the other day, i was in the projector room, toward the end of a movie, and i saw a couple get up and the man adjusted his girlfriend’s sweater and i wanted to die a little. like, the sweater was slipping off her shoulders and he just went behind and very softly pulled it back up onto her shoulder. and i don’t know, something about being in there, in the projector room, watching this couple who has no idea i’m back there, just like, turning up the lights real slow and peepin through the keyhole, witnessing their intimate and private exchange—i felt like a freak. i felt like, “oh i’m just a grimy perv in the back of the theater. i’m just a peephole pervert…”
it depressed me temporarily, but it also made me touched and hopeful and enchanted by the idea of love and its physical manifestations. the tiny gestures and habits. the mindless benevolence. it’s very beautiful. i want it very much.
but i recognize there is a kind of charm in being the freak loser, too. in being the…