Hugh and I: A love story.

I was 11 years old. In the clutches of puberty. Boys were starting to look like more than worthy playmates. Everything hurt.  Then, I discovered a book by chance in the library.

It was an encyclopedia about x-men.

I was enamored. I became obsessed with x-men. I bought comics for the first time ever. I went to the store with my little allowance and bought both movies.

I was watching them, innocently enjoying the fight scenes and the social comment, and then I saw him.

The most beautiful man I had ever seen.

Hugh.

Jackman.

My little mind was blown open as hormones I didn’t understand flooded my brain. I was hopelessly naïve then, and hadn’t the first clue about reproduction, but I wanted to kiss that man senseless. I watched the x-men movies over and over, and devoured the behind the scenes features. The more I watched Hugh Jackman, the more my feelings grew from a simple pre-lust to full on love. Or whatever the twelve year old equivalent of that is.

He was funny, he was Australian, and he was so kind. He could dance (this was very important to me) He was articulate and beautiful and very, very married.

Shit.

And it was then that I knew heartache for the first time.

However, the fact that he was married and the fact that he was old enough to be my father did not deter me. I was head over heels in love with Hugh Jackman, and I still am.

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Some fun facts about Hugh: he owns a tea shop. He had a one man Broadway show. He visits hospitals in cities he’s filming in. his eye colour is hazel, and he was born in 1968. He’s 6’1. He’s a Libra. He apologised to his fans on twitter and Facebook for not posting much, and proceeded to post more after that.

I don’t actually know Hugh, but I feel like I do. I’ve seen enough pictures of him in various stages of undress, after all. Not intentionally. Most of the time.

I’ve even had boyfriends get jealous of my love for Hugh.

Hugh and I are very alike. We both love little dogs. We both share the same sign. We both enjoy volunteering in hospitals. Our parents are accountants. We both have hazel eyes (his are almost as beautiful as mine). I like tea.

When it was announced that Hugh had skin cancer, my heart broke into a million pieces. It came on the heels of my grandfather dying of cancer. I was devastated. I realised after his death that one can’t keep their feelings inside forever. One must learn to share their feelings now, before it’s too late. Hugh has long since recovered, of course, but the idea of writing him a fan  letter turned over and over in my head.

So I wound up writing a letter to Hugh, but I decided that I had to share my love! Everyone must know of the greatness of this man (and my insanity).

If Hugh Jackman is reading this, I have this to say to you; Hugh, marry me. I’m good with being a 2nd wife and cleaning the house.

For everyone else: please don’t call the cops. I swear I’m not a stalker. A bit deluded, maybe. One day this will probably fade, but for now? I’m sharing my first experience with love, lust and tea shops.

I have a mouth but I’m still screaming

When I was 11, I thought that boys would never want me because they never had before, and I was at the age where I was starting to notice them and they noticed me but not in the way I wanted them to so I sought to control what they saw of me but enough of myself crept back (in like a raccoon to a garbage can that they all screamed like girls and dropped their groceries and went inside).

I realised then that whatever I was was toxic and ugly and it would have to be gone to get someone to want to hold my hand (despite the warts on my thumb and ring fingers of the right hand) but I couldn’t suppress it like a fart in class so I resigned myself to being crazy but pretty too smart to be loved.

When I was 14 boys started to see that toxic could be erotic and my mother said my nose finally fit my face instead of making me look like a racist caricature and I had breasts and that was be all and end all. Boys liked that I knew things about the world and comics and movies and that I made terrible jokes but the ones that weren’t afraid of my brain, (which was still too big and I imagined it to look like the martians in movies I’d seen on television), those ones were toxic and uglier than me and they made sure I sank back into the swamp and the only mirror I saw was covered in algae and tinted yellow from the piss of passing dogs. They pushed their way in and dug to the heart through my genitals, leaving blood on the sheets and moving my organs to resemble a David Cronenberg film.

When he moved on others moved in and I got to be myself, all 5 feet six inches of it, but it wasn’t all it was made to seem in every movie I had seen since I knew that sometimes people kissed because myself was a fetish something men thought about, a box to fit into, a pedestal to fall down from, something boys dreamt of and I was real but I had problems and issues and needed saving and they forgot that I had seen the same movies, I was the hero with a thousand faces too,  and no one got to save me but me.

When they moved on and I was truly alone, then I found myself and I stopped caring if they loved me because even if they didn’t, and I didn’t, at least when I was alone I got to pick the channel.