Songs forgotten, faded photos

Like most 18-year-olds, I had some pretty warped ideas about what constituted a healthy relationship. Case in point: Bruce. I wish I could remember his last name so I could publish it. (Just because I retroactively hold onto warped ideals that I expected at the age of 18.)

So, Bruce. He played guitar. I believed that if he really loved me, he’d write a song about me. He did write a song while we were dating, and I kept waiting for him to say “and this is for you,” but he never did. I’d go to his house and he’d pull out his guitar and play his song, and, like a dummy, I’d sit and watch, waiting for those words. I just knew he was so on the verge of it, I could feel my mind meld pulling the words from him, “and this is for you.” No. No one had a song about me.

Like Bruce was a “musician,” he was also a “photographer.” He had this super amazingly hot 20-year-old “best friend” who he’d go shoot with. They’d break into places like the abandoned train station together, and she’d be the subject of all his photographs. GRRR! Another great chance for him to show me his boundless love by making me the subject of his photographs--gone, poof, goodbye. Having little pride at the age of 18, I begged him to take me on his photo excursions and photograph me, but he never did, saying it was better to be with the super hot girl because she was a photographer too. He did photograph me once wearing a beret and sitting in a vintage rocking chair, but he said the photos didn’t come out right. Woe betide me.

I had no pride, Bruce had no shame. He was much older than me, which I thought legitimized my awesomeness, but really it just proved his absolute creepazoid-itude. He did get me into bars, which was cool, but mostly he just stepped on my fragile 18-year-old self-esteem with big steel-toe combat boots.

Thanks for teaching me valuable life lessons, Bruce. I hope you grew up eventually too.