The Last One Found

I go into this new year, with hope.  

I  believe that life is getting better, that my best adventures are still ahead of me, and this journey is just beginning.   I believe the love I’ve shared were all just precursors to something greater.  And I will count my scars and be grateful someone cared enough to go that deep.  I hope that I will find you soon.  Because I’ve been living my whole life to be in love.   I know, that’s a stupid thing to say but before I could remember wanting to be a lawyer, or a writer, or anything in between… I remember wanting to have someone.  I’ve been on an endless game of hide-and-seek’ and all the other kids have all been found and are already eating their cake.  I’m the only one left wandering the halls and looking under stairs…  but if I’m still here then it means you’re still looking.  With those bright eyes– come find me.  

 

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The Courage of a Kiosk Salesman

I wish I had the courage of a Kiosk Salesman.   I know they’re the bane of the holiday shopper, lacking any storefront or the confines of four walls, so anyone who passes within their vicinity is a potential customer.  Like a small dog on a short leash in an open yard, they go after anything– fearlessly.   And it’s not the salesmanship or the bravado I envy, no it’s being impervious to rejection that rolls like whiskey off a duck’s back.  (that imagery doe) They continue undaunted, hawking their wares.  And if they can sell cheap lotions and strips of clothing with such dedication, why can’t I sell me?

Because it seems like every shut door is a tally on some invisible scorecard in the back of my mind that says “Maybe you’re not as special as you thought” It’s one more stolen jelly bean from a swiftly dwindling jar of my self esteem, and The Universe is getting diabetes from eating me up.

I log in to a stonewall of smiling faces, of heights and ages, and this information that’s supposed to lead me to ‘the one’.  And I’ve been letting loose arrows by the quiver, and they all get delivered and met with:
Read By

While the Kiosk salesman gets a shake of the head or a wave of disinterest, I get a tiny notification that my carefully crafted message was seen but not reciprocated.   And the sting of that is potent.  Because this is the best of me on display, carefully crafted and showcased in my avenue of strength– writing.  With the chosen photo out of thousands that makes my chin look chiseled and my arms look like they can carry more than disappointment.

This isn’t me disheveled at the supermarket in my wine-stained-work-clothes chatting up some girl in front of the frozen pizzas, where she can laugh and walk away and I can tell myself her boyfriend was just more interesting today.  No, this is the best of me rejected constantly in a place dedicated to people searching for love.  And It’s not Okay Cupid, to turn me into your pin-cush-‘in of what could-have-been.

Because you were supposed to make this easier.  But lately, I’ve get the feeling like you’re just one more door for me to look through and see the rest of the world dancing by.  And I promise to behave myself and not to step on toes this time, if I could just have one more dance partner who leaves me in awe, mouth-agape with nothing to say.

And maybe I should stop talking.

I should stop talking.

I should.

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“…sometimes a blowjobs not enough.”   haha best lyric ever.

The Bridge of Closed Doors

I’ve closed doors that can never be reopened, and on the other side are the unborn ghosts of a lifetime together; big house, big dogs, children, and laughter.   But I know, She goes on to find someone better, to grow old with someone who can cherish her in a way I could never.  And in a way, I did that, with a graceful bow and a sidestep through the curtain, and I’m certain I’ll never be at this point again.  And it’s just as well.  Sad smile, exit left.  Chin up.  No regrets.  

I pull down each closed door and stack them one upon the other on the floor.  Each one raises me higher and takes me a bit further– planks for me to walk, out over uncharted seas in an an ever growing arc of my history, of who I was leading to who I could be.  But eventually it’s no longer one more step’  over the restless black abyss, until we plummet to our death… no it was that last moment until our long lonely walks– intersect.  And our feet are steady, and the wood holds fast.  A bridge.  Abridged. We meet– at last.

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The Old Man and the Machine

This is her third time walking down the frozen foods aisle.  Could it be she’s not looking at peas, she’s looking at me?  She glances across the five feet between us and smiles, brushing the hair from her face.  And it’s no coincidence that her eyes are locked with my eyes and she’s not looking away.  And brain no make mouth talk good.  Durrr.

And then she’s gone.

