God, I think I love him.
We were there. Together. It doesn�t matter that it was only for about fifteen seconds. We were together. Him. And I. How did I get there? Who chose me? Why? How am I any better than any of the other 30 trillion fans he has? Who knows? Who cares? The fact is that they did choose me. And it was gorgeous. Us. Together. Not pretty. Not beautiful. So incredibly inexorably breathtakingly gorgeous that it made me want to hurl all over his perfect white sweater.
But I didn�t. Because that would be bad and nasty and then he�d never want to see me again. But I know he wants to see me again. He got my number. Besides, how could he not? He felt something.
I hate using that phrase�he felt something. He felt something. Of course he felt something. He feels stuff every goddamn day of the year. But there aren�t any other words to describe this�feeling. It was all in the hug. That hug. God. That hug will never go away. And I never want it to. It was gorgeous. The way his strong hand splayed across my back and pushed me closer to him. I knew he wanted to kiss me. It was all there. Those feelings. But he probably didn�t want to act on them. Maybe it was because he wasn�t ready. Maybe it was because he thought I wasn�t ready. Maybe it was the fact that all my friends were watching us. Maybe it was because the other guys were right behind him. My cousin told me it was because he was afraid his other women would see him kissing me and get jealous. But it can�t be true. It really can�t. He doesn�t have any other women. Plus it was all in the hand. And his smile after we parted. And the way everything around us glistened in the bask of his golden corn silk hair. It was gorgeous.
God. I love him.
And I know he loves me too.
August 7th
So we�ve been going out for almost two months. These past two months have shown me what true heaven is. He�s beautiful. He is so beautiful that it makes my head hurt to think that this beautiful, beautiful man is mine. He�s mine. Mine mine mine mine mine. All mine.
And I am his.
I would do anything for him. Anything at all. If he wanted me to wear different clothes, I�d do it. If he wanted me to shave my head, I�d do it. If he wanted me to cut off my right arm, wrap it in toilet paper and send it to Saskatchewan, I�d do it. All because I love him. And he loves me.
My friends are telling me he cheats. On me. The woman he loves. I can�t even comprehend the thought. He would never cheat on me. And vice versa. We were meant to be together. Him. And I. Together. Forever. And I know he sees it that way too. He just has to.
He came over today. It was his only day off for a month. And he spent it with me. He invited a few of his friends over. A couple of them were girls. In skanky outfits. With big hair. And polished nails. But he was with me too! And if that�s not a sign of true love, I don�t know what is�
He loves me.
How can he not?
September 22nd
Management gave them a week off. I was amazed. And so excited that we might get to spend the whole five days together. Five days of love and friendship and kissing and hugging and hands and complete and undivided attention. On him. And on me.
That�s what I thought it would be but how I seem to be doubting myself. He looked at another girl. I tired to convince myself otherwise, but I couldn�t. I just couldn�t. I couldn�t rid myself of that image in my mind. The look on his face as his eyes skimmed across her face and over her body. His eyes. That should always be on me. His love.
That�s what I am. Am I not? I am his love. And in turn he is mine. And we should be happy together. So goddamn happy that the maniacal smiles can�t be wiped off of our faces. Not even with a friggin� belt sander. But I�m not happy. In fact I�m so worried that he doesn�t love me anymore that every minute of the day, I�m nearly shaking and quaking in my little Gucci boots. My little Gucci boots that he bought me.
He has to love me.
If he doesn�t, I�ll just die.
November 3rd
That bastard. He will rot in hell because of what he�s done to me. That girl. The one with the skank�s outfit, the big hair, and the polished nails. She stole him from me. She worked her �feminine wiles� to catch my man�s eyes and get him for herself. My man. My man. What man? No man. He doesn�t love me. He loves himself. He loves his little red �Cedes, he loves his house in the south of France. He loves his massive bank account and his millions of adoring fans. Why would there be any room for little old me? Why should there be? What have I ever done to deserve his love? Other than offer him everything I had, everything inside of me, everything I could never have, and everything he could ever need in a woman�absolutely nothing. I gave that man everything. Obviously, everything wasn�t enough. Obviously, he wanted more, more than I would give.
So he�s gone. Out of sight, yet not out of mind. Despite the whole he-cheated-on-me-I-hate-him-for-killing-my-spirit-rotting-my-brain-and-shattering-my-heart thing, I still love him like no other. And most likely always will.
Damn the day I met him. I never wanted to fall in love. Especially not with one of the world�s most desired men. But I did. And there�s no turning back now.
Stupid boy. I love him so much.
But he couldn�t be bothered.
HOME