Hannah Johnson Quotes

What are we calling that, exactly?" I ask.

Arthur ponders this for a moment. "Hmm. How about … Haphazard Medley Inspired By Radio on the Drive Over, Messrs. McCartney, Lennon, Harrison, and Starr, The Most Hideous Preteen Holiday Monstrosity Ever Inflicted Upon The Ears Of Longsuffering Parents, The Smiths Because I Know You Like Them, And A Great Deal Of Nonsense Made Up Spur Of The Moment, All For The Beautiful Boy Who Is Sitting Next To Me, Because Somehow, Amidst The Recent Chaos, Dissatisfaction, And Mediocrity Of My Existence, Lord Knows How, I Seem To Have Done Something Very Right."

Oh, this guy.

"You're never going to fit that on any album sleeves," I say, leaning in to rest my forehead against his.

"Just the beautiful boy part, then," he compromises, starting to smile.

Now, okay, important knitting life lesson right here: don't go acrylic. Just don't. Acrylic's what you're gonna find at, like, Wal-Mart, and acrylic is crap. I have it on good authority that it's like knitting with barbed wire, that it's squeaky, yeah, that's right, squeaky, and that – although I can't vouch for this one personally – apparently it's what Satan uses to make Christmas sweaters for the ninth-circle sinners.

I surreptitiously attempt to practice his I'm Here And I'm Listening And I'm The Best Damn Boyfriend Ever expression on my own face. He does it so well. But it must be possible, right? It's not like he's that crazy-talented.

He's about to start talking, but then he stops and stares at me.

"What?" I say, trying not to let my face muscles shift too much. This is damn tricky.

"You look like you're about to start playing the world's saddest song on its tiniest little violin," Arthur informs me. "And then hug a kitten, and paint a rainbow, and watch Titanic whilst weeping profusely.

I use my mom's shampoo sometimes," I blurt out. "I know I shouldn't. I know it's lady shampoo. But it smells better than mine, and I think my hair might like it better, and – but that doesn't change the fact that that stuff, that's for chicks. And, that, that's probably
gay, isn't it? Like, at least a little."
"I don't know whether - "
"And I cried once listening to 'The Scientist' by Coldplay. I don't know, I was in sort of a lousy mood anyway, but it's not like that excuses that stuff. Like, that was gay, wasn't it? Guys don't just sit around and cry over Coldplay."
"Howie - "
"And I loved Mamma Mia. Like, loved it. Amber made me watch it with her on TV once, and I didn't want to, and she wound up thinking it was this sentimental piece of crap, but I loved it. It was all sunny and happy and there was all that blue sky and blue ocean, and everyone was just, like, so chill, all bouncing and singing and being so happy, and I just wanted to, I don't know, live there or something. Jump right into the screen and sing
backup to Dancing Queen. That's gay, right? That's queeriest queerdom. There's no way that's not totally gay. It's gay. It's so gay. I'm … I …"
"If I may," Arthur says.
I take a deep breath. "Yeah, okay."
"I don't like any of those things," Arthur says, "and I am gay. So maybe you're just
girly."
That?
That's his answer?
"I'm not girly," I say, affronted.
"Just an observation," Arthur replies innoc

I've got this perception of Beethoven where he's just, like, really pissed all the time. Yeah, ol' Ludwig, he had a lot to pound on the piano bitterly about. I'm Germannnn! I'm deaffff! I'm bliiiind! My name is Ludwigggg!

Was he blind? I'm pretty sure.

Or, wait, maybe that was Helen Keller.

Was he even German?

Was she German?

Is Ludwig a name?

I'm starting to worry I'm just making shit up.

I could probably be into goats, sexy style, and [my mom] still wouldn't use it against me. She'd want me to achieve whatever goat-wooing dreams I set my mind to. Bring Mrs. Goat home for the holidays.

Afterwards, we don't head straight back to work. Instead, we stop at McDonald's. Kristy gets a Happy Meal. Cora gets like four pies, which doesn't exactly seem like a healthy, balanced meal to me, but she's not exactly a healthy, balanced young lady. I get a couple of Big Macs and some fries. Arthur stares at the menu the way a time-traveling seventeenth century Puritan would watch a Lady Gaga music video.