So from now on I’m going to live as if’ my body was on temporary loan.  In actuality I am one hundred years old.  Broken in a darkened room, as the storm rages outside.  Decrepit and decayed, clinging to life through respirators and tubes coursing into my veins.  And through magic or science I’ve sent back in time to inhabit my younger body for the last few hours I have left.  I’m not going to rob any banks or stick my dick in any electrical sockets, because hey that’ll catch up to god ole’ old me eventually.  But I’m going to live life this body is stolen by an older wiser me with no time for regrets.  And I’m going to be brave, and fearless.

And I’m going to eat ice cream.

So the next time a pretty girl is looking at me.  Brain will make mouth talk good.

And I’ll say, “Hello”

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Matchstick Girls

I’ve traipsed my way
through someone’s love again.
Completely thoughtless
to the consequences
and it’s only fitting that the axe
falls heavy on my head.

Because I’m to blame
for burning through good girls
like matches I can’t’ light

All He wanted
was the ring in his pocket
to glitter round her finger
and Her, his home and hearth
for the rest of their days.

And I the dower downpour,
snuffed her like
so many brief indulgences.
Now she’s his soggy tinder,
and I can’t even remember
what it was like to feel her
aglow in my cheeks
and the chill is setting in.

So I’ll stomp my feet and
cup my empty hands
in the shivering cold
on the outside looking in.
And I know.  

I’ll be the kindling in someone else’s pyre soon enough.

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Nope, it’s not the Universe that’s broken… it’s me.

I think I’m past my fatboy stage of dating.  At first I was like a kid in a candy store, cramming whatever I could get my hands on into my proverbial relationship maw.  *Nom Nom Nom* girlfriendz everyqwherzz!!  I kinda burned through a few bridges.  But I’m learning.  What’s good on paper and in theory isn’t always good in practice.  What I think I want, and what I actually am happy with are two vastly different things.

Here’s what I’ve learned:

– I will meet a lot of amazing women, but knowing at what point to say no and walk away is just as important as knowing when to stick around, and that’s just as a much an intellectual decision as it is an intuitive one.   Just because “She’s good” doesn’t mean “she’s good for me”  and I need to be a bit more selfless in letting people go and be good for someone else.  Once I quit, I need to quit for good.  No sloppy re-tries, no second hand boomerang romances.  No drunk texts.  No falling back into sex.  Just done.

To this end,  I figured out my text messaging system (Go sms pro) has a private box where I can put numbers and conversations I don’t want to show up on my normal texting screen.  I started using it as a burial ground for conversations and relationships that fizzled, so I’m never tempted to rekindle them again.  I don’t have to block her, but I don’t have to see her either.  If she messages me, it’ll show up and I can always dig it back out, but at least from my side I can have some finality when something is done.

– I can’t do pushovers anymore.  Any girl that’s content with giving me a twenty minute massage without getting something in return, well she’s not strong enough for me.  Because once things get comfortable and complacent, I’ll take advantage and spoil myself, and then I’ll get bored.  And I’ll end up being that guy married-with-two-kids who’s banging the secretary and picking up prostitutes on business trips.  I hate that guy.

– I always thought women are the gatekeepers of sex, but maybe it’s partially my responsibility too.   Sex too soon is like opening Christmas presents two weeks too early.  Yeah the toys are fun, but it’s not Christmas unless it’s opening presents at the right time, on the right day.  Or to quote 100 Girls “There’s a certain way a man stares at a woman he loves. The man looks like a boy on his birthday. And he treats the woman as if she were a gift that he’s waited so long to open and now he can’t wait to see what the treasure is inside.”  I’ve been a victim of my own sexcess, and while my loins are thanking me, the rest of me feels as if I’ve shot myself in the relationship foot… yeah you sort out that imagery.

– I think my own puritanical sense of propriety needs to be adjusted.  I’m almost thirty.  Everyone in my age range has been at this dance for a few years, I shouldn’t be surprised if the girls I meet have had their dance card filled out a little.  Not everyone has been in monogamous-lockdown like me for the past ten years.  And I think that has greatly stunted a lot of my growth where I’m still viewing the world with doey high school eyes.  If you’re here with me, and you love me that should be enough.  We’ll crunch the numbers later.

So that’s what I’ve learned I’m back at square one.  Alone, but smarter.  I think.  I’m searching for a sense of awe.  That grade school flutter, when I see her and I just know that’s the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.   I’ve been getting it in small doses, but then it fades.  And maybe that’s the problem.  I am looking for someone to impress me, when in truth I should be working on being impressive and the rest will follow.

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