The Dreaded Dry Spell

It has happened.

I'm not sure when, and I'm not sure how. But in some way, between ending things with Jenny and where we are now - wherever that is - I have lost track of what it was that made me a desirable person.

Is it my attitude? Does my smile now give away some deeper insight into my life, my soul? Is it my unwillingness to change, to settle?

I don't know where I am anymore. I've been on Match for a few months now, and despite getting a few nibbles here and there, it has been a rousing disaster. If Shakespeare was writing it, this would be a great tragedy.

What's worse, the headline of this particular blog ("The Dreaded Dry Spell"... pay attention, slackers) is already out of date. It's more of a dry desert at this point, which is worse. Shit, I'd kill for a dry "spell."

28. Washed up. To paraphrase Rob Gordon in High Fidelity, "We were frightened of being left alone for the rest of our lives. Only people of a certain disposition are frightened of being alone for the rest of their lives at the age of 28, and we were of that disposition."

How completely unreasonable. How completely, emotionally lewd. How fucking true.

I'm at a point now where I'm meeting random (albeit, pretty) women at parties, and getting their numbers a few days later, only to call and receive no call back. I'm calling old flings and flames and trying to get together for a drink, a beer, a cup of coffee. And, if I'm lucky, a clue.

A clue about what I keep doing wrong. I know it's me, and I know it's the same thing every time. I know I'm lost and I just keep walking through this forest of bullshit, trying to find answers that may or may not even be real. I'm searching for some reason to stop loathing myself, my issues, my reasons, my justifications.

I'm not finding much.

The problem is, as mentioned, the lack of a call-back. But why should they call me back? I'm a distant memory; the guy who wasn't quite good/grown-up/smart/rich/funny/interesting enough to want to tie themselves to for a significant amount of time. Instead, they found the good/grown-up/smart/rich/funny/interesting guy shortly after I exited stage left, and they haven't looked back.

Me? I'm allllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll about the look-back.

Kim is, as she has always been, in Missoula. I'm in Denver. That's a no-go. I'm at the mercy of fate, hoping that our paths cross again. But, like that lyric from The Format:

we are parallel lines
we’re running in circles
we're never meant to cross

And that's how it feels. I'm on one line, and the rest of the world are on another, and we're never meant to cross.

And I miss Kim.

Miss? Maybe not. Do I know her well enough to miss her? Were my feelings for her just part and parcel with having a great time on vacation, her smiles and jokes and soft skin just plunging me farther into a dream world where the two of us find ourselves together? Or are they real?

(I think that's the problem, by the way. I never know when I'm happy. I figure it out long after the person has gone, and as the Stones' "You Can't Always Get What You Want" plays in my head, I'm violently angry at myself for becoming a part of the cliche. Fuck me, and fuck my stupid brain and emotions. What the fuck is wrong with me?)

So, I'm going to experiment with some self-therapy. Over the next several days, I'm going to discuss several of the great loves of my life in this space in the hopes of figuring out why things ended. The five of you who read this blog can help me figure out an answer to that age-old question:

What The Fuck Is Wrong With Me?