I think I'm becoming an old man...

Forget the straight razors and harmonicas and granola, I actually feel older.

Am I over?

Well, drunk again. I don't know if I'm over this chick, or any chick for that matter. This game is torturous. Fuck this, I'm watching Citizen Kane. That's right.

Am I back in the game?!

So I'm not drunk, but I'm...of drink. Got my heart broken on Thursday, and tonight I got a lady's phone number. I walked her home with Eli. I think that I can hang in this game, although there's no doubt it's tough. I'm not the cute one in the group, this is known, but I'm a good person, and I can make someone else feel good. It's so hard anymore, because there are so many deviant guys out there, and so how does a gentleman make himself known? The worst guys of the bunch hijack the trademarks of chivalry (i.e. holding doors open, buying at meals) with the explicit purpose of parlaying them into sex, and then forgetting them. This is by no means a new phenomenon but, ah, it really sucks to be a nice guy.

...

You know, it's not over. I can't just write something kind of funny, kind of sad and expect this pain to be alleviated. It takes time, naturally, but it's not just that. I really hurt. I really ache over this. My chest is almost sentient and crying out in pain of this. It's too hard for men, anymore. It's too hard for men who are willing to embrace emotionalism, self-loathing and rejection. My favorite philosopher is Seneca, but my passions refer much more clearly to poets than philosophers, and Sophocles chief. I'm so much more emotional than I wish I was, and stopping it would be trying to dam one ocean from another. It's a terrific pain of having one's heart broken, even of one is ready for it. And I was on the phone with her, and I told her that I needed her to tell me that it wasn't going to happen, and she did. I finally got what I wanted out of our relationship, and for the moment I was content. But as the conversation whittled to to its end, I was rushed by circumstance and our goodbye was less my emotional attention and swapped with the chore of turning talk into silence.
And then the questions arise. Chief in this tribe for me is always the same: how do two people fall in love-no, that's not it. The question is "how do two people fall for each other. That, my loyal read-that, Matt Shirley, is the question.
You know what honestly is funny? I just bought three books today, one is another version of Macbeth, my favorite Shakespeare play, one is the Sporting News Fantasy Baseball prospectus, and the third is a moleskin journal that I'll keep in my breast pocket. Macbeth...fantasy...baseball...and one for my words. I've got to say something-anything, really.

So there's this letter I wrote...

Clearly inspired by the night's events, I've come to recognize some of the poetry in my heartaches. The following is a letter I wrote to a girl when I perceived her as becoming aware of my attraction to her. I loved her, but I was too afraid of just telling her that, so I wrote her this. She will be referred to as "K," and I've removed some of the intimacies.

K,
I feel that you perceive me as getting too close to you, or trying to manipulate something. I have to emphasize the fact that this is not the case. I think that you can honestly say that in a few short moments we've learned much about each other, and grown to enjoy one another's company. I think I've overstepped myself for such a recent acquaintance, and I'm sorry for encroaching. I never, ever wanted to make you uncomfortable or anything, I just thought that we were having fun and beginning to care about one another. I have no advice worthy of you hearing for (her boyfriend), your future or your mind; I only know that all I know about you right now is that you're simply wonderful. You are my favorite company I've ever been around, bar none. It has been so hard coming back here after basically a failed experiment in following my wishes over my (circumstances) in going to Boston, and you're the only reason I'm still putting up with it. And my habits are changing, too. My diet has changed only since meeting you. I'm becoming a better man just by knowing you. And this has got to be so strange for you to hear, but I'm a writer, and I've spent my whole life looking for the good things. The moment, last Saturday night where I picked you up for the concert, it might have been my favorite moment of my whole life. I just felt that there was such a beautiful, kindred spirit whom I was finally sharing with. And it hurts to say this, because you could only perceive them as flaws of mine, but it's true.

The point is, that I think I'm just going to tuck that thought away, and all these moments between us I'm going to hide away so that you're not put off by me being so effusive about seeing you or being in your presence. I'm so sorry that I have to put you in this situation, but there's no way that I can't tell you that I miss you immediately upon the moment you rise from your seat next to me, or the moment that I have to turn away to pretend to think about something else. I don't even know why I'm sending this letter necessarily, but that you said that I'm nothing at this moment, and it wasn't an insult, but a truth. I'm afraid of you thinking I'm trying to make this more for you than just a simple acquaintance until you can return to the people you care about. I feel ashamed for letting myself feel so much when you think I shouldn't have, but like I said, I'm a writer, and I have to look for the wonderful things. And it's in the security of me saying that I'm a writer that I would do anything for you. I need to feel that kinship.

I wanted to ask you out for a drink tonight, or anything, but I not going to, and I don't want you to feel pity or any of that. I want you to treat me as honestly and free of sentimentality as you wish. I'm terribly impetuous, and it's a burden for some, but I know right now that, even as I have nothing, I'd give up all of it to be near you, never to try and trick or seduce, but just enough that I would be able to see you, and not be ashamed in thinking that it's going to be one of my best days.

Always,
Matt

Cyrano, anyone?

Moving on...

I have to be successful. I'm moving on from another heartbreak, another emotional chasm and I must move forward. Much akin to the contents of an old bomb shelter, only frequented greater than any number of storms or nuclear scares could compound and multiply, my necessities are the music of the lost, movies shock with froth and creme', and literature of athletes who only bother to love that which has two-hundred and eighteen stitches and is smacked with a wooden plank three of ten times it's thrown (one and a half of ten if you're from DC); all this amounts to emergency readiness). I told another woman that I wanted to be with her tonight. I'm three for ten (if I forget a few wild pitches) going into the night, and this one was the knuckler of all. It was so slow coming in, I should've done any number of things to save face; maybe it was two deceptive and I shouldn't have swung, maybe I should have leaned in, and it would have hit me. Neither happened. I swung and I missed, hard.

Hard.

Fucking hard.

It's nearly funny now, come to think of it. I'm no Casanova, just as much I'm no Lou Gehrig. My swings are hard, and yet I miss routinely. I wish I was better at it. I wish I was a swinger like John Travolta and Reggie Jackson, but I'm no pro, I'm no prospect, I'm not even in the beer leagues. I'm just an emotional little-leaguer, waiting to get called up to swing again. I'm Casey at best, and the Mudville nine have never seen a loser like me.