Dear Dream Girl,
I don’t care what you look like as long as you’ve got a nice voice. Every girl I’ve ever wanted to see a second time has had a nice voice. One once had a low thudding voice that came out of the side of her mouth; it sounded almost like a guy’s, but her face was like a doll’s. One had a boyish face and the sweetest voice I’d ever heard. Another had a faded accent that chopped up her sentences. I don’t care if you’re beautiful, but have a uniquely beautiful voice.
One of my friends says I shouldn’t be on the lookout for other artists; I’m a well-meaning hot mess of hyper-sensitive, creative, narcissistic neuroses. People with creative drives tend to be like that, blatantly or subtly, and apparently two of those together won’t usually result in a successful relationship. But I have a thing for people who make music and/or pretty pictures. It would be nice to hang out on Saturdays and you’ll paint while I write. This will only work, though, if you’re good and/or excessively passionate with your craft. And if that’s the case, odds are I will start calling you a genius about three weeks in and laude you with so much praise that your productivity and also arrogance will triple.
On Saturday nights we’ll go to a flashy place and/or chill place but either way we have to meet up with our friends because I want us to be one of those cool couples that roll through to parties and are well-dressed. I won’t mind if you’re way more stylish than me because I’m a slob and I secretly love it when my girlfriends brilliantly compensate for my frazzled efforts at looking pulled together. If you are my dream girl then you are not one of those lesbians who only go to lesbian things and live and breathe lesbian life. We’ve all been through that phase but the advantage of being girlfriends is that we can hang out with the rest of dominant culture now because there’s no risk of missing out on meeting the new lesbian who might be The One.
Let’s sometimes do drugs and make out in my room where I have Christmas lights above the bed. Or (sometimes) get wasted in Brooklyn and then stagger home holding hands. Let’s be sloppy because being sloppy when you’re not lonely is essentially a return to childhood and I want to do that with you. Let’s have dinners at West Village restaurants that have candles on the tables and dark red walls. Let’s lay on the couch until we smell bad. Let’s go to cultural events together because whatever the hell it means, it sounds well-rounded.
Please be comfortable with oversharing, because I do it. Please be reliable with your texting, but don’t be mad when I forget to check my phone for days at a time. If you show up when you say you will, make fun of me with a sarcasm that reveals how well you know me, and are the kind of person who is kind to waitresses when they drop the plates, you might have my heart. The idea here is that to be with me you have to be a patient person who sort of enjoys chaos. I can assure you that you will be rewarded handsomely for your chillness. I’m going to come home with flowers in hand often. Prepare to be bragged about to everyone we meet and in everything I write. Expect to be excessively tended to if god forbid you ever have a fever.
I have a vast but intense collection of overlapping groups of friends. You will be rigorously integrated. The uniting thing about all of them is that they like to be drunk in noisy places and/or have analytical discussions in quiet rooms. If you’re my dream girl, you’re into romanticizing city life and you’re into communal philosophizing. Your friends are invited too. More than anything I want us to all hang out like a bunch of bros. Like when my roommate comes home early to us hooking up on the couch and we just put our shirts back on like nothing happened and smoke a joint with him; once that happened with a girl and when I saw her being stoned and laughing with my buddy while we devoured empanadas, that’s when I knew I wanted her to be my girlfriend.
Please have a high threshold of tolerance for rambling, because I do it. Have a dynamic sense of humor, meaning you think all kinds of jokes are funny except for violent or humiliating ones. See the Fergie tribute video from Youtube that my sister posted on my wall and understand the unexplainable hilarity of it. Please think my little sister is hilarious.
Please have a mysterious weird energy of darkness that I can constantly mull over, please love sex, please don’t be mad when I flirt with other people because I can’t help it and I don’t mean it.
Bonus points if you’re a Cancer-Leo because apparently those are the most compatible with my Capricorn-Aquarius since they’re “opposites on the wheel.” More bonus points if you can tell that this has been written at a time in my young adulthood when I am finally – but barely – exploring the intersection of what I want and what I might really need. No one thinks patient people are sexy when they’re nineteen but now I am twenty-two. Also, even more bonus points if you can tell that I am willing to compromise these stipulations if you and I have chemistry, right? All anyone needs really is some chemistry.
Your Dream Girl