...go to Richard Burton. I have nothing to say about him, actually. When I hear the name, I can only think about the Richard Burton I knew in middle school. I was twelve, and he was thirteen. He was part of the bad boy crowd, the crowd that would grow up to be the pot smokers who wasted away hours sitting on the picnic tables at the park. Up to no good, they were.
But in middle school Richard Burton was just a budding pothead. He also seemed to have a crush on me and would walk me from class to class, as if I needed an escort. We had pleasant conversations in the halls of that school, but I could never understand his attraction to me. He never asked me out, the way middle schools kids "go out," but for months he was like a loyal puppy, always at my side. Then one day, while standing in front of my health class room, he said, "Robyn, I wish you'd grow." That was what was holding him back, evidently. I was quite flat chested as a twelve year old.
But in middle school Richard Burton was just a budding pothead. He also seemed to have a crush on me and would walk me from class to class, as if I needed an escort. We had pleasant conversations in the halls of that school, but I could never understand his attraction to me. He never asked me out, the way middle schools kids "go out," but for months he was like a loyal puppy, always at my side. Then one day, while standing in front of my health class room, he said, "Robyn, I wish you'd grow." That was what was holding him back, evidently. I was quite flat chested as a twelve year old.
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I was never a great fan of the alcoholic Welsh womaniser, but there was of course another Richard Burton:
the Victorian explorer.
First Westerner to smuggle himself into Mecca, searcher for the source of the Nile, and bonkers adventurer.
Much more fun than Mister Elizabeth Taylor.
So, happy birthday, Dead Guy. Hope you are having a nice afterlife with an imaginary Liz.
Somebody please LOVE me!!!!