you wanted nothing to do with them. In my fairytale moment, you had your little drunken heart (among other things) set on yours truly. It was fate.
Just like my childhood-favorite Disney princess movies, you, Prince Charming, asked me for a dance. There we were: in a sea of sweaty collegiates, swaying to the insurmountably overplayed rap tunes made popular by privileged, caucasian youth, artistically dancing in the utmost classiest of fashions. You seductively shouted in my ear, “what’s your major?” I gazed deeply into your brown (or maybe blue?) eyes, and cleverly replied “journalism, you?”
Well somebody call the cops, because you about damn stole my heart with your response: “forestry. I don’t want to sit in an office all day when I could be one with nature. Fuck the man, you know.” Oh, an intellect, I see. A bad boy perhaps, one that refuses to conform to society’s constricting expectations and blaze his own trail (pun absolutely intended)? I knew then you were a keeper, dare I say …husband material.
But wait, there’s more. No Nicholas Sparks novel would end there. Then, in the most climatic and essential scene of all highly predictable love stories, you kissed me.
It was as blissful and gentle as a hyena attacking its prey, paired with your desirable breath, courtesy of raspberry Smirnoff and the same canned beer my white-trash parents shamelessly drink.
I remember the moment when you truly captured my heart. You asked if you could sweep me off my feet and take me on a magical journey far, far away to your love nest, aka a sweaty dorm room to do unspeakable things. I decided to do what no DAB (Drunk Ass Bitch) has done before, and say “no.” Perhaps I will regret declining this romantic escapade for the history of forever, but I just couldn’t do the dirty. I lack the valuable capability to turn the morning-after walk of shame into a stride of pride. I would be the sad-looking girl with her shoes in one hand and last night’s drugstore-purchased make-up smudged underneath her eyes.
The finale of the evening, which never progressed past our adorable frat-house make out session, climaxed with you, a true gentleman, asking for my number. You pulled out that iTelephone and I tip-tapped away, permanently tattooing my digits. Now, you can send a carrier pigeon my way (aka an iMessage with borderline suggestive emoji) and we will meet again once more…or will we? We kissed goodbye, not knowing if the love gods would reunite us once again, or if we would just have this one night to cherish for the rest of our poorly prioritized lives. My love, would we ever meet again?
The answer is yes. Oh God yes. Before Saturday night, I had absolutely never seen you once in my entire life. Now, fast-forwarding to that Monday, I physically ran into you on campus not one…not two…not three…but in fact four, painfully awkward and confusing times. Long story short, you did not acknowledge my existence. You looked away. You did not say “hi”, engage in any sort of communication, ask me if I preferred a spring or fall wedding, or tell me about your highly ambitious and lucrative forestry studies. You seemed puzzled, as if you had never seen me before when I finally mustered up the courage to nonchalantly mutter “hi”. To quote my all-time favorite and highly philosophical film, Legally Blonde, are you even “sorry for breaking my heart, or for giving me the greatest pleasure I’ve ever known and just taking it away?”
So, Brennan/Brendan/Brandon, listen up. We are going to wave. We have done a lot more than wave, so we’re going to fucking wave. A simple ‘sup nod or chest bump would still be a drastic improvement. We are independent, highly sophisticated adults living large with ramen and squeaky bunk beds. We are not going to be immature, pretending that we have never seen each other. No, we should be able to say “hi” at the very least. Why? Because we were close enough to share one of the most timeless, romantic, and heartwarming moments that will surely inspire future rom-coms (and progressively less satisfying sequels). Perhaps you haven’t reached that milestone of maturity…you were mature enough to ask me for sex, but not enough to say “hi” to me?
So really, we had our fun. We lived it up and drank it down. Maybe the stars will align and we will live happily ever after, but until the bullshit settles: good luck “fucking the man” as you said, because you sure as hell won’t be doing that to me.