You said it last spring. That I was wasting my time. And well, we have different ideas about relationships, and it is my time to waste, and ultimately we do enjoy each other, so I continued.

To waste. My time.

And life is unkind. To both of us, really.

Yet you have more at stake. And you shut down. In that respect, you truly are a modern woman.

I’ve awakened a lot of greatness in you. But when you go back behind the wall into your safe space in your head, well, let’s just say it is getting quite tedious to start over. Yet again.

Wasting my time, indeed.

Yes, you deserve joy. And love. And everything that comes along with it.

I adore you. I always will. But, perhaps, I can’t be around you.

Is there a balance? Can I be available to you? Without being there? Always checking in? And feeling like I’m... in the way?

Wasting my time, indeed.

After all, there is so much beauty... everywhere. Such as the lovely gymnastics instructor with sparkling blue eyes I am currently talking to.

Why intrude where I’m no longer wanted? I guess it’s time to let you make the next move...

What i’m listening to:

Don't Answer Me
The Alan Parsons Project
Ammonia Avenue

Damn.

I knew it was a bad step. Judging by the sharp pain from my lower back.

At first, movement helped. The pain is there. Just dull. Okay, dull-ish.

And now?

Pushing it into the lumbar support of my seat helps. With the pain.

Buuut…

I need to get up. And I can’t.

The beauty in the summer dress across from me in this coffee shop doesn’t need to see me cry. Or hear me yell.

Yet, I can’t stay here forever.

What did I do? Monday’s chiropractor appointment seems so. far. away.

So, here I sit. Crippled. A gimp. Until I grin and bear it.

The letter had an apologetic air to it. An air of sadness.

Almost regret.

Don’t be sad about breaking up.

Never be sorry. People get together. They share. They learn. And then they part. Life is like water, if it stays too long in one place, it goes bad.

Look at it as a business transaction. If both of our needs aren’t being met, it is time to part.

To grow. To get that satisfaction we crave.

To move on.

Best wishes to you.

The day you sign a client is the day you start losing one.

It happened about a week ago. Interestingly, while I was writing a short story… perhaps for a collection, perhaps for this space, perhaps simply to sit on my hard drive.

And it was subtle. Incredibly subtle.

As subtle as the curves of the tall beauty that just walked by. And the way her jeans hug them.

What a beautiful distraction! And welcome!

Anyway, I was writing a short story about someone wrongfully persecuted, and I was almost finished, when the idea fell apart.

An idea what was so clear an hour before… dissolved.

How to end it? How long did it take for his perceived crime to be discovered? And how long after the alleged crime was he picked up?

These nuggets of story vanished. Like morning fog in the rising sun.

What’s next?

I have sat down to write a couple of times. Resulting in nothing worth keeping—save, potentially, this piece. (That last post is certainly... shyt.)

And possibly an unsent letter to Amy. But that is best not mentioning.

Why is this happening?

Is it stress? I am noticing I have to concentrate lately to melt the tension away from my facial muscles. And that any random thought or distraction brings it right back. And when I’m with certain people, my hands are clenched.

I rarely worry about money, so when conditions arise that stir these worries, it does become harder to relax.

So, potentially it is stress.

Is it the unknown? I feel ready to leap. Yet I am uncertain where. I’m welcome in Kansas City. And Tulsa. And Jackson Hole.

And Europe is again within reach.

And of course, as the impulse to leap arises, I am meeting more pretty girls. They truly are… everywhere! And they emit an incredible light when you gaze upon their beauty.

There truly is nothing quite like making a pretty girl smile.

So, is it the beauty orbiting me? A distraction? Albeit, a welcome one.

Perhaps.

Is it… hesitation?

This summer, it has become painfully apparent that hesitation is my greatest sin.

I drag out anything unpleasant. The stoics are unamused.

A perfect job reaches out to me, and I nearly lose it dragging out the paperwork. The perfect rental becomes available, and I nearly lose it by failing to reach out to her. The perfect pair of shoes appear at the store, and I lose them by telling myself, “Next time.”

And I’ll forever regret not continuing the conversation with the beauty at the grocery store who was seeking a Butterfinger as a post-workout indulgence.

There it is. Regret. My constant companion. Look back! This space is filled with nearly twenty years of regret! Will I ever learn?

Perhaps not. Which is why this book lives within me… and needs to be released.

Let others learn from my hesitation. My regret. My failures. (Can I even call them failures? Many people roll failure into a teachable moment… I hesitate over and over and over again.)

