Oil Can goes "Squeak, squeak, squeak."

"Beauty marks?"

"A couple... in quiet places."

"I never look at myself like that. It scares me"

"I like knowing where my freckles are. But knowing what you look like is only half the battle."

"Wise."

"I pose a question. How can somebody that knows themself so well, so sickeningly well, not have the faintest suspicion of who they'll be with? ...That is to say that they'll ever be with anybody. I can't see him, for the life of me, I cannot see his face."

"He's probably just around the corner. Up the block. Parking his bike. Getting FunDip at the Avondale.
I knew this girl once and she had her first kiss in grade 11, and the dude that kissed her became her first boyfriend, her first fuck. And it was all within the same week. That's seven days in grade 11. So, here's to clarity."

"I lack.
Sometimes i have completely different perspectives on the same issue, given the hour of the day it is. Does that make me crazy? There's this guy - Cadence, and when it's the light of day my head thinks clearly. I know we're only friends and as much as I do find him attractive in that wounded, pouty, I write songs and draw ppictures and have these orgasmic calluses - we don't fit. He's not for me. I'm definitely not the girl for him. ...But when the night rolls around, all of my clarity, all of that assurance flies from my brain, and all I'm thinking is 'why not?' Why not indulge if my body wants his?

And I know the me during the day is the one I believe, the one that's telling the truth. The one at night is just lonely. And that's not to say my night-time me would have anyone... cuz she wouldn't at all. Cadence is special. But he's not mine to be special with. It's not real romance... it's the desire for real romance. You don't actually like me... it's your desire to like someone... In another life, we could have melted from pages of poetry. But not this one. And maybe, even still, I will contradict myself. I will be a hypocrite... and betray me - morning me... day me... afternoon and evening me. And I will fall into you. But know this, I am trying not to."

"Because?"

"Because of the way it'll make me feel. During. Afterwards. Later on. When I see him. When I see everyone. When I see Jack."

"I wish I had some advice to give."

"I don't need advice, I need will power. I need to control what inhibits me. I need to run for the hills when I feel my loins burning for Cadence."

"If they're burning, it means something."

"Yeah. I'm 22 and healthy."

"They burn."

"Falsely. It's the same battle, different day. Distraction. Something to do before sleep, after a movie. Not in the light of day."

"You wank about him?"

"Yes"

"I knew it."

" ...Did you know I used to feel guilt about the very act of self-pleasure. I seriously felt my heart ache with painful regret. Catholic self-punishment. It's inescapable. I was near tears. I'd pray. ...But I digress."

"So if he gets you hot, why not?"

"Why not? ...Why not? The ever-conflicting, never-ever-ending question.
At first, my answer would have been, "his yuppie ex girlfriend, the girl upstairs, and the girl down the hall who's deeply, madly in love with him and will never be happy without his love, but will never admit it and keeps repressing it... and maybe he knows it, and she'd hate me for it. And spit at me for it. And so be it.

But the reasom is not any of these girls. And they are merely girls regardless of their experiences."

"Him, then?"

"Me.

...I feel like I'm flattering him by having this conversation with you about him. And that pisses me off. Because as much as I mention him, it has nothing to do with him. It's me.

Patience. I must remind myself of patience."

"So you're holding out?"

"It's not 'holding out' if you don't want to.
I'm not saying it right. I'm not saying what I mean. I mean,
it's not that I don't want to... or that I'm holding out... but there's circumstance involved. If I did it in grade 11 like your friend from that brilliant story you shared with me earlier, it wouldn't matter as much. But it's different now. And I don't care if you don't see the difference. Or you choose not to see it. I feel the difference. ANd you must know what it's like to feel different.
I just want to stay this way. I want to stay this way until my heart flutters.

Don't laugh.

It's not funny.

I'm not telling a joke.

I'm being serious. A hundred percent serious. Cause anytime I've ever kissed someone I think, 'but why can't I feel anything in my heart?'

You know what that feels like?

Empty.

Like fucking tin-empty. Like a tin man without his oil. Premium oil to squeak squeak squeak and set me free from the imprisonment of these rusted, aching, unmoving walls.
...Maybe Jack's got the oil? Maybe Jack is the one?"

"You think so?"

"I don't know. It's not like I can see him... Or picture us together.. But if it is Jack... I wouldn't be surprised."

"Maybe 2010 will bring some answers."

"Maybe. But I'd probably benefit from knowing the questions first."


***
A conversation by Lo, in 15.
Inspired by: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O_fGxeUVhfY
***

A quote by Shel Silverstein:

"When I was a kid — 12, 14, around there — I would much rather have been a good baseball player or a hit with the girls. But I couldn't play ball, I couldn't dance. So I started to draw and to write. I was also lucky that I didn't have anybody to copy, be impressed by. I had developed my own style; I was creating before I knew there was a Thurber, a Benchley, a Price, and a Steinberg. I never saw their work till I was around 30. By the time I got to where I was attracting girls, I was already into work, and it was more important to me. Not that I wouldn't rather make love, but the work has become a habit."

At least I know someone in the world feels what I'm feeling.