I had a lovely 10 hour date with Brittany last Saturday. I just thoroughly enjoyed her, taking her in, sharing a little of me, learning what she shared. It was perfect.
I called the next evening to tell her so and got her voice mail.
Uh-oh.
Two days went by, I called again last night, and I got voice mail again.
She called back, and left a solid minute on my voice mail. It was sweet, and if I met lots of girls I liked who were "thin and interesting", and emotionally available, and hot, and open, then it would be no big deal. She called herself crazy, because I was perfect in every way, nice, and hot, and interesting, and lots of fun, but "something was wrong with the dynamic".
I texted her that I was disappointed, but no worries.
Because that's what a confident, put together person does, right? They can handle going out with someone on two dates and being completely into them only to be surprised and hurt when it turns out to be not at all what it was cracked up to be.
Which is kinda what I did to Lola, actually, and she reacted in a completely crazed and psycho way, which I'm not going to do.
And it's not that big of a deal. It really isn't. I spent a collective twelve hours with this girl, and despite her positive atttributes, I've dated all of those attributes before. Lauren and Kim were just as good-hearted. Chrissy, Susan, Allyson, Emily, and others were hotter. Laura and Amanda were just as smart. And nearly all of the girls I remember well enough to name were at least as emotionally available.
(Who am I trying to convince here?)
It's just that the numbers are so, so, sooo bad. Out of the 100-150 girls I've dated since Slutbag, I've slept with 16 and wanted to date about 6.
Two of them I blew off because I came back to 2nd and 3rd dates with them after leaving my heart in Texas. I'm not sure what would have happened there, but one lived 500 miles away and the other had a whopping one night a week for me and was really self absorbed. But they nonetheless get honorable mention.
One of them I dated for a couple of months and decided that she wasn't challenging enough for me. She lost on the brainy/feisty requirement. I can handle feisty and not brainy, or brainy and note feisty, but I need one or the other.
The other three evaporated, disappearing after I started to really like them. Brittany is one of the three. The missing names include the infamous Texan and a single mom from last summer.
So I'm looking at 4 percent. 1 in 25. And of those, there are none with whom it would've worked out. Not really. Not rationally. Not if I put it all down on paper and think rationally about the peripheral attributes, the professions, the age, etc.
Except for, right this minute, this last one. But that's undoubtedly just because I had a nice crush and feel open and hopeful for the first time in years, save for that little hiatus my cynicism took the last time I left California.
And so, here I am, waking up after sleeping three miserable hours with insomnia, wanting to self-medicate so that I can sleep a peaceful sleep and wake up with good dreams on my mind.
College life will probably be a lot better, because every 20 year old is emotionally available and hot. Some of them might even be smart and feisty. At 5:30 AM on a random Tuesday before my 30th birthday, however, I'm not sure how I'll make it.
Sigh. Sad music and a good cry might make me tired. This is my life. I have great friends and a comfortable life, but no... right. Whatever the fuck it is I'm actually looking for.
Good dreams, perhaps. Let me at least start with that. Please?
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Thursday, April 12, 2007
what am i doing?!
Another week, another three girls I've let down. It's ironic that I don't feel guilty about dating several girls simultaneously, yet when I flake on commitments, it tears me up.
Even implied ones. Careful, Alfie, you're dangerously close to having a heart. Oh, right, we knew that already.
So I flaked on a new girl -- Naomi, divorcee, SF, early 30s, from match -- on Sunday. Actually, I hadn't been asleep more than 90 minutes when my 8:15 alarm went off trying to wake me up so I could go meet her for breakfast. Friggin' easter. Friggin' thinking I'd want to get up that early ANY day of the friggin' week, but especially a stinkin' Sunday. Blah bleah blast it.
But I digress. That's not so bad, right? I called almost 2 hours before the date, she had probably barely gotten out of the shower if she'd gotten ready at all, and I hadn't even met the girl, so no harm, no foul.
Sure. I don't feel bad about that one. Except that there's a pattern here, which will be apparent in another few paragraphs.
So last Sunday I flaked on Shonna. I did it right, calling well in advance, apologizing profusely, etc., and because she liked me a lot -- or, at least, wanted to use me for my body -- she agreed to see me the next night anyway, and, well, go back and read some if you don't know the rest. Then I was supposed to see her the following Friday (that was last Friday, the 6th of April if I'm counting right), except that I had a business dinner at 7:30 I had to handle first. Great, we can just grab a drink and have breakfast together. Coulda shoulda woulda been perfect. I might've even received my pillow talk this time (sigh).
Except the dinner went late, and I didn't even look up until well after 11 (I was supposed to show up to her place at 10), and it ended up being well after midnight before I called. The call went something like "Hi, it's publicly enemy number one, oh, you're already sleeping, I'm really sorry, I'll call you tomorrow to apologize properly." Her side of the conversation was pretty much 4 grunts and that's it. It's fine... she really was sleeping and I really was an asshole. She was probably waiting for me in some sort of hot lingerie she had just picked up, too, which just added to my incredible dick-headed-ness.
I called the next day (didn't want to), left a pathetic message (didn't want to, but felt penintence was the proper etiquette), and we traded the expected emails Monday. I'm proud of her. She stood up for herself and didn't let some guy treat her badly.
Me? Not so much. But I'm not done presenting the evidence yet.
So I was invited out via text message to Easter dinner with Lola. I know, they're hard to keep track of, but the post that describes who these girls are is now forever buried on Google's servers, so go click a couple of times and catch up.
Back now? Great. Ok, so yeah, I ended up sleeping most of the day on Easter.
Woke up at 8, flaked on a girl, back to sleep.
Woke up at 1, checked email and started the shower, still felt a little drunk, back to sleep by 2.
Woke up at 6, checked messages, dilly-dallied a bit because I really didn't want to get all Alfied out and go talk to (i.e., fake it for) a bunch of strangers that would size me up. I mean, really, what would be the point? I've already decided Lola isn't "the one", I've already gotten laid, and I really don't think any of those new contacts would want to do business with me after disappointing the girl. So it's just bogus all the way 'round.
Not that I really put that much thought into at the time. It was a friggin' holiday, I was hungover, and there's this pattern I'm trying to describe. Holidays suck and I'd rather just be alone. Hangovers suck and I'd rather just be alone. And as for the flaking, well, girls suck and I'd rather just be alone. (lol)
So, right, I basically dodge Easter, but I did call her, left a message, and she called me back around 6:30 that night. She invited me over the next night (Monday the 9th), I acquiesced, and headed off to the gym.
Easter rocks compared to the shitty winter holidays, btw. I mean, yeah, family stuff turns up in the bowels of my psyche, but it's not nearly as bad. Peet's and Starbucks are open. You can still get gas. Grocery stores are open, so you can eat. And the Alfie-church that is the gym is still there. Easter is ok in my book. But Fuck Christmas.
Alright, where was I? Well, Monday comes around, and I really just want to work late and play basketball til midnight, so I call Lola and flake on her. Um, I mean, reschedule. For tonight. Wednesday night.
So, pray tell dear Alfie, why are you not in Lola's bed right now? Why are you not sound asleep after a wondrous performance?
