As soon as I got to this party, after having walked a far ways and after having already drank four beers, I had to pee. I waited in line for the bathroom, and there in line was that boy that I had been really excited to see, that boy that I am pretty much always really excited to see, Matt. I said hi to him but stopped my attempts at conversation with that hello, seeing that he was pretty wasted and in asshole mode. He went into pee and when he came out, he threw Listerine all over everyone near the bathroom. He got kicked out. And within five minutes of arriving at this party, I saw this boy that can make me so happy, was made unhappy by him, and was covered in smelly, sticky Listerine.
I got really wet at this party a few times. I had so much wine spilled on me. I came home and saw that my legs were a sticky purple mess with wine dried all over them, a little kid who let his popsicle drip all over him.
And so with that crush being eliminated fairly on in the evening, I started to find new crushes, and stared at them and talked to other people about how dreamy I perceived these boys to be. I ran into the Bride of Frankenstein hairdo boy from the music video that I wrote the missed connection about. I said hi, and he said, "Wait, are you Charlie?," already knowing that I was that obsessive boy.
I made out with some boy briefly - briefly because he had no confidence and made me feel awkward. I danced to some songs I liked. I smoked a fair amount of cigarettes. And I talked some more about crushes and dreamy boys.
One of the frequent ones mentioned was this boy that I only refer to as "French Boy." I don't know his name and have never heard him talk but Joe said that he had a French accent, and so he is French Boy. I also saw this same boy at the Metropolitan on Thursday and was quite obsessed with him then also. I don't know what particularly about him is so striking. I keep on trying to figure this out each time I look at him, to figure out how it works, what feature or combination of features is it that makes someone attractive. There are other people surely that have similar features on whatever checklist it is I would be able to compile, and yet, they do not provoke the same tenderness in me, the urge to remark on how beautiful this boy is. And I love that, that it doesn't ever make terribly much sense, that there is so much choice otherwise, all this willing into existence the self you want to be or that you think others want you to be, that there all these mental faculties over which we exercise a tremendous amount of control, but another human being can crash through all of that. That your liking of someone is almost fatalistic, that it is what it is, and that there is not much else to it.
I did not say one word to French Boy, and I am not sure that I ever want to.