Somewhere down the line, when I’m a famous author making millions off of my ill-fated stories about professional athletes, I’d have to consider writing a book about serendipitous mistaken identities and quarter games with Australians on a random Thursday night. And when I do, if you ever happen to see it on some obscure bookstore in Sydney, know that the “T" I’m thanking on the back page of the cover, is your dedication alone.
Until then, all I can say is you were a ridiculously pleasant distraction to all the bullshit worries this fabulous little city breeds. I can honestly say hanging out with you was one of the easiest things I’ve done in a long time – a shock, considering how horribly awkward and terrible it probably should have been.
It might have been the Josephine thing – when I was sixteen, dating my first athlete boyfriend (all-American lacrosse and football star ha), I remember being in the back of his car (as most sixteen year olds tend to do) and talking about our favorite names. I told him mine was Josephine, because I liked the nickname Joey for a girl (I was a Dawson Creek’s fan, sue me). He told me that was a horrible name and I should never do that to a kid, so for the last, oh, eight years, on the very random occasions that girls’ names came up in conversation, I’d usually lie and say something a little more tolerable. In fact, I hate the name Christine.
Could have been the Temper Trap thing – I’ve been listening to that song (Sweet Disposition) every day for the last two months or so on my way to work. Watch the movie I gave you, and you’ll figure out why ha. Possibly could have been the Lars and the Real Girl thing, as well. I think I’ve lost friends who I’ve made watch that with me because they disliked it so much, meanwhile I’ve watched it three times in one day (I was sick ha). “And she is not petite, Lars. Bianca is a big, big girl.”
Whatever it was – perhaps a combination of these things, PLUS your Australian accent – the best way I can come up with what this note is all about, is by saying that if I were your girlfriend (unfortunately she’s a blonde which is all together tragic), I’d probably be out in front of the government buildings in Sydney on a daily basis petitioning for gay marriage rights. While I was hoping you’d turn out to be a fat, balding, homeless guy with acne (maybe not in so many ways), you turned out to be tragically, heart-breakingly likeable. I’m still debating whether that’s a good thing or not.
I hope you have a safe trip back to Australia. Maybe at some point, when I have, you know, money, I’ll make a trip to your side of the world and you can buy me a beer at a hole-in- the wall bar in Sydney and ask me ridiculously obscure questions. I’ll even give you one to start with –favorite childhood cartoon? Correct answer: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
All the best, Aussie. Safe journeys.
PS- The ending of the movie’s pretty accurate, eh? “If Tom had learned anything... it was that you can't ascribe great cosmic significance to a simple earthly event. Coincidence. That's all anything ever is. Nothing more than coincidence.”
This was a letter I had written, deleted, and rewritten seven times. Obviously there's a lot in there that I skipped in this post, but I think the letter does the story justice. I'm not an emotional person, I've learned not to be. This was very out of the norm for me, particularly concerning a guy that I didn't know at all and who was very much not my typical type.