It started with a gash, a slashing dumpster lid that relieved me of a dime sized slab on the inside of my right thumb, beneath the joint. A quest for Neosporin ensued, with no satisfaction even yet, though I have strayed so far from my original purpose that the failure means little.
In searching for that tiny tube, which I recall seeing in various places over the past many months during which I had no need for ointment, I started rifling through boxes and corners of my closet long unexplored.
One of the first things uncovered was the stash of Monica-related souvenirs, kept for the sake of future nostalgia, rather than unrequited sentiment. A letter, some notes, a stuffed bear, a notebook, a card, photos, that old
The letters and notes read like we were already resigned to our separation. Perhaps we were. They offer an interesting perspective now, almost a year after the original ordeal.
I found bank statements and credit card bills from back in the days when I still had $2000 in the bank and only $300 to pay on the card. What I wouldn’t do to have that again.
I found some papers I wrote back in my first phase of college. I could rewrite them to read better, but some of the analysis is surprisingly astute, and I worry that I can’t come up with stuff like that anymore. One in particular discussed Bellamy’s Looking Backward using the Communist Manifesto and Weber’s The Protestant Work Ethic to discuss the use of religion in Bellamy’s socialist utopia, compared to traditional socialist ideals. I can’t believe I did that much reading for one paper.
I also found some old notebooks. I know there were more. I’m a little worried about where they are, because they’re so very personal, and so very very emo.
A lonely pillar standing tall
Supports the starry sky,
And if that pillar were to fall
Nothing’d keep the heavens high.
A chill wind blasts the single pile,
A shiver threatens doom,
The shake has surely cracked a tile
In Aphrodite’s room.
I obviously had girl trouble. Well, I have the same girl trouble to this day, but at least I’ve gotten laid between then and now. And I stopped writing shitty poetry.
Many of these entries are written as a discussion, one speaker, denoted by a square, is pragmatic and thoughtful, the other, a circle, is emotional and generally distraught. They worked together to solve my shit. I don’t think they managed to actually help.
- Go after a girl
O Which? Megan or Sarah?
- Which do you like better?
O They are two different types of people. I don’t know if I prefer one over the other. What do you think?
- There is less competition for Sarah, as far as I know, but you have to deal with her reluctance. Megan isn’t afraid, but might not want to go out with you, with all the other guys to choose from. Imagine being alone with them and compare
O Sarah is more quiet. I’d talk and laugh with her, but she would be uncomfortable. Megan would expect something. I have no clue what.
- Those expectations might end you.
O I have a feeling I fail either way.
It’s 4am as I type this out. I have already exceeded the acceptable blog length. You can click on anytime you want.
It occurs to me that these little chats were once highly embarrassing. I don’t really care anymore. I also notice that the emotional half uses first person, and the pragmatic half uses third. Apparently, the circle was at the helm at the time.
As I write this, I realize that much of my “girl trouble” stems from my general approach, developed in these rather formative high school years. Notably shy, purposely inconspicuous, I did not interact with many people then. I kept to my circle of friends, safe from judgment and the smirking whispers the pocked across the diseased little ecosystem. Such a defensive posture made meeting people rare, and as I have learned, one must meet girls in order to date them. My attempts at dating involved me creeping out of nowhere, approaching the target with the sole purpose of attempting to start something. This doesn’t work. Neither does approaching as a friend. The key is pretending to be interested in friendship long enough that the target doesn’t freak out and run away, and then pouncing.
I still don’t do this. We’re going on 11 months here.
Its almost time for bed. Closing thoughts? I’d love to say that those girls would regret turning me down, but its really not true. I’m broke, studying in a field that promises little, and frequently delivers. I claim to be a writer, but do not write. I’m not really “into” anything, don’t have any passions or deep interests, and as a result am fairly uninteresting myself. I am careless with honesty and choke on flattery and pretense. I’m socially impulsive, but generally unadventurous.
You know all those things girls are looking for in a guy? I don’t, but I’ll take a guess and say that they’re not on that list up there.
Now, where the FUCK is that Neosporin?