Well, dear reader, it's because, during pillow talk, Lola asked if I was dating anyone else. And aside from a tentative 2nd date this Saturday with a very lovely 22 year old, I've done a kick-ass job of sabotaging my pipeline, so I say, truthfully, "um, well... no, actually." I then go on to tell her that I was until "a couple of weeks ago" (that's playah lingo for last weekend), but that the relationship was short-lived and "just took its course".
Right answer, Alfie. Add another chapter to the playah's handbook.
Except that this gnawing little bitchy side of me kept piping up. I found myself struggling to NOT end the relationship right there. It's easy to do -- just go off on how much women suck for 20 minutes, and the next day you get a 20 paragraph email talking about how great the chemistry is, but how she's just looking for something different.
So I didn't. I left hope on the table, even though she really isn't the one and I really could care less if she ever calls me again.
But I left anyway. I sat there for another 15 minutes, mumbled some silliness about how I really didn't want to hurt her, but that I felt uncomfortable now, and that I wanted to clear my head and would call her tomorrow.
It didn't go over perfectly, to be honest, but I left it salvageable.
Except that I don't want to. I want to hope this Saturday with my hot youngster, and I don't want to have to try to remember details about sibling names and favorites by employing memory tricks. I'd really like to remember those things because I actually just really like the girl.
But, alas, she's young enough that she's still a moving target, and should I actually like her that much, she'll disappear faster than a pocket lighter loses its flame on the Golden Gate Bridge. So here I am, again, setting myself up to write another 20 page blog entry about how I'm the walking contradiction, the playah that loves, the sensitive guy that walks out 40 minutes after banging a chick, and about how I really should email one or two of the women who were sweet to me last year just to tell them that I'm sorry I took off for Texas one day and never came back.
I wonder if the tantric guys had it right. Every time you have sex, you give up some of your chi, and when it's all gone, you die.
Because the truth is, right this minute, I think that my brain is manufacturing hope as a method of self-preservation.
--
Sigh. Pretty sad note to leave this entry on, eh? Ok, so what about that pattern? Well, let me see...
I was attracted to Shonna (she's definitely my "type"), but she reminded me a lot of my whore-bag ex, because I caught the same raped-in-college vibe, she bled liberal blood while not understanding remotely what it feels like to struggle, and she had the bitchy-without-knowing-she's-bitchy vibe to her as a result. She was also really cute, really liked me (even if she held it back too much, which I attribute to her trauma), and even if she was an emotional princess, she was still intellectually stimulating. She also happened to live a maybe two blocks from Slutbag's apartment, which didn't help matters.
So why did I try to keep dating her when I obviously cared so little I walked away from a "if I show up the sex might actually be good this time" almost-booty-call? Is it really just that she reminded of Slutbag (hey, I like that -- slutbag with a capital S. That's her new name!)?
Am I that shallow? Am I still that wounded?
No and yes. WELLL. Ok, yes and yes. Sigh.
Alright, now Lola. I went out with her on a second date because I knew she would sleep with me, and I find myself eerily attracted to her. If I look at her critically, she's not my type at all, but there's a certain sex appeal about her. Plus I had been on hiatus for three months, and I kinda wanted to get back in the game, if for no other reason than to prove to myself that I still could.
Now THAT was shallow. But it's true. :-\
Ok. So if I'm going out with these girls just to have sex with them, that's probably fine, but I need to be more honest about it -- mostly with myself, because when I'm honest with myself, I'm honest with my girls, and the truth is, most of them still want to sleep with me, even if I'm "a handful". (Yes, that's a pillow talk comment.)
Riiiiiiight. Except that there's more to it than that. I really am being a bitch here. I really was hoping that Shonna would turn out to be more than I saw at first glance, that if I could get her to open up more, I might find that she, not unlike me, was a handful, but a handful with a heart of gold that just needed a little TLC.
She probably is. But I don't have the patience, and I shouldn't have gone out with her after the second date. I did so because I was still hoping. I slept with her because I was still hoping and because I was really attracted to her. I wasn't that into it because I knew the whole time that my hope was a waste.
Sad, sad, sad. But at least I'm realizing it now.
I think Lola was less hope and more lust. This is unfortunate, because Lola actually put herself out there a lot more than Shonna. She pillow talked my ear off and I woke up with a crink in my neck and nearly falling off the bed last time because she kept cozying up for Alfie Snuggles.
Shonna, by contrast, had no problem with me running for the door.
--
The worst part is that I hurt both of them. They'll get over it, sure, and I really am sorry, and they'll just remember me with neutrality a year from now, but I still hurt them. And even if it is Slutbag's fault, I'm the one feeling like a shithead at 3am.
So, what then? I become a complete bitch and I don't have sex with the girls I date even though they really want me? Because I might hurt them?
Oh phuck. It's better to play the "damaged goods" card and have them write that 20 paragraph email. Which means I actually treat women better by being a true playah -- be the perfect gentleman I really want to be for 2-3 dates, have sex once or twice, and then pull the "damaged goods" card and get out of jail free. 3 girls cycled every two weeks, six per month, 72 a year. Should be able to blow through that Chi by the time my little brother graduates from college.
In their minds, I'm that nice, hot guy who treated them with the utmost in respect, but just had too many issues. Bummer.
Instead, now, I'm the asshole who flaked on them after having sex once or twice.
And this is progress? WTF?
Even implied ones. Careful, Alfie, you're dangerously close to having a heart. Oh, right, we knew that already.
So I flaked on a new girl -- Naomi, divorcee, SF, early 30s, from match -- on Sunday. Actually, I hadn't been asleep more than 90 minutes when my 8:15 alarm went off trying to wake me up so I could go meet her for breakfast. Friggin' easter. Friggin' thinking I'd want to get up that early ANY day of the friggin' week, but especially a stinkin' Sunday. Blah bleah blast it.
But I digress. That's not so bad, right? I called almost 2 hours before the date, she had probably barely gotten out of the shower if she'd gotten ready at all, and I hadn't even met the girl, so no harm, no foul.
Sure. I don't feel bad about that one. Except that there's a pattern here, which will be apparent in another few paragraphs.
So last Sunday I flaked on Shonna. I did it right, calling well in advance, apologizing profusely, etc., and because she liked me a lot -- or, at least, wanted to use me for my body -- she agreed to see me the next night anyway, and, well, go back and read some if you don't know the rest. Then I was supposed to see her the following Friday (that was last Friday, the 6th of April if I'm counting right), except that I had a business dinner at 7:30 I had to handle first. Great, we can just grab a drink and have breakfast together. Coulda shoulda woulda been perfect. I might've even received my pillow talk this time (sigh).
Except the dinner went late, and I didn't even look up until well after 11 (I was supposed to show up to her place at 10), and it ended up being well after midnight before I called. The call went something like "Hi, it's publicly enemy number one, oh, you're already sleeping, I'm really sorry, I'll call you tomorrow to apologize properly." Her side of the conversation was pretty much 4 grunts and that's it. It's fine... she really was sleeping and I really was an asshole. She was probably waiting for me in some sort of hot lingerie she had just picked up, too, which just added to my incredible dick-headed-ness.
I called the next day (didn't want to), left a pathetic message (didn't want to, but felt penintence was the proper etiquette), and we traded the expected emails Monday. I'm proud of her. She stood up for herself and didn't let some guy treat her badly.
