tuscaloosa > personals > missed connections
Frozen - Yogurt Mountain m4w
Date: 2010-07-30, 5:11PM CST
If we are to assume that Yogurt Mountain is a snow-capped fold mountain--it is easy to assume this, considering the temperature of its creations--we are to assume that you, beautiful you, delicate you, are indeed some glacial lake, beautiful, shimmering, yet eroded, your daintiness weathered--as delightful a juxtaposition as the Madrean sky islands on an otherwise flat landscape. You, surrounded by your friends in their elongated t-shirts declaring attendance at the latest greatest party--the party that you decided to skip, the party that your friends still don't understand why you did not attend because you did not tell them what happened that day, that you received a phone call from your brother who said he was being shipped to some city you have never heard of in a country you've heard too much about, that he will see you Christmas, maybe, that he will see you in March, definitely, maybe. You asked him if there were mountains where he would be, and he said yes, and you started reading about them: fault-block and terrain, natural barriers between him and them, whomever them is, the most known unknown--small comfort in knowing the unknown despite all things being uncertain. Perhaps this is what has brought you here amongst the purple tiles and the laughing girls pointing neon green spoons when making their points about whatever it is your friends talk about: Glee, glee, Inception, inception. You will decorate the mountain that you have created with things: here is the thick brick of brownie, here are chocolate sprinkles. At the top, a lone fat strawberry, which you bite into as you pretend to listen to your friends theories on boys they are talking to, boys who are me, but so not me. Your friends shift their focus from them to you: they want to know why you missed the party--your favorite band who play your favorite songs was there. You had chosen an outfit: something red. The boy whom you let touch your waist during photographs touched some other girl's waist that night. You know this--the pictures have been posted. She looks like you. She wore red. Your friends, in between bites, want answers. They think they want to know, but the do not want to know. You tell them about not feeling well, about having a headache. You tell them how these summer classes are killing you. You regret using the word "killing". Later, you might tell one of them about how you are scared: that you don't know anything about anything. They will ask specifics and you will not tell them: they will think it is the boy in the photograph with his arm around the ephemeral lake in red. Now, here, you are filling the void with sweetness, to contain all things in a crater, to hold, to watch it melt. As the frozen treat spiraled skyward it left a hole in the middle for you to climb inside of--to hide in the gaps in the architecture.
- Location: Yogurt Mountain
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