Howie?" Arthur says.

"What?"

"Why do you want me to freak out?" He asks it sort of gently, which makes it worse somehow.

"Because you make me freak out all the time." Maybe I'm not so totally chill, but whatever, whatever, I'm sick of it. "Like, honestly, I'm pretty sure I've started doing it professionally. Maybe you should start considering paying me extra. 'Cause seriously, dude, when it comes to freaking out about you, I am the master. I am friggin' incomparable, I got mad skills all over the place. And I don't think this is exactly mutual freaking out, like, I don't get the sense that I make you want to wither and die and explode. And that's okay. That's cool. I'm kind of going through a thing here that you probably went through a long time ago, unless you didn't go through it at all because you're just all together, like, you popped out of the womb, all, 'Thanks for squeezing me out, Mom; no more pussy for me.

You're not glad to," I protest, scoffing. "To be glad to is humanly impossible."

"Well then" he says smiling slightly. "I suppose I must be the pinnacle of human impossibility."

"I suspected it awhile," I admit.

Asshole, I will pepperspray your ass, BACK OFF."

The first think I think is Cora!, even though it doesn't sound like Cora. Then my brain makes the leap to ... Amber!, who is always hovering at the top of my list of fierce ladies. This is succeeded, rather dazedly by Xena?, Buffy?, River Song?, Agent Scully?, Proffessor McGonagall?, President Laura Roslin of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol?, Mad Wife In The Attic From Jane Austen Not Eyre No Wait Damn It Eyre Not Austen?

I set off on a mighty search for my pants, which I eventually discover underneath the futon. Sorry, pants. You serve me well, by and large, but when you gotta go, you gotta go.

I've never been a very lonely person. I'm very good at being on my own. But after I met him, I lost a bit of that. It was like he helped me find some whole new section of my heart, one I didn't even know existed before. One for just him to fill. And when he wasn't there to do it, I felt his absence so keenly. I suppose this sounds very cliché and silly.
It's not that I didn't want to fall in love someday. I did. I'm quite romantic, although I don't know if it shows very much. But it seemed like such an abstract idea before. And something of an impossible one. And then I met him, and he was real, and it was all so unsettling and wonderful. But it's still very hard business to really let yourself fall, I think. Especially when you've come to feel like it's something you aren't cut out for.
But he was very patient with me, and I just really, really did love him. Eventually it came to seem worth all of the struggle. -- Emily

Kristy smiles at both of us, the kind of smile that makes Julie Andrews look like a jaded crack whore.

I can't believe Arthur would be lax enough to hire a succubus.

Why is Amber standing outside in the snow eating a taco?"

"That's just how they get things done in her homeland.

He gives me a slight smile. I simultaneously want to, like, build shrines to it and punch it off his face. It's complicated.

Arthur reaches over to take them. As he does, his thumb brushes my thumb, and it's so cold, this sudden shock of cold. The flowers get dropped. They make a slight, swishy sound as they hit the floor.

"Shit," I say, my voice sounding really loud in my ears.

And then he kisses me.

It's -

I don't know.

I don't know, I don't know.

It's my brain turning off, it's nothing. It's a feeling. It's a mouth on mine, and fuck it. Fuck my whole goddamn life, man. Just fuck it. I don't move away like I should, but neither does he. He puts one of his hands on my face.

Then the bells on the front door ring. We break apart and I open my eyes.

And there's Arthur looking back at me.

I think back to our fearsome disaster of a night together, with the Old Yeller and the awkward and her pretty much jumping me in an alley. And then her pretty much jumping me in the car. Me pretty much wanting to jump out of my whole existence. And suddenly, I feel really grateful for that whole crazy-ass experience. I'm not sure where I'd be if it hadn't happened, but … chances are it wouldn't be here. It's not like I know where stuff's going to go from this point. Probably more difficult, scary, confusing, stressful-as-all places. But I've got a crazy old bastard trying to force-feed me citrus in the name of my own health, and that? That's not something I'd trade.

"Thanks, Cora," I say.