If only, I could simply stop it. Stop hesitating.

Maybe I can.

Oh, life…

Why are we here? What purpose does it serve?

Is it enough to become the arousing man who doesn’t count? To have all of the ladies?

Or maybe we’re just here to exchange oxygen for carbon dioxide… for the plants?

Maybe most of us are here to simply learn… failure.

Or maybe I’m just wrong. And I always have been. How would I ever know? If I once thought I was right… what if I was… wrong?

Maybe I have become my sister’s brother.

I’m not writing. I’m not working. I’m not eating. I am sleeping a lot. And I get most of my nutrition from spirits.

O hai, Melissa.

And I am chatting with women who may—or may not—have my best interests at heart.

Thanks, sis. I may never trust again.

This downward spiral. Accelerating since the incident. Decisions made… based on emotions.

Sure, Amy wants to see me… indeed, she wants me in her life. Yet, she’s not my girl.

Then there’s Aryn. Also, wants to see me. Wants me in her life. Yet, she’s found a sugar daddy… I cannot even compete. Who knows where this will go?

Michelle? Are you for real? You may be my girl.

If only, you’re for real.

And Ellen? I am convinced you are only looking for a sugar daddy…

At this point in my life, I am not your boy. Thanks for the titty pics though.

Decisions. Based on emotion. Not intelligence.

When will this end?

Will it?

One good thing may have come from Michelle… (she is definitely a brat!). And that is discovering I do long for companionship.

Will this come from many companions? Along the journey? Where do I even want to be?

Do I even want to be?

Hmm.

Perhaps, it is time to switch off the television. To find out what happens with the new jobs I’m applying for. To discover if “the incident” will necessitate a move. Amy wants me there. Michelle says she’ll follow me anywhere.

Maybe it’s time to learn a musical instrument? Are there even pawn shops here? Instrumental shops?

What’s next? Let’s find out.

Not long ago, an acquaintance introduced me to the term: projector archetype.

He was using it to identify himself, but…

Anyway, what a projector does is he/she enters the room. Surveys the room, to get an idea of what the room wants from him/her. Once that decision is made, the performance begins. And, boy, does he/she shine!

Different room with different players? Different performance. On a date? Anything she/he wants.

Makes it mind-blowingly hard to be authentic, don’t you think?

So, I mentioned, but…

Because in a crowd, or a room of strangers, or in times of discomfort… with more than one girl, I, too, am a projector. Everybody loves me. Or hates me. Whatever they want.

Yet, one-on-one? That is when you’ll get to know the real me. Authentically.

How do I know? Because I ask. I want to learn at the feet of women. And they love to teach. They want real men.

Not projectors. Not even when the room fills up.

Oh, Snapchat.

How I hate to love you. And love to hate you.

That sense of joy—and dread—when that yellow heart appears. Or disappears. What is the metric that determines that? Exactly?

When you’re best girl is pissed, and doesn’t respond for a week. The yellow heart transfers to the next best girl. And your best slips a notch. Or six.

Then she’s back. We’re messaging. The bond is stronger than ever. Eight days go by. Nine.

Number two is going to get the red heart after all!

Day ten, flip. Messaging both girls heavily. Did she flinch when the icon changed? Not to the red heart, but to the smiley?

Clearly, I spend entirely too much time thinking about how Snapchat functions…

Nothing happens when you die. Nothing.

Ask how I know.

If you’re lucky, you left something behind. A legacy, if you will. Or maybe a mystery.

The only thing that is certain is you are no longer there to protect your secrets. Your lies.

There’s no light. No angel. No second chances.

Or, there is a third possibility.

Maybe no one will even notice you are gone. No legacy. No mystery. Simply a void. But really, who among us is that lucky?

I’ll never forget how much you cared. You were the only one who checked in on me.

Hell, I didn’t even care. Maybe that’s the problem.

And now. You’re gone. There are hints on the socials that you still care, but you are careful to hide them.

And now. There is another. She cares. She checks in on me—even when I don’t care about myself. Yes, maybe that’s the problem.

Like you, she’s beautiful. And charming. And fascinating. And crazy smart. And she’ll leave some day. And that keeps me guarded against her.

And it’s hard to care about someone who doesn’t care about himself.

Yes. Maybe I’m the problem. And that’s fine. And once again, I will say goodbye to the one who knows me best. And slink back into the shadows. Where I belong.