Now, I was feeling in a slightly poetic mood when I wrote this- obviously, but I hope your tender heart will enjoy it. If need be, please laugh at me, or cry in my anguish- either one is totally fine haha.
Ernest Hemingway committed suicide, Fitzgerald was depressed, and T.S. Eliot was sexually estranged from women for approximately 40 years before marrying his thirty year old secretary. To be frank, it seems that I have a real weakness for men with emotional problems... and those authors are just the tip of the iceberg. During my first year in college, I swore I fell in love with someone exactly like me. And it was wonderful, it was magical, everything I’ve waited for- a miracle. And if you didn’t sing that Selena Gomez song you are no friend of mine. And... unfortunately it was all in my head. haha.
Theres always that one guy. He’s beautiful, sculpted cheekbones, well-dressed, pretty green eyes. He’s sensitive, a little depressed- he had a rough childhood -regardless he seems to have it all together. You meet him and have a wonderful connection. Heres the secret. Run. Run far and run fast. He is probably a psychopath. Does that seem a little too specific? Possibly...
This is my Armory Blaine.
It’s not that I wear my heart on my sleeve, because I don’t. It’s probably more correct to say I wear my opinions on my sleeve; however, I try to keep them at least deprecating as possible, because there is a difference between being honest and being rude- it’s called class. I digress though, I don’t let very many people see my true heart, possibly because, if I don’t understand me they have no chance. But when I find someone, someone I think is special enough to make a place for in my sometimes cold heart I allow them to carve their own special place, and it stays with me forever, regardless of how our acquaintance ends. Armory carved an alcove in my heart, more vast than he meant to I’m sure. Despite the brevity of our contact we had a connection ; and i think; and i swear he could have been meant for me. No I don’t belied in soul mates or anything even marginally similar to a preordained destiny, but i’ve never met anyone who functioned on quite the same level as me. However, the fact remains that it ended and he is as disenchanted with me as I him. But, I think there will always be that hole. Always. Just because of who I am.
The worst part is that he is not the hero. He is the villain. With perfect hair, a deep comforting laugh, and inexhaustible charm. He isn’t a knight in shining armor, he definitely isn’t an idiot in tin foil. He is special and devious, beautiful and terrible. He’s incapacitating pain disguised by perfect teeth, vintage sweaters, and a disarming smile. He is a scoundrel, but that doesn’t change what he is to me.
So yes girls, fall in love with the villain. But don’t love him. Love someone like Mr. Darcy, he doesn’t disappoint.
So I’ll write misguided love songs about my villain, day dream as if he was the hero, and I suppose he’ll even get a section in my book; but I don’t think I’m capable of giving him my heart. Not again, A little of it will always belong to Jay Gatsby, and Armory Blaine though- but some of it is still mine.
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