Three Imaginary Girls

Seattle's Indie-Pop Press – Music Reviews, Film Reviews, and Big Fun

{Let Rachel Flotard of Visqueen take the sting out of your heart. Send your love advice questions her way at [email protected].}

 

Dear Rachel,

I am generally cool-headed on the dating scene, and equally as confident in my sparkliness. As a rule, I do not fuss over boys, charming as they may be. Really, twiterpation is such a bothersome state of mind.

The sweetest boy ever to invade my space. From the grassy knoll, an invitation to dinner took me completely by surprise. We talked. We laughed. We danced. What is this treachery? My own mind is given over to the most dreaded of all Mental Illnesses: I have a crush.

Suffice it to say, I am still coming down off a three-day high after spending a mere eight of those seventy-two hours in his presence. And now, I find myself in unfamiliar territory. I doubt my every move. I cringe as I recall an awkward moment where we could have kissed but didn't. I even worry that I am not sparkly enough for this super-sweet boy who, might I add, is awfully sparkly himself. How can this be? What, am I fifteen again?

I find myself wanting to call him, but that is against every old-fashioned bone in my body. There is much debate on this topic amongst my male and female friends, and I have to wonder: Is it ever ok for a girl to make the second move?

Thanks,

Crushing Sugar

 

 

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Dear CS:

Girl, you make "sparkly" look like brown felt. Your letter perfectly describes that doped-up, double-sided anguish of a crush. People talk to you, you're retarded. Motion picutres of an epic life with this creature play on screens in your eyelids. Incessant wondering over what to pack for your trip to unemployment when you fuck up your job over it, or everyone's favorite: the cell phone = celf-worth stockade. Nothing short of a nightmare.

I'm just going to lay this out based on the last time it happened to me. If you can help it, wait. Wait for him to call. Follow Darwin on this one and let him do the work his nuts were born to do. I know it's old-fashioned, but if he's half as sparkly as you hope he is, he's sculpting your name in kittens right now trying to figure out how not to be the donkey o' the century.

Godspeed, and slowdown for all of us dialers out there.

 

 

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{When she's not providing solace for the lovelorn, Rachel can be seen and heard playing for her band, Visqueen. But don't let that intimidate you! Send your love woes her way!}