Notes On Romantic Things

[GSTracer05]

That's all nice and dandy, but...why is she sitting in the back and not next to you in the passenger's seat? Unless I missed something...

Hehe. You did, the joke

[GSTracer05]

It is cheesy and he can NEVER forget your face because he has a picture of you in his wallet. Right?

Exactly! "I missed your face"...cmone...should have went with "I really missed YOU". or "I just had to see you again" or "I just can't get enough of you, now punish me as you see fit!" You want to be romantic but with a little added humor.

[Anushik]

Here are two romantic situations which I would like to experience ... Anon wrote the best ones, and it's hard to find any ...
- romantic diner on the roof of the highest building, under the lights of millions stars…
- bouquet of red roses in my bedroom (surprise ! )

[sSsflamesSs]

Haha, much thanks, Mr. Smiley Guru.

[sSsflamesSs]

Hehe. You did, the joke

Missing the joke wasn't the problem. Giving you too much credit was.

[GSTracer05]

Missing the joke wasn't the problem. Giving you too much credit was.

Awww. That's the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me! <sniff>

[loseyourname]

I met a good friend at Warren Wilson College outside of Asheville, NC. One of the common threads that wove us together was our mutual desire to become writers. While I delved largely into short stories and dabbled in one-act plays, he focused his efforts on the production of poetry and became quite prolific over the course of fall '99. He wrote such a large volume of poetry that he began attaching the pages to the walls of his dorm-room as if it were wallpaper.

The two of us probably didn't fit in too well with the rest of the student population and became borderline malcontents. His family situation went sour as well while he was in attendance and his poetry became largely a reflection of the problems that plagued his psyche that semester. He and I befriend a girl at the school and the three of us largely kept to ourselves, sleeping most of the day and gallavanting around at night. When our gallavanting turned to borderline criminal activity, we eventually got ourselves into a slight bit of trouble with the school.

Two weeks before the semester ended, the three of us decided to cleanse ourselves of those demons of the past four months. So on a late november midnight, we gathered up all material associated with our experiences, including our own writing, and made a bonfire of it out in the woods behind the school farm. My male friend and I stayed out there for most of the night, until the fire ceased and only charred remnants were left of the kindling. Curiously, the writing had not burned completely. In fact, what remained seemed to constitute a disjunct series of images and thoughts that were themselves more poetic than what was originally written. We took these words with us to the roof of the school's barn and shared a bottle of Jack Daniels while we read over them, trying to make sense of why certain words were burned and others remained, not entirely convinced that there was any rhyme or reason to it, but still suspicious. As we drank our minds into submission waiting for dawn to put us to sleep, we noticed the synchronicity of the fire's creation with the passing storm-clouds that were blowing by us overhead, obscuring some stars while revealing others, all in a patchwork manner suggestive of something larger that cannot be grasped in its entirety, but rather only in small, disjunct parts.

I think that was the most romantic experience I've ever had.

[Anonymouse]

I met a good friend at Warren Wilson College outside of Asheville, NC. One of the common threads that wove us together was our mutual desire to become writers. While I delved largely into short stories and dabbled in one-act plays, he focused his efforts on the production of poetry and became quite prolific over the course of fall '99. He wrote such a large volume of poetry that he began attaching the pages to the walls of his dorm-room as if it were wallpaper.

The two of us probably didn't fit in too well with the rest of the student population and became borderline malcontents. His family situation went sour as well while he was in attendance and his poetry became largely a reflection of the problems that plagued his psyche that semester. He and I befriend a girl at the school and the three of us largely kept to ourselves, sleeping most of the day and gallavanting around at night. When our gallavanting turned to borderline criminal activity, we eventually got ourselves into a slight bit of trouble with the school.

Two weeks before the semester ended, the three of us decided to cleanse ourselves of those demons of the past four months. So on a late november midnight, we gathered up all material associated with our experiences, including our own writing, and made a bonfire of it out in the woods behind the school farm. My male friend and I stayed out there for most of the night, until the fire ceased and only charred remnants were left of the kindling. Curiously, the writing had not burned completely. In fact, what remained seemed to constitute a disjunct series of images and thoughts that were themselves more poetic than what was originally written. We took these words with us to the roof of the school's barn and shared a bottle of Jack Daniels while we read over them, trying to make sense of why certain words were burned and others remained, not entirely convinced that there was any rhyme or reason to it, but still suspicious. As we drank our minds into submission waiting for dawn to put us to sleep, we noticed the synchronicity of the fire's creation with the passing storm-clouds that were blowing by us overhead, obscuring some stars while revealing others, all in a patchwork manner suggestive of something larger that cannot be grasped in its entirety, but rather only in small, disjunct parts.

I think that was the most romantic experience I've ever had.

Not only are you lost in Hilbert space, but you are also gay.

[Thai-Samurai]

I met a good friend at Warren Wilson College outside of Asheville, NC. One of the common threads that wove us together was our mutual desire to become writers. While I delved largely into short stories and dabbled in one-act plays, he focused his efforts on the production of poetry and became quite prolific over the course of fall '99. He wrote such a large volume of poetry that he began attaching the pages to the walls of his dorm-room as if it were wallpaper.

The two of us probably didn't fit in too well with the rest of the student population and became borderline malcontents. His family situation went sour as well while he was in attendance and his poetry became largely a reflection of the problems that plagued his psyche that semester. He and I befriend a girl at the school and the three of us largely kept to ourselves, sleeping most of the day and gallavanting around at night. When our gallavanting turned to borderline criminal activity, we eventually got ourselves into a slight bit of trouble with the school.

Two weeks before the semester ended, the three of us decided to cleanse ourselves of those demons of the past four months. So on a late november midnight, we gathered up all material associated with our experiences, including our own writing, and made a bonfire of it out in the woods behind the school farm. My male friend and I stayed out there for most of the night, until the fire ceased and only charred remnants were left of the kindling. Curiously, the writing had not burned completely. In fact, what remained seemed to constitute a disjunct series of images and thoughts that were themselves more poetic than what was originally written. We took these words with us to the roof of the school's barn and shared a bottle of Jack Daniels while we read over them, trying to make sense of why certain words were burned and others remained, not entirely convinced that there was any rhyme or reason to it, but still suspicious. As we drank our minds into submission waiting for dawn to put us to sleep, we noticed the synchronicity of the fire's creation with the passing storm-clouds that were blowing by us overhead, obscuring some stars while revealing others, all in a patchwork manner suggestive of something larger that cannot be grasped in its entirety, but rather only in small, disjunct parts.

I think that was the most romantic experience I've ever had.

That's amazing. Especially because you mentioned synchronicity. It is rare to find people who look at life this way. Bon Voyage my friend, may fate follow you like a little lost puppy.

[CatWoman]

do yourself a favor. go to Angeles Crest instead.

They don't have Angeles Crest in South Carolina!!