The Fastest Way to My Heart is English

My copious Twittering has resulted in an extension of a problem that I’ve had since nine years ago, when I stumbled onto the blog of one Opus Moreschi and developed my first blog-inspired internet crush. He wrote this poem about considering what he’d wear when he killed himself. It made me cry. I read on, only to find out that he was hyper-literate and funny. He reeled me in with words. He blogged without kid gloves. He got me started. My near-decade of word vomit is partly his fault.

A well-written blog is such a turn-on. You let me into your life, sharing your brain matter, expressing yourselves. Men honestly expressing themselves to women’s faces doesn’t happen a hell of a lot. I blame boobs. Guys get distracted, befuddled, or are too afraid of saying the wrong thing to say anything at all. They end up being grayed out, bland versions of themselves, especially the gooey, sensitive guys. Around girls, all those guys who weren’t very cool in high school clam up and freak out on the inside. Tip: letting a girl (or at least this girl) inside your squishy brains is exactly what will get you boob access.

The internet makes people ballsy. People will say things with their fingers that they would never say to your face. Sometimes this is bad. Sometimes, though, those sensitive guys accidentally tell you what’s in those lovely heads of theirs. They give you an all access pass, not realizing (or caring) that the walls have ears. Guys, I know why you do it because I do it, too. I wasn’t cool in high school, either. My present coolness is also debateable. Guys scare me. If I like a guy, I’ll talk to everybody in the room BUT him. See? I’ve got your number because it’s been mine since puberty. 555-spaz.

So there we are. I read blogs. I fall in like with strangers. I fall in like with people whose usernames I know but whose real names I don’t know. If someone amuses me or seems worth knowing, I just walk up and start typing to them. I would never do this in real life, especially to a guy. In real life, things always end up getting all weird. You can’t hold hands cause you’re not the same size, he comes to a party and can’t mingle properly, he accompanies you to goth night and takes off his shirt.

At the end of the day, I’ll take a good conversation over dinner and a movie. I’ve never said “wow, I really feel like I learned something about you by sitting silently next to you for two hours.” Fuck that. Tell me who you voted for and why. Tell me about the most painful thing that ever happened to you. Tell me how you got that scar across your hand. Tell me about the album that changed your life. Speak to me in metaphors and pop culture. Talk with your hands. Crack your skull open and see what falls out. Not literally.

So, whatever happened to (evil)’s first internet blog crush? He writes for Colbert now. Let the record show that my internet taste is impeccable.

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