Me? Not so much. But I'm not done presenting the evidence yet.
So I was invited out via text message to Easter dinner with Lola. I know, they're hard to keep track of, but the post that describes who these girls are is now forever buried on Google's servers, so go click a couple of times and catch up.
Back now? Great. Ok, so yeah, I ended up sleeping most of the day on Easter.
Woke up at 8, flaked on a girl, back to sleep.
Woke up at 1, checked email and started the shower, still felt a little drunk, back to sleep by 2.
Woke up at 6, checked messages, dilly-dallied a bit because I really didn't want to get all Alfied out and go talk to (i.e., fake it for) a bunch of strangers that would size me up. I mean, really, what would be the point? I've already decided Lola isn't "the one", I've already gotten laid, and I really don't think any of those new contacts would want to do business with me after disappointing the girl. So it's just bogus all the way 'round.
Not that I really put that much thought into at the time. It was a friggin' holiday, I was hungover, and there's this pattern I'm trying to describe. Holidays suck and I'd rather just be alone. Hangovers suck and I'd rather just be alone. And as for the flaking, well, girls suck and I'd rather just be alone. (lol)
So, right, I basically dodge Easter, but I did call her, left a message, and she called me back around 6:30 that night. She invited me over the next night (Monday the 9th), I acquiesced, and headed off to the gym.
Easter rocks compared to the shitty winter holidays, btw. I mean, yeah, family stuff turns up in the bowels of my psyche, but it's not nearly as bad. Peet's and Starbucks are open. You can still get gas. Grocery stores are open, so you can eat. And the Alfie-church that is the gym is still there. Easter is ok in my book. But Fuck Christmas.
Alright, where was I? Well, Monday comes around, and I really just want to work late and play basketball til midnight, so I call Lola and flake on her. Um, I mean, reschedule. For tonight. Wednesday night.
So, pray tell dear Alfie, why are you not in Lola's bed right now? Why are you not sound asleep after a wondrous performance?
Well, dear reader, it's because, during pillow talk, Lola asked if I was dating anyone else. And aside from a tentative 2nd date this Saturday with a very lovely 22 year old, I've done a kick-ass job of sabotaging my pipeline, so I say, truthfully, "um, well... no, actually." I then go on to tell her that I was until "a couple of weeks ago" (that's playah lingo for last weekend), but that the relationship was short-lived and "just took its course".
Right answer, Alfie. Add another chapter to the playah's handbook.
Except that this gnawing little bitchy side of me kept piping up. I found myself struggling to NOT end the relationship right there. It's easy to do -- just go off on how much women suck for 20 minutes, and the next day you get a 20 paragraph email talking about how great the chemistry is, but how she's just looking for something different.
So I didn't. I left hope on the table, even though she really isn't the one and I really could care less if she ever calls me again.
But I left anyway. I sat there for another 15 minutes, mumbled some silliness about how I really didn't want to hurt her, but that I felt uncomfortable now, and that I wanted to clear my head and would call her tomorrow.
It didn't go over perfectly, to be honest, but I left it salvageable.
Except that I don't want to. I want to hope this Saturday with my hot youngster, and I don't want to have to try to remember details about sibling names and favorites by employing memory tricks. I'd really like to remember those things because I actually just really like the girl.
But, alas, she's young enough that she's still a moving target, and should I actually like her that much, she'll disappear faster than a pocket lighter loses its flame on the Golden Gate Bridge. So here I am, again, setting myself up to write another 20 page blog entry about how I'm the walking contradiction, the playah that loves, the sensitive guy that walks out 40 minutes after banging a chick, and about how I really should email one or two of the women who were sweet to me last year just to tell them that I'm sorry I took off for Texas one day and never came back.
I wonder if the tantric guys had it right. Every time you have sex, you give up some of your chi, and when it's all gone, you die.
Because the truth is, right this minute, I think that my brain is manufacturing hope as a method of self-preservation.
--
Sigh. Pretty sad note to leave this entry on, eh? Ok, so what about that pattern? Well, let me see...
I was attracted to Shonna (she's definitely my "type"), but she reminded me a lot of my whore-bag ex, because I caught the same raped-in-college vibe, she bled liberal blood while not understanding remotely what it feels like to struggle, and she had the bitchy-without-knowing-she's-bitchy vibe to her as a result. She was also really cute, really liked me (even if she held it back too much, which I attribute to her trauma), and even if she was an emotional princess, she was still intellectually stimulating. She also happened to live a maybe two blocks from Slutbag's apartment, which didn't help matters.
So why did I try to keep dating her when I obviously cared so little I walked away from a "if I show up the sex might actually be good this time" almost-booty-call? Is it really just that she reminded of Slutbag (hey, I like that -- slutbag with a capital S. That's her new name!)?
Am I that shallow? Am I still that wounded?
No and yes. WELLL. Ok, yes and yes. Sigh.
Alright, now Lola. I went out with her on a second date because I knew she would sleep with me, and I find myself eerily attracted to her. If I look at her critically, she's not my type at all, but there's a certain sex appeal about her. Plus I had been on hiatus for three months, and I kinda wanted to get back in the game, if for no other reason than to prove to myself that I still could.
Now THAT was shallow. But it's true. :-\
Ok. So if I'm going out with these girls just to have sex with them, that's probably fine, but I need to be more honest about it -- mostly with myself, because when I'm honest with myself, I'm honest with my girls, and the truth is, most of them still want to sleep with me, even if I'm "a handful". (Yes, that's a pillow talk comment.)
Riiiiiiight. Except that there's more to it than that. I really am being a bitch here. I really was hoping that Shonna would turn out to be more than I saw at first glance, that if I could get her to open up more, I might find that she, not unlike me, was a handful, but a handful with a heart of gold that just needed a little TLC.
She probably is. But I don't have the patience, and I shouldn't have gone out with her after the second date. I did so because I was still hoping. I slept with her because I was still hoping and because I was really attracted to her. I wasn't that into it because I knew the whole time that my hope was a waste.
Sad, sad, sad. But at least I'm realizing it now.
I think Lola was less hope and more lust. This is unfortunate, because Lola actually put herself out there a lot more than Shonna. She pillow talked my ear off and I woke up with a crink in my neck and nearly falling off the bed last time because she kept cozying up for Alfie Snuggles.
Shonna, by contrast, had no problem with me running for the door.
--
The worst part is that I hurt both of them. They'll get over it, sure, and I really am sorry, and they'll just remember me with neutrality a year from now, but I still hurt them. And even if it is Slutbag's fault, I'm the one feeling like a shithead at 3am.
So, what then? I become a complete bitch and I don't have sex with the girls I date even though they really want me? Because I might hurt them?
Oh phuck. It's better to play the "damaged goods" card and have them write that 20 paragraph email. Which means I actually treat women better by being a true playah -- be the perfect gentleman I really want to be for 2-3 dates, have sex once or twice, and then pull the "damaged goods" card and get out of jail free. 3 girls cycled every two weeks, six per month, 72 a year. Should be able to blow through that Chi by the time my little brother graduates from college.
In their minds, I'm that nice, hot guy who treated them with the utmost in respect, but just had too many issues. Bummer.
