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 pay attention, slackers) is already out of date.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?

More Montana Pictures...

Oh, pretty good...












He probably had this coming...




Last night in Missoula. This was just before the dreaded John - Her ex-boyfriend and my new nemesis - showed up at McKenzie River to ruin my momentum in the "I think she's starting to like me" sweepstakes. I wouldn't call it "cock-blocking," because that would suggest that I was merely trying to get her in the sack. The fact is, I was really trying to get to know her, and sex honestly didn't enter into the equation.

It was later in this very night when I found myself with an opportunity to make a move and realized I have the testicular fortitude of an infant. Awesome.

Bowker always says, "You define the moment, or the moment defines you." I think it's from Tin Cup. Anyway, several moments defined me this weekend. Shitty.

I have more pictures, and will post them when I can.

Pictures, as promised

That's us. From left: Me, Kim, Laura, Thom. Naturally, I look like a chode.

This is the only photo I ended up getting with Kim in it, which is absurd considering from the moment I arrived in Missoula, I wanted to hang out with her. And I did. I just forgot to take pictures, I guess. I suck.

Got an email from Thom today. He is advising me on the Kim '07 project, which is now the official project name (in case someone asks). He said to push it back to Kim '08, essentially, and that I should move slow on this one.

So, people, I ask you: how the fuck do you move slow without A) alienating her, or B) feeling like you're not moving towards your goal? I've never been good at games, and I hate games, and this... feels like a game. Like if I don't call, she's going to think I'm playing games, and if I do, she's going to think I'm desperate.

I fucking hate this.

San Diego

Dear San Diego,

Fuck you.



Love,
Denver

Wednesday - Quickly

Okay, I promised photos and they're still coming. No need to worry there. However, the last two nights have been upended by baseball (Rockies on Monday) and laziness (me, last night), so you'll have to forgive the tardiness.

Just a quick update: I'm not going to Missoula. For one thing, a ticket up there is nearing $600, and that's pretty spendy for a dude that just spent about that much total on his last trip. I can't afford to drive it again, and adding to the complications, The Girl (Kim) is working all that weekend at the hospital (she's a nurse). She works nights, which would lead to me doing absolutely nothing while she worked, and it just doesn't sound like all that grand of a time.

I'll get back up there, and perhaps more importantly, she might be coming here.

Pictures and full update TONIGHT.

It was a magical weekend...

Montana was beautiful. The Grizzlies won. I saw the new UM Journalism building (it made me jealous; photos coming soon). Had a great time with my friends. Drank a ton of beer. Checked out all three local breweries (this just in: they're fucking awesome).

And I think I might just have fallen in love.

I know, absurd. I agree. I'm completely retarded for this girl, though, and I don't know how else to put it.

She's beautiful. And smart. Funny, interesting, dog-lover, lives in my favorite city on the planet. Drinks beer. Smokes pot on occasion. And all the little things that usually bother me about girls are the kinds of things that I find annoying about all women, I don't find even remotely repulsive when it comes to her. I don't know how to explain it.

For example: Saturday, we were all getting ready at The Girl's house (late... we were severely hungover, especially Thom, who was a complete and utter mess... there will be pictures... just not tonight) for the football game. Putting on our gear, getting psyched up for the game (and tailgates), Thom and I were ready in about .8 seconds, and the girls (Thom's girlfriend Laura, and Kim, our hostess who I ended up crazy for) were in the bathroom, of all things, curling their hair.

Now.

I'm not against having the ladies curl their hair. I find it very nice most times, even if I don't really notice it when I notice it. But that morning, it struck me as odd that the girls would be curling their hair, just to stuff it under a baseball cap and go to an outdoor, in the elements football game. And Thom and I discussed, both of us rolling our eyes at the situation. Our drunkenness had made us late for the tailgates, and now the girls' vanity was making us later. Suck.

But a funny thing happened at Washington-Grizzly Stadium that day. Aside from Weber State taking an early 10-0 lead and making me worry, I found myself standing next to Kim, this striking, slightly-wavy-haired blonde in the Student Section, and was astonished at how nice she looked. And as we bumped elbows, and flirted here and there, and joked around, I wondered...

Did she curl her hair to impress me? Probably not, but how sweet if she had.

Was this really happening? Is she maybe, kinda, sorta into me?



I'm so hopeful. I know it's absurd, I know she lives 1000 miles away, and I know that it's fucking retarded that I couldn't get her off my mind all the way home. And I hate myself for letting her get to me. And I hate her ex, the dreaded John, for showing up just when things were really getting off the ground for the two of us, and crushing any momentum I'd built up with this whole day of goodwill. Fuck the fuck off.

Thom asked, "Are you smitten?" And the answer is yes. Yes I am.

The thing about being smitten is, you have no control. You cede control to the other party, and because you (I) can't hide your (my) smitten-ness, you let them dictate the situation. Which effectively keeps you from doing anything. Like making a move of any sort. Like pulling her in for a kiss when you're up at 1am, your friends are in bed and it's just the two of you, watching Weeds and talking. Like telling her that you can't stop looking at her because she has an electricity about her that is completely irresistible.

Colleen, my friend from a million eons ago, is getting married in two weeks...

In Missoula...

Which is where Kim lives...

Perhaps you can see where this is going.

Perhaps that's good. Maybe you can tell me.

Because I have no idea.

So I will put it to you, my (5 or so) loyal readers. DO I make plans and go to Missoula, check out Colleen's wedding with Kim as my date (I've already asked, in the event that I make it, and she said yes)? DO I pursue this any further (she does, after all, live a 13 hour drive away)? DO I cut my losses and walk?

Tell me what to do. 'Cause I haven't got a clue.

VAY CAYYYYYYYYYYY!

I'll be in Montana from today, through the weekend. Don't expect any posts. But, should I actually manage to get 10 minutes to pound out a blog (and by "pound out a blog", I mostly mean "poop"), I demand comments.

I'll be buying a disposable camera at some point, and if I have a few minutes I'll get them developed and throw them up here.

Montana: It's Debauch-a-riffic!