In Love With Beelzebub

Dear Reid,

I’ve heard that you’re something of a kingpin in the local Satanist circle, and, well, I need some advice. I’ve been thinking very seriously lately about selling out to the Devil, but, well, I’m just not too sure about things yet. I mean, I think he likes me, but I don’t know. Like, the other day, after calc, he dropped his backpack (ooh, maybe it was a backpack full of human souls, how exciting!), and I picked it up and gave it back to him and I swear he was smiling at me. Then, in Fitness for Life a while ago, I thought I saw him checking me out when we were doing the one-mile walk test.

But, you know, I don’t know if he likes me. After all, he is the Devil and, well, he could have anyone he wanted. I know that you and him, well, uh, hang out a lot, especially in study hall, and I was hoping you could ask him if he likes me. I’d really appreciate it. Then maybe you, me, and him could all go to Don’s or something!

Thanks,
Feeling Hopeful

P.S. Meet me in the cemetary at midnight. Bring some chickens.

I know how you feel. It’s like when you like someone, really like them, to the point where you just can’t bring yourself to do anything about it. Say you meet this person, whether it’s Beelzebub or just some extraordinary girl, and on your first encounter you’re shocked speechless. But then you later find that she’s not only drop-dead gorgeous, but approachable and maybe even easier to talk to than anyone you’ve ever met.

Imagine a smile or a nod across the room from her, and you’re on top of the world. You could go 48 hours on a short conversation, and one hug means you don’t need to eat for a week. But you worry that if you let the person know how you’re feeling, it’ll just be too weird for them, and they’ll stop smiling at you from across the room, and a real conversation would be about as likely as getting kissed by four blondes (two of them twins) in one night.

And on top of that, imagine that you heard she wasn’t ready or willing to deal with starting any kind of a relationship, or you didn’t think you were ready to tell her, or some equally inane nonsense, and so you decided you would wait. You told yourself you were being respectful, holding back, bottling up your feelings, giving it time… a long time. The whole while thinking, when it’s time, I’ll know. And then you wake up one morning to find out you’d waited too long.

You’re not the only one she smiled at, you’re not the only one she talked to. You idiot, she hasn’t been hiding out all this time. She had such an effect on you, how can you think that she wouldn’t have a similar effect on someone—or everyone—else. It seems someone else got tired of waiting, or that someone else realized she was ready when you did not, or that someone else decided that he was ready whether she was or not. And you’re left quivering with your insides feeling like Jell-O pudding after its been beaten fifty times with a wire mixer.

Now you just have to hope that he’ll treat her like you would have tried to do, not that you could ever be worthy of someone like her—or like Lucifer, the Dark Angel, if you prefer—that you could have made her happy the way she does you without even knowing it, you loser. You hope that he will treat her, no, cherish her, like a princess or queen or whatever’s better than a queen, as she so deserves.

So basically, my Hopeful friend, you should consider changing your surname. You haven’t (if you’ll pardon the pun) got a chance in hell of getting the Devil to notice you. All I can say is, man, I’m glad I’ve never experienced something like that—must be rough. By the way, do you like Extra Tasty Crispy™ or Honey Barbeque™?

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