Instead, now, I'm the asshole who flaked on them after having sex once or twice.
And this is progress? WTF?
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
never mind, back after all
I was in the city this evening and decided to drop Shonna a call. Partly, I felt guilty for yesterday (see last post), and partly I felt like I should show more of myself and give her a chance to actually reject me.
It went well. There were the normal first time issues (anxiety, awkwardness), but it is was great.
But, as girly as it may sound, I found myself hoping during pillow talk, wanting her to say something wonderful, wishing to hear those things I usually hear that I internally roll my eyes at.
Which got me to thinking about whether or not I've actually been rolling my eyes. I haven't been. I have been actually hoping.
Oh shit. (Yes, go ahead, say it out loud!)
But, alas, she's perfect Alfie fodder. More guarded than I, yet willing to enjoy one another. Weekly visits are the standard schedule; more is too boyfriend-y, less is not interested. A single man's dream. Gotta love city girls for that, eh?
Or hate them, dying another little death inside as I forget the did-that-really-happen memory of Texas and a little girl who reminded me of my youth.
I left Shonna tonight, as we both cited "sleeping in my own bed" and "not on a 'school' night" as suitable reasons for me not to crash there despite being "welcome to stay", and "lov[ing] the idea of waking up to [her]".
And then I called up my best friend to tell him I "came through", because somehow I thought that me following through after yesterday's "failure" would somehow make him happy. Or, more accurately (ah, the benefits of retrospect), I was hoping that his props would make me happy.
He didn't rejoice, and although I did feel happy (afterglow is great, even if we don't love each other), I promptly called up another good friend and went drinking. Two IPAs and some Thai noodles later, I found myself driving home, listening to "Let it Burn" by Usher, and remembering how that song so hit home for me years ago when I was still crying over the one girl who would hurt me more than all the others (Laura the whore-slut, for the record), wondering why the afterglow was fading.
Then I got home, here, and clicked an innocent message from a good friend about college, youth, and the hopefulness of the future, only to click absentmindedly where I shouldn't have, on photos of an autumn long since past that no one else will remember but vaguely, yet which somehow seems to have actually changed me.
Like I said, I've been actually hoping. For better or for worse. Probably worse, because I'm still farming the same sour waters (love those SF girls, once again!!), but I've been over that many, many, many a time.
Anyway. I feel completely gay at the moment (sorry to use that term in a semi-pejorative, but it's kinda funny in this context), wanting to find some MP3s in my iTunes library from the Titanic soundtrack.
See, now wasn't that use of "gay" funny? Pitiful, too, perhaps, but really fucking funny. :-)
So yeah. I just got laid, had a couple of beers with a dear friend, filled my stomach, and am now sipping on a sweet glucosamine/vitamin supplement. Like Shawn said to me last weekend, it's good to be Alfie (well, no, actually he used my REAL name, but we can't go THERE).
So why doesn't Alfie know it? Why does he ponder his 30th birthday, the world almost literally at his fingertips, and none of the ideas on the table sound remotely entertaining?
You know what I want? I want Mr. Holland's fucking Opus. I want every motherfucker I've ever inspired, ever had sex with, ever been the catalyst of achievement for, ever made happy, to come out of the woodwork and thank me. I want to feel loved. Or, at least, like I have made a difference to someone.
--
I wonder how many of you would come if I invited you?
A nice thought just popped into my head. Almost all of them.
--
(Don't tell anyone, but I still miss my fantasy. Seeing L's big sis last Friday was actually quite a bit harder on me than I let on. That's the lion's share, I think, of why I was depressed all weekend.)
Sigh. If I only knew how to duplicate those feelings. Or, perhaps more sanely, replicate them.
It went well. There were the normal first time issues (anxiety, awkwardness), but it is was great.
But, as girly as it may sound, I found myself hoping during pillow talk, wanting her to say something wonderful, wishing to hear those things I usually hear that I internally roll my eyes at.
Which got me to thinking about whether or not I've actually been rolling my eyes. I haven't been. I have been actually hoping.
Oh shit. (Yes, go ahead, say it out loud!)
But, alas, she's perfect Alfie fodder. More guarded than I, yet willing to enjoy one another. Weekly visits are the standard schedule; more is too boyfriend-y, less is not interested. A single man's dream. Gotta love city girls for that, eh?
Or hate them, dying another little death inside as I forget the did-that-really-happen memory of Texas and a little girl who reminded me of my youth.
I left Shonna tonight, as we both cited "sleeping in my own bed" and "not on a 'school' night" as suitable reasons for me not to crash there despite being "welcome to stay", and "lov[ing] the idea of waking up to [her]".
And then I called up my best friend to tell him I "came through", because somehow I thought that me following through after yesterday's "failure" would somehow make him happy. Or, more accurately (ah, the benefits of retrospect), I was hoping that his props would make me happy.
He didn't rejoice, and although I did feel happy (afterglow is great, even if we don't love each other), I promptly called up another good friend and went drinking. Two IPAs and some Thai noodles later, I found myself driving home, listening to "Let it Burn" by Usher, and remembering how that song so hit home for me years ago when I was still crying over the one girl who would hurt me more than all the others (Laura the whore-slut, for the record), wondering why the afterglow was fading.
Then I got home, here, and clicked an innocent message from a good friend about college, youth, and the hopefulness of the future, only to click absentmindedly where I shouldn't have, on photos of an autumn long since past that no one else will remember but vaguely, yet which somehow seems to have actually changed me.
Like I said, I've been actually hoping. For better or for worse. Probably worse, because I'm still farming the same sour waters (love those SF girls, once again!!), but I've been over that many, many, many a time.
Anyway. I feel completely gay at the moment (sorry to use that term in a semi-pejorative, but it's kinda funny in this context), wanting to find some MP3s in my iTunes library from the Titanic soundtrack.
See, now wasn't that use of "gay" funny? Pitiful, too, perhaps, but really fucking funny. :-)
So yeah. I just got laid, had a couple of beers with a dear friend, filled my stomach, and am now sipping on a sweet glucosamine/vitamin supplement. Like Shawn said to me last weekend, it's good to be Alfie (well, no, actually he used my REAL name, but we can't go THERE).
So why doesn't Alfie know it? Why does he ponder his 30th birthday, the world almost literally at his fingertips, and none of the ideas on the table sound remotely entertaining?
You know what I want? I want Mr. Holland's fucking Opus. I want every motherfucker I've ever inspired, ever had sex with, ever been the catalyst of achievement for, ever made happy, to come out of the woodwork and thank me. I want to feel loved. Or, at least, like I have made a difference to someone.
--
I wonder how many of you would come if I invited you?
A nice thought just popped into my head. Almost all of them.
--
(Don't tell anyone, but I still miss my fantasy. Seeing L's big sis last Friday was actually quite a bit harder on me than I let on. That's the lion's share, I think, of why I was depressed all weekend.)
Sigh. If I only knew how to duplicate those feelings. Or, perhaps more sanely, replicate them.
Sunday, April 1, 2007
The second coming of Alfie may have been premature
I cancelled a date today because I was feeling lazy. Worse, it was the third date after a streak of momentum. At her place. I was going to cook her dinner.
Way to turn down sex, alfie.
