Because, chances are, I'll never actually meet her...

I like girls who are clumsy but can laugh it off. I like girls with unusual names. I like a girl who is free spirited and impulsive, sometimes to a fault. I like a girl who is faithful, but is just as afraid of commitment as I am. She likes bright color combinations, but doesn't like to wear them. A crooked, shy smile is beautiful. Does she wear funny socks? I hope so; I love them. Maybe those striped toe socks, with one of the toes missing. Maybe the pinky? That'd be really cute. She changes her hair way more often than normal. She's anything but normal. She laughs with her hands. When she smiles, her eyes get really squinty. She has beautiful eyes. When she cries, she reaches for me instead of turning away. When I cry, she feels awkward and calls me names because she doesn't know what else to say. She talks. A lot. So I don't always feel like I have to. But she knows when not to talk. Silence makes me nervous, but sometimes it's...slow...and soft. Just right. Like cocoa. With those tiny little marshmallows. Those are the little pecks on our cheeks to stir the silence. She can't ever decide between gloves and mittens. She lectures me about always cutting my clothes up, but she also finds it sexy. She plays videogames, but we have different tastes. She can hold her own in Halo, though I can't beat her at her games. I like girls who don't wear much makeup, but when they do, it's not to hide. I like girls who are celebrations of creativity and the unpredictable possibly of no guaranteed tomorrows. I like girls who cite random quotes from famous people. I can never remember quotes. Not even my own.

I have strange taste in movies. Hers is even stranger. Eclectic bonding at work. Paired eccentrics. I can't understand why she out-wrestles me, even when I try to win. I'm so much bigger, but somehow she's stronger when she's laughing. Sometimes on very, very rare occasions...she snorts when she laughs. She'll blush and cover her face and someone passing by might think she's crying. She's beautiful how awkward she is. She makes me feel capable. I'm not as embarrassed to be embarrassed around her. She speeds. She can drive a stick shift. She loves her music loud. Her driving scares me. Whenever I do ride with her, I want to kiss her at the stop light. Seeing her shift gears is so attractive to me. She can't mess with the radio and drive at the same time, but she tries anyway. Maybe this will be our last stoplight. Maybe that's why I keep kissing her.

She's not imaginary. She's out there. Somewhere. It's cold where she is. She loves snow. I hate it when my toes are cold. Her toes get cold too, but she wears toe socks, so it's ok. It gives her a reason, even though she doesn't need one. She hates Croc sandals as much as I do. We take turns making fun of people who wear them. Her fingernails aren't painted. Sometimes they are, but the paint never stays long. You can't cover her up. I can blend in with a crowd, unless she's there. She's her own crowd, but she only likes small groups. Sex with her is quiet and sweet and creative. She can't stop decorating her lamps and lampshades. She wears really long knit scarves. Most of the time, kissing her is a little awkward and quick, because she always smiles a little bit when we kiss. But when she doesn't, it's always long and slow and very engulfed in its own moment. She calls me on my shit, but she never makes me feel bad about it. She knows more about classic rock than I do, but she doesn't doubt my love for it. Her snow men and snow angels always wind up being obscene and vulgar. Don't trust her with pointy things. She'll poke you. Seriously; tell her to put the carrot down. You don't want to wind up like that snowman, do you?

She inspires me to keep a journal, even if only to write about her. But I don't. She somehow enables me to write about all the things I can never seem to get out of my head. Even the thought of her, the potential of her, allows me to express. Just like now. Her name is so different, but it suits her. But it's a real name. It's not an adjective or some nature-related noun or cosmic ideal like Faith or Serenity. Hers is a real name; it just isn't one you hear on girls very often. She's not found very often. She doesn't need to be. God created two universes; terra firma duality: hers and the rest of us. When I'm around her, hers is a universe of two. She draws me in. I'm wearing leather gloves. She's got one mitten, blue and pink squigglies, on her right hand, and a glove, wool too and covered with bright stripes green and blue, on her left. I guess they kind of match. Her scarf, socks, and gloves-slash-mittens, maybe her hat, too, are the only things she wears with bright color combinations. Maybe she does like to wear them after all. She just doesn't want to admit it. If you mention it, she gets pouty and says "Nuh uh" and furrows her brow. It's so adorable you can't help but laugh and hug her. She gives you a light punch on the shoulder and acts mad for a second more. Then she slips on the ice and drags you down with her. You just sit there, laughing, while the snow makes your pants all soggy.

