February 7, 8 and...9

Okay. So I’m cheating. I’m combining three days together because I just couldn’t get around to doing day seven or eight. The most excellent thing about being an artist is that you get to break rules, and for some crazy reason people find it charming. It’s liberating because I’m not much of a rule follower.
So, I’ll leave off where I left you:
Man #5:
Ah. The man upstairs. A set of three twenty something bachelors moved in to the apartment above us: two blondes and a brunette. I can’t remember exactly how we all ended up being introduced... I know it wasn’t due to any social graces of my own (ha! What social graces?), but my roommate and I became acquainted with them. Little blonde guy was extremely intense: total meat head, obnoxious, and almost as desperate as I was. The brunette was the oddball, dope-smoker, artsy wannabe who was attracted to me. This was disappointing because he was racist and I had no interest because of it. But tall blonde guy… I’d never, ever, ever been attracted to the preppy, pretty boy blonde type. In fact, blondes alone are definitely not my sort of game. But there was something about this blonde that made me feel like my knees stopped existing and all of my confidence (what little I had to hang on to) went whipping out of sight in the wind of his grand, fantasy entrance, a golden halo nearly beaming above his golden head. Every time I saw him walk by our apartment window, heading to the laundry room, I’d gawk. Really, really gawk.
I seemed to have developed this pattern in wanting unattainable men. I could pine from afar, fantasize about the what-if’s, and then feel sorry for myself knowing that it could never be. But the truth of it is if Tall Blonde had ever actually asked me out, I would’ve run into the nearest rabbit hole and shat my pants. He was so far out of my league, so far from someone who would’ve been compatible with me, so far from someone who could’ve possibly been attracted to me. I didn’t see him with a girl like me. No way. I pictured him being with some leggy blonde in scarves and tall black boots, a girl who lived a clean living, knew a lot about pop culture, shoes, and hand bags, had a tinkling sexy laugh, and drove a red convertible. I was the frumpy, artsy brunette that smoked, knew a lot about movies and Harry Potter, and drove a Jeep with a duct taped, safety-pinned window.
I don’t know what came over me, but I was pathetically infatuated with the man upstairs. I hang out with the boys on a couple of occasions, smoking all of the racists’ brunette’s cigarettes in a poker game that I sat and watched them play, going to the bar with the blondes one night and having my ass grabbed by a four hundred pound man who claimed to be a football player (little blonde guy had actually done a gentleman act of saving me from that awful experience), and then…. The humiliation. The ultimate humiliation.