Yeah, don't ask, I dunno. Bad dreams about fathers and god? Check. Another girl I'm more interested in (mmm, Brittany)? Check. Sunday evening "I just wanna stay close to home and maybe grab a movie"? Check.
Still. It would've been good times, and I threw it away. Because I'd rather chill, grab some coffee, read my book, and go play basketball with Scotty and Kenny. On my terms, on my schedule, on my time.
Oh, screw that. I felt as though I can't be myself around Shonna, and I really just don't feel like putting on an act right now. Maybe ever.
Humph. I'm spoiled, I know. Giving up a sex with a clean, smart, attractive blonde because I don't feel like I can be myself around her... when I haven't even tried.
Most guys would call me stupid. Heck, I'd call me stupid.
--
So about that dream. I remember mouthing off to my dad. There were three things I was bitching about. I don't remember them. I just remember saying there were three points I wanted to make in my rant as I was making it. Something about not being there, something about supposed to be the one most protecting in my life rather than the one most damaging, and probably something about respect
I had a weird thought when I woke up, however. As I lay in my bed, I felt confused. Was I talking to god or talking to dad? I really wasn't sure for a moment. The painful feeling inside made me think of dad, however, and the setting in my dream reminded me of childhood.
Nevertheless, I couldn't help but being reminded of Fight Club. "Our fathers echo our perception of god. Our fathers abandoned us, therefore god abandoned us. God doesn't want us!" (not exact, but close)
--
I was really torn about Shonna. In the end, I fibbed a little and implied that I was sick. I told her I've been taking a bunch of Airborne vitamin pills in hopes that it would make me feel better and that I was "a few bucks shy of a million dollars", then asked if she would hold it against me if I cancelled.
It was all true. Except that she assumed I was hungover and spent, when in fact I'm just psycho. But everyone assumes that which is familiar to them, that which fulfills preconceived expectations, and so I'm in solid "human nature" territory. (Yes, I just rationalized my lie. Don't shake your finger at me, it wasn't that much of a stretch! :-)
Ok. Off to flirt with the Peet's girls...
Way to turn down sex, alfie.
Yeah, don't ask, I dunno. Bad dreams about fathers and god? Check. Another girl I'm more interested in (mmm, Brittany)? Check. Sunday evening "I just wanna stay close to home and maybe grab a movie"? Check.
Still. It would've been good times, and I threw it away. Because I'd rather chill, grab some coffee, read my book, and go play basketball with Scotty and Kenny. On my terms, on my schedule, on my time.
Oh, screw that. I felt as though I can't be myself around Shonna, and I really just don't feel like putting on an act right now. Maybe ever.
Humph. I'm spoiled, I know. Giving up a sex with a clean, smart, attractive blonde because I don't feel like I can be myself around her... when I haven't even tried.
Most guys would call me stupid. Heck, I'd call me stupid.
--
So about that dream. I remember mouthing off to my dad. There were three things I was bitching about. I don't remember them. I just remember saying there were three points I wanted to make in my rant as I was making it. Something about not being there, something about supposed to be the one most protecting in my life rather than the one most damaging, and probably something about respect
I had a weird thought when I woke up, however. As I lay in my bed, I felt confused. Was I talking to god or talking to dad? I really wasn't sure for a moment. The painful feeling inside made me think of dad, however, and the setting in my dream reminded me of childhood.
Nevertheless, I couldn't help but being reminded of Fight Club. "Our fathers echo our perception of god. Our fathers abandoned us, therefore god abandoned us. God doesn't want us!" (not exact, but close)
--
I was really torn about Shonna. In the end, I fibbed a little and implied that I was sick. I told her I've been taking a bunch of Airborne vitamin pills in hopes that it would make me feel better and that I was "a few bucks shy of a million dollars", then asked if she would hold it against me if I cancelled.
It was all true. Except that she assumed I was hungover and spent, when in fact I'm just psycho. But everyone assumes that which is familiar to them, that which fulfills preconceived expectations, and so I'm in solid "human nature" territory. (Yes, I just rationalized my lie. Don't shake your finger at me, it wasn't that much of a stretch! :-)
Ok. Off to flirt with the Peet's girls...
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
alfie is back
i'm debating how much to write, because someday, somehow, someone I actually care about might happen to read this and it could conceivably hurt her feelings. Because if I do this often, eventually one of the girls I divulge information about will actually be important to me.
But it's fun, so fuck it. >:)
So I've seen Shonna twice now. She was my first date when I re-entered the scene last week. Good kisser, but it's been awkward. Cute, but there's a little SF elitist jumpin' up in the background. Pretty fun to hang with -- she's smart (masters degree from a 2nd tier almost-ivy school), but she grew up, by my accounts, with an almost-nuclear family and doesn't really know what it's like to really struggle. We talked briefly on our first date about how she was humbled by her difficulty in finding fulfilling work after grad school. I get it, of course -- lord knows I've been struggling with "purpose" all over the place, but riding my bike to the next BART station to save 30 cents just seems a little distant from not being able to get the perfect gig after blowing $100K on grad school. Plus she's got the standard late-20s, living in the city lifestyle, which means she's busier than shit. Wanting a boyfriend is not the same having time for one, ladies. I kinda want you at least two nights a week without scheduling a week in advance. I know, silly me. Some of my friends might even say hypocritical. But at least I manage half a dozen businesses. Most chicks who are "really busy" have just filled up their lives with hobbies. Which is fine, but where am I supposed to fit in?
But I digress. I like Shonna, but I worry because I haven't really let it all hang out. The Alfie manual says steady as she goes on this, of course -- at least until her first orgasm -- but the sorrowful little bitch inside me wants to just put it all out there and see if she still likes me.
Don't worry. I won't.
Who was that weird chick last week? I went out with her on a Saturday afternoon and was ambivalent. Then she pushed the issue and got all weird. By Tuesday I was writing her an email saying that she toppled me off my fence by being impatient. I cited the two day rule, and said that despite the cliche "I don't want to play games", the damn game exists for a reason. It's because it friggin' works. Every time I've stopped playing it... in my entire history, I think... it's backfired. Chick gets a big head, or just loses interest, or starts treating me bad. Selective unavailability, boys and girls. But not so much I can't remember your name, ok? See above paragraph.
Her name, her name... Tammy. That was it. She got all bent out of shape when I cited the two-day rule and told me I had no social skills. Ahem. I guess that's why she was jockin' for a second date and some alfie lovin'. Because I can't hold a conversation. (lol)
Ok. Then Monday I went out with Kelly. Great body, but she didn't show her age well. She was 25 and could have passed for 30. Sorry, hon. We had sushi, and the conversation ran kinda dry. I kept probing and she kept answering, with only some obligatory probing back. I think she wasn't accustomed to dating at all -- that all of her experiences had been hook-ups and the classmate/workmate boyfriends. But I, of course, because I have no social skills, chameleoned like I usually do, and gave the nonchalance right back to her. Weird. She invited me out for more that very night, but I declined because it involved athletics and I had an injury. Then I didn't kiss her goodnight (she wanted me to), and blew it even further by calling the next day. In my pea-brain at the time, I thought, "it will make up for not being agressive with the good night kiss", but alas, on further reflection, it just topped off the lameness. She hasn't called back.
