“I have something to tell you. It’s good news—or bad news—depending on how you look at it.”

“What’s going on?” I ask, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the fear that the rubber(s) failed—and a little Meg or Jay was forthcoming.

“I… met someone,” she offered.

A massive wave of relief washes over my face. “Oooh. Tell me more!”

She proceeds to tell me the story. About how she met him through a coworker. About how they’re messaging non-stop. All the while she’s smiling and giggling, with an intoxicating light in her eyes.

“He talks to me like you do. He treats me like you do. He makes me feel like you do. Like I deserve happiness and joy. But…,” she trails off.

“But?”

“He hasn’t had sex in… ten years!”

“Wow! Ten years? What’s that even like?”

“Right?” Yet, she is excited!

And it’s in this moment, I know that she understands me. We adore each other, and enjoy being together.

However, our journeys are very different. I explained that from the start, but it wasn’t until this conversation that I know she understands.

That it’s about the love. And that each of us deserve it.

Last winter, I lamented that I don’t want to feel like a charlatan. Anymore. Ever. Perhaps it is because I feel as if I’ve always bought into “Fake it until you make it.”

Yet, I’ve never made it. Fake it? Yes. Make it? No.

Dilettante, indeed. Jack of all trades, master of none.

Or have I?

My inner voice is constantly telling me I’m unsuccessful. Always riding the struggle bus. One disaster away from ruin. Constantly searching for evidence of a single decision in life that wasn’t… stupid.

So, I was stunned when my favorite girl tells me she’s jealous of my life. My freedom.

Yes, she’s an important part of my life. We have proven time and again that we support each other through all of our… stupid decisions. And hoping one will prove to be that springboard into our fantasies of being eccentric billionaires. Hoping. Maybe wishing is a better word.

So, what is real? As a charlatan surviving in an increasingly cruel world, is anything real? Apparently I am good at something. Money keeps appearing, even though it seems so surreal. As do the words on the page. Am I a writer? Perhaps.

Neither her nor I are making any obvious strides to get ahead. We take turns getting into trouble. We help each other out when we can. But neither of us manage to get ahead… for long, at least.

And, while we share many of the same passions and ideals, neither of us have anyone in our immediate social circle we can identify as successful. Or a mentor. Her friends are self-absorbed, drink too much, and are underwater in debt. My friends have a li’l money—enough for a comfortable living—yet have nothing else in their lives I find… desirable. And continuously give advice that is not asked for. And pass judgment on my unconventional life.

Is anything real? Am I truly immortal? If so, I’d better find a mentor who can help me live better than I am now.

I think I know where to look…

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.

Sometimes a bully only needs a target. Maybe I did something to this guy, maybe I didn’t. All I can recall is he traumatized (and continues to traumatize) me throughout my youth.

I lived in fear. And paranoia. I still do.

Is he around the next corner? And what will I do if he is?

I’d like to think, that as adults, we’ll continue to ignore each other’s very existence. Yet, what about when the alcohol flows. What then?

—

Bullying was encouraged in my high school. How else were these little pussy boys going to learn to defend themselves?

Hell, even my gym teacher was a child… taking a wet towel snap at a student in the shower.

I suppose we turned out alright. For the most part, anyway. And perhaps, we should be thankful that if a fight broke out on his watch—or the guidance counselor, or the shop teacher—that an effort was made to keep it fair. But, no interference.

Thanks, coach.

—

I don’t remember much about my bully’s youth. His little brother had palsy, or some shit like that, and he used it to be an asshole, just like his big brother. Victim of shitty genetics AND a bully. How does that even work? My god, they were both assholes.

And, I remember their dad had died when they were very young. Toddlers, maybe. Legend has it he was an asshole too. Lost his head—literally—running a snowmobile through a barbed wire fence.

And their mom was pretty, and had no trouble finding shelter for her and her boys.

Oh, I’ll bet those boys resented all of the father-figures that strolled in and out of their lives.

I don’t think that qualifies as a license to be a total asshole. Yet, what do I know?

—

I haven’t even seen this man in decades. Nor thought about him. And there he was, in real life, standing there with a shit-eating grin next to his best buddy, wearing the same grin—minus about forty IQ points.

Then they locked eyes on me. And realized who they are looking at. And I discovered the years had been kinder to their teeth than they had to mine, for I could count them all.

And I felt the familiar sensation. Pure, unadulterated fear. As he moved across the room to pick up a pool cue. And his asshole buddy followed, grabbing one of his own.

Then they approach. Slowly. Deliberately. Still smiling those idiotic smiles.

All I wanted to do, tonight, is finish my laundry, finish my beer, and go to bed.

And now, these assholes, and in my laundrobar, walking toward me, performing test swings with pool cues like they’re testing the balance of a hatchet for cutting fire wood.

Fucking wonderful. Some things never change.

—

Confession: I never learned to fight. Saying that as a grown man is shameful. Looking back at my childhood, my high school bullies are part of that. As a small, chubby kid, it was far easier to hide.

To pretend I didn’t exist.

How small can I get against the wall? The edge of the seat on the bus? Or inside a locker in the girls’ locker room?

Yeah, I let the girls hide me.

No wonder I am a fucking mess with no friends. And can’t relate to men, at all. Nor can I keep a woman. I wouldn’t be attracted to me either. After that first fuck, anyway.

Unfortunate penis, indeed.

—

These assholes are still approaching me. They’ve split up, and one of them has a fucking Roman candle in his back pocket.

I feel so small. I’m in the best shape of my life, yet have no idea what to do or how to do it, there’s two of them—each one twice my size, with no qualms about fighting dirty.

Maybe this is a reckoning. Lady Fortune is dealing judgement for my growing up to be such a pussy. For not doing anything about this asshole when I was a fat youth. As such, somehow I’ll be to blame when the incendiary device burns down the fucking laundrobar.

At least, I can probably miss jury duty tomorrow.

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.