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.