Yes, even Alfie falters sometimes. But I'm out of practice, don't forget.
Shoot, I'm missing one... oh, Angela. I met her for lunch last Friday. Cute, but not my style. Great conversation, lots of things in common, no chemistry. I stewed on it all weekend and emailed her today, asking if she'd like to hang out as "just friends" sometime. She responded with a resounding "yes", so hey. I think I pushed the "no chemistry" card a bit during the date, actually. It's amazing how much shines through, isn't it? Even if you're genuinely interested in the conversation, but not so much in the girl, it's somehow communicated if she's paying attention.
I need to work on that skill. My chameleon abilities usually carry me, because women generally find me attractive, but it would be so much more pimp'n to actually manipulate how the girl feels about me by altering the vibe I'm projecting.
Plus then maybe I could alter my own consciousness using such a skill. Hmmmm. But again I digress.
Saturday I met Lola. Yes, another one. I don't know how many that is, now, so don't ask. Six or seven. Or eight. Whatever. Piss off.
She was great. Good vibe, sociable, very laid back. Very nice curves, into her work, lives in the east bay, sensitive to costs, and likes to cook. Good, good, goodness.
Saw her again Sunday night. It went well.
So, I'm over for dinner Sunday night, and I'm the only vagina fan at the whole damn table. Seriously. There were six of us: 4 girls, a gay guy, and me. whoo-hoo!! I felt sooo bad, though... Lola had a neighbor named Lauren who was fantastic. (I know, I know, it's not a fetish, I promise, it's just the way it works out.) I could tell she was likin' Alfie, too, but I was so very obviously Lola's date. I don't know how I could possibly work that out, but I'd like to. Lauren was feisty and petite, down to party, yet has a day job where "casual Fridays" are special. OMG. Sooo right up Alfie's alley. And look, she has the name. "Lola" is close, but "Lauren"?
(ok, ok... lemme think... Lauren C, Laura D, Lauren R, Lauren B, Laura from far away, Lola from yesterday... hmmm. Is that it? I feel like I'm forgetting someone... but I guess not. Six? I think I loved four of them, at least in my own way. Like I've said before, "the one" will probably have the same name. There's just as many Saras as there are Laurens, but I've only dated two of those!)
But, despite wanting to overtly flirt with Feisty Lauren, I played my cards the way they were supposed to be played, and thoroughly enjoyed Caring Lola's company. I'm definitely seeing her again soon. And no, not to cozy up to Feisty Lauren. Although if that happens, so be it. >:-)
I feel like I had another one... oh, right, tonight. Tonight I met Morgan, who reminded me thoroughly of my Aunt Debbie. Same wit: sharp, quick, and a little dark. Pretty positive in spite of some negativity in her childhood, slightly thick, great laugh, very down to earth, pragmatic. She's pragmatic even in things like relationships and honest about what her definition of love is (on at least the tidbit I got). All great stuff, certainly.
Except I'm not all that attracted to her. I even told her so, in so many words, telling her she reminded me of a maternal figure, which was really good in some ways, but really awkward in others. I told her I'd be down to go out again and take it from there. To "see if I got over my internal weirdness". Damn, I'm good.
Truth is, though, she's good peeps and I'd like to be friends with her, but I don't think I'll suddenly feel any chemistry. Despite the great time, she's no Lauren/Laura/Lola. Any of them.
I have a Brittany coming up in a couple of days. Pretty excited about her (hotness! :-)).
But it's fun, so fuck it. >:)
So I've seen Shonna twice now. She was my first date when I re-entered the scene last week. Good kisser, but it's been awkward. Cute, but there's a little SF elitist jumpin' up in the background. Pretty fun to hang with -- she's smart (masters degree from a 2nd tier almost-ivy school), but she grew up, by my accounts, with an almost-nuclear family and doesn't really know what it's like to really struggle. We talked briefly on our first date about how she was humbled by her difficulty in finding fulfilling work after grad school. I get it, of course -- lord knows I've been struggling with "purpose" all over the place, but riding my bike to the next BART station to save 30 cents just seems a little distant from not being able to get the perfect gig after blowing $100K on grad school. Plus she's got the standard late-20s, living in the city lifestyle, which means she's busier than shit. Wanting a boyfriend is not the same having time for one, ladies. I kinda want you at least two nights a week without scheduling a week in advance. I know, silly me. Some of my friends might even say hypocritical. But at least I manage half a dozen businesses. Most chicks who are "really busy" have just filled up their lives with hobbies. Which is fine, but where am I supposed to fit in?
But I digress. I like Shonna, but I worry because I haven't really let it all hang out. The Alfie manual says steady as she goes on this, of course -- at least until her first orgasm -- but the sorrowful little bitch inside me wants to just put it all out there and see if she still likes me.
Don't worry. I won't.
Who was that weird chick last week? I went out with her on a Saturday afternoon and was ambivalent. Then she pushed the issue and got all weird. By Tuesday I was writing her an email saying that she toppled me off my fence by being impatient. I cited the two day rule, and said that despite the cliche "I don't want to play games", the damn game exists for a reason. It's because it friggin' works. Every time I've stopped playing it... in my entire history, I think... it's backfired. Chick gets a big head, or just loses interest, or starts treating me bad. Selective unavailability, boys and girls. But not so much I can't remember your name, ok? See above paragraph.
Her name, her name... Tammy. That was it. She got all bent out of shape when I cited the two-day rule and told me I had no social skills. Ahem. I guess that's why she was jockin' for a second date and some alfie lovin'. Because I can't hold a conversation. (lol)
Ok. Then Monday I went out with Kelly. Great body, but she didn't show her age well. She was 25 and could have passed for 30. Sorry, hon. We had sushi, and the conversation ran kinda dry. I kept probing and she kept answering, with only some obligatory probing back. I think she wasn't accustomed to dating at all -- that all of her experiences had been hook-ups and the classmate/workmate boyfriends. But I, of course, because I have no social skills, chameleoned like I usually do, and gave the nonchalance right back to her. Weird. She invited me out for more that very night, but I declined because it involved athletics and I had an injury. Then I didn't kiss her goodnight (she wanted me to), and blew it even further by calling the next day. In my pea-brain at the time, I thought, "it will make up for not being agressive with the good night kiss", but alas, on further reflection, it just topped off the lameness. She hasn't called back.
Yes, even Alfie falters sometimes. But I'm out of practice, don't forget.
Shoot, I'm missing one... oh, Angela. I met her for lunch last Friday. Cute, but not my style. Great conversation, lots of things in common, no chemistry. I stewed on it all weekend and emailed her today, asking if she'd like to hang out as "just friends" sometime. She responded with a resounding "yes", so hey. I think I pushed the "no chemistry" card a bit during the date, actually. It's amazing how much shines through, isn't it? Even if you're genuinely interested in the conversation, but not so much in the girl, it's somehow communicated if she's paying attention.
I need to work on that skill. My chameleon abilities usually carry me, because women generally find me attractive, but it would be so much more pimp'n to actually manipulate how the girl feels about me by altering the vibe I'm projecting.
Plus then maybe I could alter my own consciousness using such a skill. Hmmmm. But again I digress.
