Kobi and Sarah reflect on their first impressions of each other.
I don’t remember the exact moment when I first came to know Kobi. It’s a dim and vague area in my brain. Although we went to the same high school, I’m pretty sure we had never even heard of each other until we were both plonked into the same English class in year 11. Even then, I didn’t associate with her at all until the next fateful year. I knew her friends. She must have been just their brunette bud to me.
The magic must have occurred in year 12, when I sat next to a poe faced and poe minded hoe in senior English. Fuck this, my conscious ruled come the next fateful class. It was then I found myself next to Kobi Blake-Craig.
I wish I could remember this all more clearly. How did we find each other?
Did she win me over with a clever pun? Did we both simultaneously orgasm over a random mention of Morrisey? Or did we just run into the nearest stranger’s arms when forced to read the literal felony that is My Sister’s Keeper?
I know it must have happened gradually, like any other relationship made between individuals over the age of 14. There was never a Stepbrothers like moment, where we suddenly established that we had the same interests and instantaneously became BFFs. Or if there was, my feeble memory just cannot locate it. All I do know is that my first impressions of Kobi, (as long lasting as they were) consisted of something like (a) dat intellect and (b) shit she’s funny. Somehow from there, we developed something that only Hilary Duff could describe justly; something that is what dreams are made of.
You do not know how much it pains me that I cannot remember what triggered this particular chumfest. If I can recite back to you the events of the first seven days of existence according to the Bible, why can’t I do the same for when Sarah met Kobi? When Harry met Sally, they managed. Well, at least Sally remembered. What on earth makes Sally so goddamn better at this than me? (PS. Sally was annoying as fuck.)
I imagine that a lot of the time, first impressions are all we have of other people. I don’t know about you and your hobbies, but I don’t enthusiastically collect strangers’ hair samples or any other physical pieces of them. Generally all we have is an impression and it all comes down to gender (male/female/ambiguous wonder) and one other distinguishing factor such as phat facial hair. Should we go beyond simple acknowledgement as strangers, it’s inevitable that our first impressions will broaden. I mean as an occasionally antisocial dickface, I’ve observed that people are often more complex than we allow ourselves to render them.
We’re all like Shrek in a way; there are just too many layers to an individual to neatly condense into a fit representation of them within the initial stages of knowing them. First impressions are only the faintest whisper of what a person actually is, what they believe in and strive for and just how much they do cry when watching the ending to Clint Eastwood’s Million Dollar Baby. Yet it’s only when someone no longer becomes a stranger to us that first impressions actually could mean shit all.
In agony on the cross, Jesus summoned his last breath to mutter, ” I hope this hurts the chocolate industry one day”. I know, that wasn’t entirely relevant; but I don’t seem to have a first impression of Sarah Simpkins. So I felt like a bit of Jesus nostalgia was appropriate.
In all seriousness, as I try to peruse the memory which should be neatly labeled “Sarah Simpkins, First Impression” I am overcome with a sudden urge to lie on cold, hard concrete and moan the lyrics to “I have Nothing” in the spirit of Whitney and Alzheimer’s. I don’t know whether my lack of Sarah Simpkins, first impression memories is related to the strong history of early-onset dementia in my family…or just my total inability to remember anything of importance. Either way, it is more annoying than Tony Abbott’s budgie smugglers.
I suppose there is a vague and hazed memory of Sarah uttering something entirely sassy about that minx of a protagonist Abigail from the Crucible. Perhaps we subconsciously bonded over the Salem Witch trials? But, I suppose my first impression of Sarah Simpkins would have been something along the lines of a) woah, that top knot. b) I dig her intellectual beats. She runs ok.
Sarah Simpkins; the alliteration rolls of the tongue so freely. I have always being a sucker for alliterated names, and Sarah Simpkins is no exception. I suppose at the end of the day my first impression of Sarah doesn’t really matter. She has a catchy face and vivacious laugh; and now I sound like I am writing a bio for her profile on e-harmony, so I am going to halt die klappe (sit tight this will be one of many poor and broken German references). The friendship we have means it is okay for me to be a racist or sexist pig; which bodes well for me at this time of my life.
First impressions of Sarah? There’s something here that’s beyond a mere first impression, and it’s only comparable to perhaps Morrisey’s majestic do. As Sarah eloquently put it before; hey now, hey now, this is what dreams are made of.