She won't quit writing on her shoes. Of course, sometimes neither can I. I think that's one of the few oddities we have in common. I'm so weird, and she's so out there. Our conversations are games of cat and mouse, but the animals are blindfolded and cheese is everywhere. Who can keep up? I'm sorry if you even try. I don't. I just spit out whatever comes to mind because I'm confident she'll do the same, and somehow we'll understand. Everyone else will just raise an eyebrow, maybe two, and be baffled. It's ok. Her socks don't match. She's wearing two gloves today though. That's good. It's hard to hold hands the way I like when you're wearing mittens. I wish I could pull off earmuffs like she can. It wouldn't help, though. Even if they looked good on me, they'd get in the way of my big headphones. If my headphones are so big, why would I need earmuffs anyway? She brings this up more often than she knows, but it's ok. I think it's cute. She wears those little iPod ear-buds under her earmuffs. She swears by her iPod, but she respects the fact that I boycott Apple products. We both use PC's anyway. Her laptop's kind of old, at least by my standards. I think I might try and get her a new one for Christmas. Maybe it's not a good idea to buy Christmas gifts for a girl you've never met.

She thinks it's sweet how geeky I am. She doesn't know a whole lot about computers, but she never interrupts me when I start rambling about them. Her smile is subdued. I love it. I never want to change it. Her laugh, though, is amazing: clear and loud and disruptive in public places. I never want to change it either. Her hands can be kind of dangerous if she finds something really funny. She's going to bruise her thigh one of these days when I say something particularly stupid. I have that talent of saying things that are inappropriate, but extremely funny if your sense of humor is equally inappropriate. Hers is exactly that. Sometimes I can't believe the things she laughs at. She’s really smart. She loves to read. She reads a lot of books I never have, but we share a lot of favorites. We both agree Joel Olsteen is freakin’ creepy. Date-rape face is right.

Her temper is legendary. I love it when she gets pissed at other people. It’s an awesome sight. I could sell tickets. I make sure to keep on her good side. She's so small, but she eats more than me. It's really quite a sight to see. Her Taco Bell fix is going to bankrupt me. She has no piercings, but she thinks she wants a tattoo. Her ears are amazing. Sometimes I just have to kiss her earlobe. I can't help but laugh whenever I do. It's a small laugh, quiet and private. She looks at me like I'm crazy, but she always smiles while doing it. Her hair is originally brown, kind of a light brown. Her eyes aren't brown. I don't know what color they are, maybe green, but they're not brown. She is my editor. She likes proofreading the things I write, which is good because I am pathetic when it comes to proofreading my own writings. She's not a concept. She has problems, but she lets me in on them. That's more important to me than her gloves-slash-mittens, or the way she laughs at kids dropping their ice cream. She's just as open with me as I am with her. We take our time getting to know each other. There's no rush.

If we ever don't work out, we couldn't be friends. It just wouldn't work. I don't want kids, but she'd convince me to have them. She'd make such a wonderful mother. Maybe she'll make up for how awkward I feel around kids. She loves kids. They love her back. I sometimes feel a little jealous of how much attention she pays to kids, but I know it's really childish of me. It's ironic. I don't mention it to her. She knows how insecure I am about her guy friends. It's not that I don't trust her. I just don't trust my ability to keep her. She understands this. She can somehow always just wash those doubts and worries away with just a smile. I don't even see her mouth when she smiles up close like this. It's just her eyes. Her eyes tell me I have nothing to worry about. I'm worth keeping. She makes sure I know I'm worth keeping. She assures me that she won't abandon me. I get teary eyed and try to macho it away as she blushes and calls me a baby before hugging me and kissing the top of my head. She's really warm in that puffy jacket of hers. Her hair's a different color today. She's got a bruise on her knee where she slipped and bumped the toilet seat. When I look at that bruise, and remember how she pouted about it to me at dinner, I just close my eyes and feel happy. Happy.

Marshmallows.

I like girls who are clumsy and can laugh about it. I like girls who are different just because they don't fight their impulsive nature. I like girls that make me feel boring in comparison but never make me feel bored. She has a beauty mark on her cheek. It's small, but I love it.