Saturday I met Lola. Yes, another one. I don't know how many that is, now, so don't ask. Six or seven. Or eight. Whatever. Piss off.
She was great. Good vibe, sociable, very laid back. Very nice curves, into her work, lives in the east bay, sensitive to costs, and likes to cook. Good, good, goodness.
Saw her again Sunday night. It went well.
So, I'm over for dinner Sunday night, and I'm the only vagina fan at the whole damn table. Seriously. There were six of us: 4 girls, a gay guy, and me. whoo-hoo!! I felt sooo bad, though... Lola had a neighbor named Lauren who was fantastic. (I know, I know, it's not a fetish, I promise, it's just the way it works out.) I could tell she was likin' Alfie, too, but I was so very obviously Lola's date. I don't know how I could possibly work that out, but I'd like to. Lauren was feisty and petite, down to party, yet has a day job where "casual Fridays" are special. OMG. Sooo right up Alfie's alley. And look, she has the name. "Lola" is close, but "Lauren"?
(ok, ok... lemme think... Lauren C, Laura D, Lauren R, Lauren B, Laura from far away, Lola from yesterday... hmmm. Is that it? I feel like I'm forgetting someone... but I guess not. Six? I think I loved four of them, at least in my own way. Like I've said before, "the one" will probably have the same name. There's just as many Saras as there are Laurens, but I've only dated two of those!)
But, despite wanting to overtly flirt with Feisty Lauren, I played my cards the way they were supposed to be played, and thoroughly enjoyed Caring Lola's company. I'm definitely seeing her again soon. And no, not to cozy up to Feisty Lauren. Although if that happens, so be it. >:-)
I feel like I had another one... oh, right, tonight. Tonight I met Morgan, who reminded me thoroughly of my Aunt Debbie. Same wit: sharp, quick, and a little dark. Pretty positive in spite of some negativity in her childhood, slightly thick, great laugh, very down to earth, pragmatic. She's pragmatic even in things like relationships and honest about what her definition of love is (on at least the tidbit I got). All great stuff, certainly.
Except I'm not all that attracted to her. I even told her so, in so many words, telling her she reminded me of a maternal figure, which was really good in some ways, but really awkward in others. I told her I'd be down to go out again and take it from there. To "see if I got over my internal weirdness". Damn, I'm good.
Truth is, though, she's good peeps and I'd like to be friends with her, but I don't think I'll suddenly feel any chemistry. Despite the great time, she's no Lauren/Laura/Lola. Any of them.
I have a Brittany coming up in a couple of days. Pretty excited about her (hotness! :-)).
Sunday, March 18, 2007
back on the market
I started dating again. Out to dinner last night, out to lunch today, got a number at the St Patty's party I attended tonight.
I have what most guys would consider a good problem... women fall in love with me (or would, if I just went through the motions for another date or three), and my problem is that they just... aren't.
Aren't the one, or aren't the make believe, L-influenced version of what I now think a relationship should be, or...
I know from afar. I know often from the match profile, have a suspicion from the first email, the first phone call. I know. They're too old, or too cynical, or too tall, or too California. Too elitist, too set in there ways, too closed off, too too too.
And not enough that little girl I'm finally getting over. I know I am, because I looked at her profile today (thank you, facebook) and her 2700 photos posted, and I didn't feel anything. I just commented, out loud, on how young she is. And was. I still missed her, but I was more or less conscious that I was missing something make believe.
Or, at least, that's what I'm telling myself these days, that it was just fantasy at best, that despite how amazing I thought it was that she broke threw my cynicism and made me hope again, she was just a little girl, and it is and was foolish of me to miss something that never was.
At any rate, I'm not crying right now.
It's nice, I guess, to have some girl I just met laugh out loud at my ex and ask, in all sincerity, "how could anyone ever cheat on you?" It's nice to kiss a girl I've never kissed before, however awkward, and...
Oh fuck it. I'm lying to myself. this SUCKS. I date women who aren't worth my time. Kisses should not be awkward, even first ones. If anything, the only thing wrong should be that we both anticipate so much that we come on too strong, and a sexy nibble comes out a little too sharp. And I shouldn't sit across from an almost-pretty girl and try to talk myself into thinking she's cute, or interesting, or has potential. I shouldn't want to drink and drink and drink some more just so the conversation gets MORE interesting. I shouldn't think about going home and playing on the internet at 10:30pm on a Friday night because, well, that sounds like fun.
So? What then? I keep dating women who aren't worth my time? Or I stay celibate? Or I mold one of these barely good enough girls into someone bearable through manipulation and sheer imposition of my will? So I can maybe have good sex with one of them in six months? So I maybe talk myself into loving them if they stick around for a year? So I have someone to call at 3am instead of looking at pictures of the one that got away on the 'net?
I dunno, but I'll tell you what. I HATE THIS. It's not that I hate women. I mistrust them, yes, and I DO expect them to eventually leave me -- the only question is whether it's sooner or later -- but that's a far cry from hate. I don't even resent them for not appreciating. Because, truth be told, so many of them actually do. I'm a catch, and getting a real-time reminder of that is as easy as replying to one of the 10 winks a week I get on match, flirting a little bit with my words over email, and then wasting an hour drinking coffee with someone I might, maybe, if I suspend my idealism and hope for a few brief hours, want to sleep with.
But I want so, so, soooo much more. It's no longer about just being appreciated and nurtured. I want to appreciate in return. I want to look at my girl and think she's a goddess, even if we just spent all day and night together. I want to hear her on the other end of the phone and cry because I miss her so much, even when she's mine and I saw her just an hour before. I want to wake up without her and feel cold, because, goddamn it, I'm more used to having her there beside me than not.
I want to listen to "Such Great Heights" (Iron and Wine) and feel happy, not sad, because I know what that feels like and have that sensation every time I just pause to think about it.
So. The only question is... what to do until then? Do I just call up a fuck-buddy and have good, but non-rewarding sex occasionally until I find her? Do I keep dating like a madman in hopes that one of them will surprise me? Do I just, like so many women my age, just pack it in and accept a life of solitude?
Sigh. I hope too much. That little girl who came over to say goodbye tonight, saying "we're going downtown to Jupiter. You should come with us." And who, after a sorry excuse about my ride being a party pooper and wanting to bail, gave me her number without even blinking... a little tiny part of me, even as I can't even remember what color her eyes were, wonders if she could be... if she could be. Special.
Special. The one kinda special.
I have what most guys would consider a good problem... women fall in love with me (or would, if I just went through the motions for another date or three), and my problem is that they just... aren't.
Aren't the one, or aren't the make believe, L-influenced version of what I now think a relationship should be, or...
I know from afar. I know often from the match profile, have a suspicion from the first email, the first phone call. I know. They're too old, or too cynical, or too tall, or too California. Too elitist, too set in there ways, too closed off, too too too.
And not enough that little girl I'm finally getting over. I know I am, because I looked at her profile today (thank you, facebook) and her 2700 photos posted, and I didn't feel anything. I just commented, out loud, on how young she is. And was. I still missed her, but I was more or less conscious that I was missing something make believe.
Or, at least, that's what I'm telling myself these days, that it was just fantasy at best, that despite how amazing I thought it was that she broke threw my cynicism and made me hope again, she was just a little girl, and it is and was foolish of me to miss something that never was.
