Love = Aliens: A Conspiracy Theory

I have this one Note on my phone (good ol’ Notes app!) that I’ve kept since, oh, September 2012, in which I exclusively write any feelings I encounter on the subway.
That baby’s a good 12-15 swipes long.

This is a snippet of a recent D-train brain-blip. Happy reading!

———

So.

I don’t happen to be in love right now (and I find being in love to be a very distinct and rare privilege, so everyone calm down with your single-shaming), but I certainly have been.

I think.

And every now and then, I get wee glances of what it was like, and I momentarily blackout. Like a camera flash. Blindsided for a second, a couple blinks, and then I’m back on the ground.

Meanwhile, In My Actual Heart

Meanwhile, In My Actual Heart

.
This morning on the D train, I glanced at some completely non-threatening dude that I wasn’t even a little spontaneously attracted to, and for some reason got a face-slap of what it was like to look across a room and see ~*~ThEm~*~your them — that feeling of being pulled violently into and out of reality all at once. That feeling of, even if you’ve been up and functioning for hours, you weren’t really conscious until you spotted them and felt that distant (or not so distant) thunderclap in your head. In your whole body.

Suddenly, you are reminded of the funny fact that they’re pretty much shaped like everyone else around — head, shoulders, arms, legs — but they’re so distinctly different to you, a foreign entity, and it’s almost comical and strange and jarring that they ARE shaped like everyone else. Because to you, they’re not like anything else alive.

.

I’ve never wanted to be a man’s armpit SO MUCH

.
And if you had your way — if you could mold things according to your vision — they’d be an effing neon 5-D unicorn riding a rainbow and pooping baby sloths, Segway-ing around, spritzing glitter out of their fingers. (Or something similar; different folks, different strokes, etc.) You’re like, why are you in that weird human-shaped costume? Why are you shaped like all these things around me that don’t mean anything to me at all?! You’re my whole universe! Stop acting like you’re not a goddamn alien, YOU’RE AN ALIEN AND YOU’RE NOT FOOLING ME.

I say this because I used to accuse my very first love (AW.) of being an alien, all the time. That’s how I really felt — like he was some otherworldly spy-creature, so unlike any human-shaped human around me. I would often grab his face and go, “WHERE DID YOU COME FROM?!”, this hilarious freakin’ E.T. that no knew about – like, rully knew about – but me.
(It’s cool! We are now good friends!)
.

I don’t know who this man is, but… … …I’d hit

.
I guess that’s the dream, then. You find your alien. In a world of 7 billion other human-shaped humans, you’ll know when you’ve found your human-shaped alien.
Kind of like how in If I Stay (Dude. Read it.), Mia’s first cello seemed human to her.
You find the thing that defies its physical form.

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And then you’re like, “I’m onto you, bitch.”

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