Check’s on the table. I think it mostly went well. She didn’t look at her phone much, and I got in a few good laughs. I’m not usually a fan of seafood, but I wasn’t about to complain. I’ll leave that for later tonight, when I don’t hear back from her again. There he goes, the peanut gallery explodes, he just can’t go one post without speaking ill of himself. You’re always thinking about what’s the worst that could happen, but why don’t you ever see the best in everything that unfolds? I’ve got to focus on that more. I get that, but it’s not that easy when you’ve got a complex. What complex? It’s self-made if anything, and you’re too over confident and say whatever you think, despite most of it being nonsense. I’ve seen your interactions. Most of it is with them. You shit on yourself, but it seems to be working?
I find myself talking, saying something about a nice time, and how you and I are a lot alike, in that we don’t truly get close until we feel that the time is right. How about that timing, right? Why didn’t you just ask me out? That’s not how it works, I remind myself. There’s got to be mutual interest and the possibility of being a prospect. I’m nothing but a scarecrow. Everyone else is a sloppy drunk mess. I’m neat and sober. It makes perfect sense that I babysit drinks and always act somber, like there’s still something I’m after, but I’m not exactly giving chase, because I kind of know better. Does that sound dismissive? I like to think it’s more realistic than fabricated happy endings. The field’s wide open but I’m stationary. I know and serve well my purpose, regardless of how it’s never perceived, or even believed to be the right way to initiate a complete lack of contact. You were saying?
Do you even know what you’re doing? You’re playing a game of chicken you have no intention of winning. You’re just going through the motions without any plan of action or even passion. Dare I say it’s not even a mutual attraction, but when is it ever? When are you going to wake up and stop thinking that clever sayings and poetry will ever impress anyone? Get out of the car. You’re driving in the wrong lane. This won’t be a head on, this will be a cliff dive of devastating proportions. You’re setting yourself up for failure because you’re not even trying. What you call pick up lines are just you being a nice guy. There’s no weight there. No one thinks you’re serious, least of all the name that keeps escaping your lips frequently. Quit while you’ll never be ahead enough. Wait until we forget again.
Ageless delusion, exiled yet not homeless, but it just didn’t seem worth it. Now replace that first pronoun with my name, and that last one with your namesake, and you’ll have the answer you don’t seek. I’m sorry it’s not satisfying. I don’t think it’ll ever be. I’m sorry I’ll always be too little too late about seeing things; that’s both for what they are, and for what they possibly could be. I’d be half lying if I said this wasn’t working, when the truth is, that fear of the unknown is nonexistent, though what I do know would hardly classify as a breakthrough. It’s more like a virus that’s been decades in the making, only it’s now finally run amuck in the thoughts that I’ve been wasting, yet still never cured amid all of the chasing. So stop facing, and get to the replacing, and forgetting about the amazing, Me.