Of Poets and Basketball Players

 

“Should I tell her I love her in the poem?”

“Yes. You’ve already made the ridiculous decision of writing a poem for her, telling her about your feelings. So why stop short and not say that you love her?”

“Yeah, I realize that. But everyone says ‘I love you’ and this is not a high school kind of poem. Like I’ve told you, this poem is an adult poem, an adult love poem.”

“I somehow have this feeling that all love poems are childish. Ask her out. That’s what adults — men do.”

“But I don’t wanna be just like any other man. I want her to understand that I’m intelligent and creative and deep and I can write good love poems.”

“You can also achieve that by buying her a drink and then talking to her.”

“Yeah, but this is still much more special. If I get lucky and she allows me to date her and we get together, we’ll always have this poem written on a piece of crumpled yellowish paper. And whenever we feel like lying on the bed on idle weekends, cuddling, kissing, she’ll stand up, get it from the drawer and read it to me. It’s so cheesy that we’ll both laugh and remember how good were those first days.”

“…”

“I know I sound creepy, you know?”

“VERY creepy. I’m a little bit ashamed you’re actually my friend.”

“Hey, you were also like this with Jasmine.”

“I wrote her a poem, yeah. But that had, like, five lines and that was in grade 5.”

“Well, you’re not the intelligent, artistic type.”

“Oh, so I’m just one of them ordinary brainless males out there, eh?”

“No, you’re not. I’m not saying that. But things like this, they’re not your forte.”

“They sure ain’t. In case you forgot, I actually have the balls to ask ladies out and talk to them about how I feel.”

“NO! That’s just our difference. You can’t tell a girl how you truly feel. With you, it’s always about getting girls drinks and stuff, then making them your girlfriends. You don’t really speak with them about your true, inner feelings.”

“That’s because guys who do that are freakin’ pussies. Look at you. Do you think she’ll really like the fact that you sat in a dark corner of your room one lonely night and penned your doggerel? She’ll just th–”

“It’s not a doggerel, jackass.”

“Whatever. She’ll just think you’re a sissy and a complete loser.”

“Maybe. But it’s a gamble I would like to make.”

“See? That’s what’s wrong about you. You keep yappin’ about gambles and poems and surprises and inner feelings. What the f*ck is wrong with you? Romance doesn’t work out. In the end, it’s just you and your balls and if you can make her laugh that count.”

“(Sniggering) But that’s the kind of dark, commonplace perspective that I’m trying to avoid when it comes to relationships. Call me a pussy, call me a sissy, but just call me spiritual.”

“F*ck you.”

“F*ck you, too. This girl is special. She deserves something more than alcohol poured on cheap glass.”

“I admire your talent for describing things that aren’t really there. I guess you ARE a good poet.”

“They’re there. You’re just no poet so you can’t see them.”

“So what am I?”

“I don’t know but you’re no poet.”

“I think I’m a basketball player ’cause I love to play basketball.”

“…”

“I like to shoot hoops and do some shake n’ bakes.”

“…”

“You really think I’m boring and ordinary, don’t you?”

“No. Just –”

“I hope you die.”

“Whatever, dude. Whatever.”

“Yeah, whatever. Fact is I’ve already had 5 girlfriends. You had 1 and she’s not even sure of it.”

“Look, if you’re annoyed that I’m writing a special, adult poem for this girl, just let me be. I don’t care what you say.”

“(Laughing) You just asked my opinion about it a minute ago.”

“But see, you don’t understand. There are just guys like me who are sentimental and cheesy and there are just guys like you who play basketball.”

“So who’s the better guy?”

“I don’t know. Depends on the girl.”

“Well, like I said, I already had 5 girlfriends, you got –”

“YOU DON’T LOOK AT IT THAT WAY. Maybe I’m just more prone to being trapped by the past and all my feelings and desires, so it’s hard to move on to another girl, you know? You don’t judge a man’s worth by how many girlfriends he’s had. That’s bull–”

“Most men I know will completely judge a man’s worth by how many pussies he’s nailed.”

“Do you always talk like that?

“No (laughing)”

“You sound like a stereotypical asshole.”

“Cool it, bro. I’m just trying to get into your poetic nerves. Of course I care about ladies’ feelings. I’m no hoe.”

“(Shakes his head)”

“You know what? I’ve changed my mind. You’ve got my full support on this. Write that poem, say I love you, and let’s see what happens.”

“Why are you suddenly supportive?

“Because I wanna see what kind of girl she is.”

“GEEZ, man! So you’re prayin’ on my downfall to confirm your theory that girls just go for drinks and basketball players like you?”

“No… Yeah… Well, probably. (Laughing)”

“You can’t judge her just because she turned down my poem.”

“No, she didn’t just turn down your poem. She rejected you. And why are you preventing me from judging men and women? I’ll judge them whenever I want.”

“Nice talking to you. I wish I hadn’t.”

“You are so serious you’re maniacal. Psycho. Watch it or this girl will be creeped out.”

“Makes you wish you were back in those days when girls blushed and giggled when the mailman dropped perfumed letters in their mailboxes.”

“You kidding? God I’m f*cking thankful I don’t live in those days. Repression. That’s what it is.”

“Love. True, expressive love. The meaningful, rare type. That’s what it is.”

“Sheesh. Love is gay now. Love is something you say when you can’t hop from one girl to another because you’re poor and gay.”

“I’m not poor and gay.”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“No.”

“Yes. And she’ll dump you ’cause no true poets live in this era. Just — basketball players.”

“…”

“Play some basketball, dude. It’s good for your health, physical and mental. It may cure your weird tendencies. (Laughing) I’m just kidding. Don’t be too serious. She may like you, you know, this girl. But still play some basketball.”

“‘No true poets, just basketball players in this era.’ I kinda like that line.”

“See? Who’s the poet now?”

“Times are sad but romantic.”

“F*ck, you’re homo.”

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