At any rate, I'm not crying right now.
It's nice, I guess, to have some girl I just met laugh out loud at my ex and ask, in all sincerity, "how could anyone ever cheat on you?" It's nice to kiss a girl I've never kissed before, however awkward, and...
Oh fuck it. I'm lying to myself. this SUCKS. I date women who aren't worth my time. Kisses should not be awkward, even first ones. If anything, the only thing wrong should be that we both anticipate so much that we come on too strong, and a sexy nibble comes out a little too sharp. And I shouldn't sit across from an almost-pretty girl and try to talk myself into thinking she's cute, or interesting, or has potential. I shouldn't want to drink and drink and drink some more just so the conversation gets MORE interesting. I shouldn't think about going home and playing on the internet at 10:30pm on a Friday night because, well, that sounds like fun.
So? What then? I keep dating women who aren't worth my time? Or I stay celibate? Or I mold one of these barely good enough girls into someone bearable through manipulation and sheer imposition of my will? So I can maybe have good sex with one of them in six months? So I maybe talk myself into loving them if they stick around for a year? So I have someone to call at 3am instead of looking at pictures of the one that got away on the 'net?
I dunno, but I'll tell you what. I HATE THIS. It's not that I hate women. I mistrust them, yes, and I DO expect them to eventually leave me -- the only question is whether it's sooner or later -- but that's a far cry from hate. I don't even resent them for not appreciating. Because, truth be told, so many of them actually do. I'm a catch, and getting a real-time reminder of that is as easy as replying to one of the 10 winks a week I get on match, flirting a little bit with my words over email, and then wasting an hour drinking coffee with someone I might, maybe, if I suspend my idealism and hope for a few brief hours, want to sleep with.
But I want so, so, soooo much more. It's no longer about just being appreciated and nurtured. I want to appreciate in return. I want to look at my girl and think she's a goddess, even if we just spent all day and night together. I want to hear her on the other end of the phone and cry because I miss her so much, even when she's mine and I saw her just an hour before. I want to wake up without her and feel cold, because, goddamn it, I'm more used to having her there beside me than not.
I want to listen to "Such Great Heights" (Iron and Wine) and feel happy, not sad, because I know what that feels like and have that sensation every time I just pause to think about it.
So. The only question is... what to do until then? Do I just call up a fuck-buddy and have good, but non-rewarding sex occasionally until I find her? Do I keep dating like a madman in hopes that one of them will surprise me? Do I just, like so many women my age, just pack it in and accept a life of solitude?
Sigh. I hope too much. That little girl who came over to say goodbye tonight, saying "we're going downtown to Jupiter. You should come with us." And who, after a sorry excuse about my ride being a party pooper and wanting to bail, gave me her number without even blinking... a little tiny part of me, even as I can't even remember what color her eyes were, wonders if she could be... if she could be. Special.
Special. The one kinda special.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Getting over...
I'm not. I'm not getting over any of them.
I've had a lot of time to "live with myself" lately... trying to deal with all of the things I don't have to address when I just keep running 1000 miles an hour.
It doesn't help. I sit in my car talking to this confidant or that, being open, getting informal therapy, getting through life just... maintaining. Barely.
I know only fantasy, only the hope that someday I'll hope. I know only tears and sad songs, only pain at being left, alone, neglected, and hurt.
I've cried so long and fought so hard. I'm just tired now.
A friend said to me today, "you used to struggle to fit in, to fake it, but now you -- you're resigned to it. You're fight has given way to apathy."
And she's right. I'd rather be fighting, because it implies all the wonder and strength that is youth, even if the trip is painful and the journey arduous.
I'd rather be anything. Anywhere. Anyone. Any place but here.
And so I stay up late late late, so late it's early, and when the movie ends, the book closes, and the song concludes, there's still me, trying not to be alone with my thoughts right before I fail yet again to fall asleep without thinking of some girl who didn't really love me. Like she said she did, or said she would, or just showed me for a brief moment before the facades all fell away and the hopeful, innocent little boy I was sometime a long time ago died yet another small death.
--
Resigned. To the fucked up world that is everything I've ever known. A world without a god, where people are just selfish pricks, and...
I guess I don't really believe that. Maybe I wish I did because I just hate the idea of facing the day. Today, tomorrow.
It's funny... the "light at the end of the tunnel" bullshit just popped into my head. The fucked up thing is that you can't tell you're in a tunnel if it's pitch black. Or that you're at the bottom of the well.
If I died today, it would be so poetically tragic, the man-boy who had it all, yet couldn't find even the smallest peace. If only it would mean something.
Because like everything else in this world, there's not a whole lot that's special. Not me, not mom, not the girls, not work, nor play, nor that game-winning jump shot.
No one remembers. No one cares. No one wonders. And no one never, ever, ever stays. Protects. Loves.
I've inspired and achieved, earned and learned, hoped, dreamed, and even loved. Why can't I have any back?
Where's mine? When is it my turn? Can I ride the pony? I don't care if it's the smallest one or the ride already started or the saddle is broken. Just let me ride it a little. Please?
I've had a lot of time to "live with myself" lately... trying to deal with all of the things I don't have to address when I just keep running 1000 miles an hour.
It doesn't help. I sit in my car talking to this confidant or that, being open, getting informal therapy, getting through life just... maintaining. Barely.
I know only fantasy, only the hope that someday I'll hope. I know only tears and sad songs, only pain at being left, alone, neglected, and hurt.
I've cried so long and fought so hard. I'm just tired now.
A friend said to me today, "you used to struggle to fit in, to fake it, but now you -- you're resigned to it. You're fight has given way to apathy."
And she's right. I'd rather be fighting, because it implies all the wonder and strength that is youth, even if the trip is painful and the journey arduous.
I'd rather be anything. Anywhere. Anyone. Any place but here.
And so I stay up late late late, so late it's early, and when the movie ends, the book closes, and the song concludes, there's still me, trying not to be alone with my thoughts right before I fail yet again to fall asleep without thinking of some girl who didn't really love me. Like she said she did, or said she would, or just showed me for a brief moment before the facades all fell away and the hopeful, innocent little boy I was sometime a long time ago died yet another small death.
--
Resigned. To the fucked up world that is everything I've ever known. A world without a god, where people are just selfish pricks, and...
I guess I don't really believe that. Maybe I wish I did because I just hate the idea of facing the day. Today, tomorrow.
It's funny... the "light at the end of the tunnel" bullshit just popped into my head. The fucked up thing is that you can't tell you're in a tunnel if it's pitch black. Or that you're at the bottom of the well.
If I died today, it would be so poetically tragic, the man-boy who had it all, yet couldn't find even the smallest peace. If only it would mean something.
Because like everything else in this world, there's not a whole lot that's special. Not me, not mom, not the girls, not work, nor play, nor that game-winning jump shot.
No one remembers. No one cares. No one wonders. And no one never, ever, ever stays. Protects. Loves.
I've inspired and achieved, earned and learned, hoped, dreamed, and even loved. Why can't I have any back?
Where's mine? When is it my turn? Can I ride the pony? I don't care if it's the smallest one or the ride already started or the saddle is broken. Just let me ride it a little. Please?
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