In college, I had this weird quirk where I made it my personal mission to publish an article in my crush's favorite magazine. Instead of leaving a stuffed bunny head on his stove, I figured I'd weasel my way into his thoughts with my writing. It was like sprinkling an elaborate, printed love potion on him that ultimately proved ineffective.
I spent a lot of time envisioning the moment when he'd open up the latest issue, get psyched to see a piece on his favorite band then see MY NAME in the byline. I imagined him doing a double take and bringing the magazine up to his face, studying it and realizing that, yes, I was now writing for his number #1 rag. What expression would he wear? Would it be disbelief? Would it be envy? Would it be cartoon-shaped hearts that bulged from his eyes? Of course it'd be the cartoon-shaped hearts bulging from his eyes, right?
Next, I figured he'd march straight to his phone and call me up, enamored by my accomplishment. Then, he would tell me how I was the coolest girl he'd ever met and how he just had to have me. Over the course of my college career, I published articles in an armful of different magazines all in an effort to snag the objects of my affection. Punk Planet, Thrasher, Paper, even a tattoo magazine called Hardcore Ink; I wrote for all of them. It was an elaborate ruse to send a message to my intended targets that involved publicists, editors, and bands, all unaware to my true motives.
And, you know what? Nothing happened. Maybe they'd email me to say, "Wow! I saw your article. Cool." That's it? No profession of love? No cathartic moment when he'd realize that I was his true love? Honestly, I feel like my article on Hot Water Music in Heckler had failed to impress him at all. On any level. Apparently, being a music writer is not a turn-on for you. I see.