Unwanted Phrases

Part of our problem is that your music makes me angry. I never told you that. But your music makes me furious. One time I was driving with my Dad. We were discussing our music taste. I told him spitefully with you in mind, "I like anything that has a lot of meaningful lyrics and good music." As soon as I said it, I wished to take it back. That happens to me a lot. Stupid. But I said it and we laughed at the absurdity of the statement; my rash giggles disguised the blush that was staining my cheeks. We rushed onto the freeway as I recovered from my idiocy. I further explained that I mostly prefer M&S or Blind Pilot. Not the angry raps like Eminem. 

I fantasize of being spontaneous with unreasonable ideas. M and I used to be, and maybe that's because he had the 'stang. We were hopeless idiots, driving in the backroads of Livermore, out towards Castro Valley, pit stopping at cemeteries, dancing under the stars to Owl City. I'd be a stubborn little girl each night, begging and pleading that he wouldn't take me home. M would give in, and take me to one more place. He understood my thrive to live a fairytale; to be nomadic and live on edge. He had the means to satisfy this desire, and the ideas to do it. As for us? We don’t have the means, you don’t have the desires, I don’t have the ideas to come anywhere close to being spontaneous. 

I cut my hair to a length you probably will hate. But that's how I cope with just about everything, I cut my hair. I chose not to ask your opinion after I carefully considered the way we discuss things. For instance, if I asked, "Should I cut my hair?" You'd probably reply, "How short?" and I'd say, "I'm not sure; maybe something like this?" and I'd show you another picture of Natalie Portman because I want so much to be as beautiful as her. Not knowing the simple desire of affirmation I seek, you'd probably say, "Yeah that looks good" with your half hearted smile that I knew meant, "I really hate it but I know that's the wrong answer, so I'll just give you this smile and nod my head and say yes." 

But that’s not how I want this conversation to go. You see, I imagine Jack Dawson and Rose DeWitt Bukater laying on my bed in a less contemporary version of my room. I saw Rose, the girl that longed to be saved, and was saved by Jack in every way a person could be saved, ask him the same thing. He'd look at her and say, "I hate it. I hate short hair, Rose, and you know it." With a look of something resembling a mix of frustration and devastation, Rose would quickly reply, "Well, Mr. Dawson, with all due respect, that was rather rude." and then they'd laugh because that's what they did. Jack would sit up and as her giggles continue to fill the room, he'd inch closer and closer to her face, examining nothing but her until her face was too close to see clearly. Her giggles would soon reside. Her breathing would get short, anxious to hear what he'd say next. He'd say quietly into her ear, "Rose, it doesn't matter to me how short your hair is. If you want to cut it, then cut it all off. I'll look at you you all the same, no matter how short or long your hair is. So cut it, Rose. I want you to cut it all off if that's what you want." 

But you're not Jack Dawson and I'm not Rose DeWitt Bukater. 

Yours until the pigs fly,

Alessondra Marie