"Yeah," she replies, with this little smile that's almost gentle, "sure.

I think," I say, shifting my gaze to the ceiling so I don't have to experience the torment of saying this directly to another human being, "Mitch might … have … thoughts …"

It's right about here that I get tripped up.

"Um," Arthur says after a long time, "well. I think so too. I mean, I always assumed so. Maybe on occasion he doesn't precisely give off that vibe, but just because he's subtle about having thoughts doesn't mean -

I spot something that looks distinctly footstoolish. Hello, antique ottoman. We meet at last.

Fuck you, shiny hair, and fuck the head you grew on.

I don't think you're so serious," I tell him. We're sitting on the futon, leaning against each other.

"Yes, well," he says, "most people haven't been fondled by me in a supply closet."

"Sucks to be most people," I declare, and he laughs.

That's the kinda stuff that you've gotta figure out on your own, I think. Soul searching's one of those things you do alone."

Mitch and I sit in impressed silence at this wise reflection upon the nature of existence.

"Like jerking off," he finishes, "or taking a dump.

This is going to be hideously trite," he says. "Prepare yourself."

"Prepared."

"It's Christmas. You love them. They love you. More than anything else, that's what matters. Things will happen the way they happen, and you'll sort out the way you feel about them, and it will be all right. And you'll keep loving them, and they'll keep loving you, and … God bless us, everyone."

I consider this. "Kind of a weak ending."

"I can't help suspecting it would have resonated more if I were a sickly child in Victorian Britain," he agrees wistfully.

Shhh," she orders, reaching across the table and pressing her finger against my lips. "This is Mommy's Lifetime monologue.

Well," he says; a smile curves his mouth, promising wonderful acts of misbehavior, "in that case - "

And, well.

I like my body when it's with his body.

...and he starts playing.

Cora shouts, "DO ME, PIANO MAN!"

And then a teacher swoops down and kicks us out.

I can be in control of my own actions, despite what my track record might imply to the contrary, and suddenly, I just feel like, sure. I can hold my boyfriend-yeah-that's-right-world-boyfriend's hand wherever I want to, and not because I want to be all, 'Check it out, humanity, there's someone out there who'll hold my hand,' but because we're walking close enough that his arm is against mine and he's musing over the meaning of 'crunk' like he's sixty-five and somehow, by some mad glorious stroke of luck, he is mine to touch.

He looks down at our hands. Ever sensible, he's wearing gloves, nice leather ones. I left in a hurry, and I'm not exactly the most practical guy to begin with; I'm barehanded, and my fingers are cold. He tightens his grasp on my hand, smiles at me a little bit. I smile back. Beats pockets.

Amber wins again. Amber wins the whole goddamn world. We, collectively, as the human race, might as well make her our queen.

It's weird and terrible, just fucking terrible to be looking at him. It's almost like I convinced myself he didn't exist, after... after what happened, and all of a sudden its like, here he is, in the flesh, he's still a flesh-type creature that exists, and its flesh that's been in contact with my flesh. I wish I would stop thinking the word 'flesh'. You know what's a gross creepy, weird word? 'Flesh'. I think my brain is melting. I think I'm having a stroke.

You're not allowed to freeze your ears off. All of the other mothers will make fun of me for having the bizarre earless offspring, and I don't know if I'm secure enough to endure that."

"In that case, I should probably let my ears freeze off for the greater good. It sounds like you are in need of some serious character growth, Mamacita.

Silence again. Oh, Jesus. Who or what made me decide this was a good idea? It was probably Dream Dad's fault, that bastard. Damn it, Dream Dad. Damn it, subconscious.

It's an upholstered footstool--"

"A footstool? You paid five hundred bucks for a stool...for feet?"

"It was a very good deal. Its antique--"

"You really are gay, aren't you?"

"Really? This is what confirms it? Not all the sex that I could have sworn you were present for, but a piece of furniture--

I do like you," he says at last. "I very much like you. I don't quite know what to do with how much I like you most of the time.

You know, I don't think it's worth it to deny yourself happiness just so you can stay faithful to the person you think you've become.

Has 'crunk' achieved true word status yet? Are we there yet, as a race of sentient beings?