Was.

Love letter to what I have lost:

You are my idea of perfection. You make me truly feel as if I have touched something pure and unperturbed by the obnoxious machinations of society. You indulge occasionally, granted, but that's to be expected; everyone wants to belong, and I know it can't be easy belonging to my world.

You are beautiful and somehow beyond the petty windfalls of fate, and that is why I know you will wait. I know very well how evil the scheme I'm perpetrating is: I'm gonna let you cling for a few extra months while I expend my typical early-twenties male virility on some dumb teenagers, then I'm going to come crawling back to you, worshiping you like the absolute goddess you are.

You are fucking amazing though, no-one could deny that. Even if I end up with someone your complete opposite, I'll always respect you as the ultimate personification of everything a man could want: intelligence, beauty, sex appeal, dignity, morals, ethics and mystery.

You are supreme. The human imagination would be hard-pressed to conjure your equal.

Love is a weak word to describe what it is I feel for you.

I.

I stumble through the doorway to the sound of the alarm system. It's supposed to be reassuring, telling me no-one's broken in and stolen my shit while I've been out, but what it's really telling me is: no-one cares that you've been anywhere.

In my scripts I fantasize about girls waiting for boys at doorsteps and calling to them from windows; in reality, girls are whisked away by persistent yet indifferent bad boys who hint at things without saying too much, who don't appear to want anything, but have yet to discover how badly they need a geeky young girl to drown in their world.

I sit here waiting for some girl, any girl, to impress me, to make an effort, to show the slightest indication that she wants something from me, but is there such a girl? A girl prepared to put herself out there for me? And if there is, could I handle her? Would I even want someone like that?

I suppose there is no perfect encounter. It all just happens randomly; any intervention, any engineering and the illusion is gone. Nobody wants to feel like they planned to fall in love, they want it to just happen.

I wonder if I'm a hard man to please. I mean, I'd like to think that anyone with heart could make the grade, but I have the feeling that I'm far more brutal and exacting than that.

I suppose that should, in a way, please me. I have high standards; I'm not easily swayed. But really, it just makes me that much more miserable in the end.

Then.

It's futile. It's over. I'm fucked. Why even pretend to have a social life anymore? I'm throwing my friends out at 1 AM after a uniquely dissatisfying evening spent doing nothing. I turned down every single opportunity to have anything resembling a good time, and I'm fairly certain that doing all those things would just have bored me too.

What's happening to me? I find myself trying to remember what it was I used to do to have a good time, and I can't. All my time seems to have been spent wishing I was doing something else. When I'm sober, I can't wait to get drunk and be stupid. When I'm drunk, I curse myself for even touching the stuff, and wait 'til I'm sober so I can get shit done.

And that fucking girl. I leave her for no particular reason, and then find myself inexorably drawn back to her, for no particular reason. Would being with her make anything better? Probably not. But here I am, doing nothing, wishing I was doing her.

I need a hobby.

Now.

Thought I'd eschew the usual esoteric bullshit for some real stuff, at least this one time.

Met up with two female friends, both of which I've fucked, to watch Twin Peaks. Being 23, it's kind of rare to find people who haven't seen it, so I decided to watch it all with them.

We're halfway through the second season, and I decide to show them one episode upstairs, on my mom's TV, with the Dolby 5.1 system on -5 Db. They freak out when Bob/Leland Palmer kills Laura's identical cousin.

Afterward, one of the girls is feeling sleepy, and I convince her to stay behind, even though all I do is watch The Wire. She makes a timid move, but I'm bored with fucking her, so the move is not reciprocated. She goes home after one episode.

Halfway through the next one, a girl I've fucked twice before, once recently and once when I was 17, starts messaging me on Facebook. She's drunk out of her mind, naked and Skyping some Swedish guys she barely knows. She's dirty and gives interesting head, plus she says she has about 50 bottles of wine left after some party, so I walk the 10-minute walk it takes to get there. On the way, some foreign guy asks for my help; he needs to gas up his SUV, but he's forgotten the PIN on his card. Unfortunately, my card only works at ATMs. I can't help him.

At the house, the girl is indeed very drunk, but all her wine's been stolen, except for some half-finished bottles of Maipo, and someone else's Smirnoff and Passoa bottles that she finds in a liquor cabinet. She wants me to come upstairs with her and I do, but only take a small refill from one of the wine bottles, so as to have an excuse to go downstairs regularly.

She lures me into bed after Skyping with the Swede for a while, and the sex is okay, but I cum too early. We pillow-talk for a while about her brother, whom I know, and random other shit. After a while, she mentions the blow-job she gave me last time and asks for another go, and it's pretty good. Her teeth get in the way occasionally, but the fact that she can deep-throat and wants me to pull her hair a lot more than make up for it. We fuck and neither of us cum, so I pull out, but she pulls me back in and it feels different, stingy somehow. She tells me to slow down and I ask what's wrong, and she says her ass hurts, and I realize I've been assfucking her for a while without noticing it.

My phone beeps and it's my Ex texting me. Since the Ex is 15 times the lay this girl is, and my business here is about done anyhow, I make up a horrifyingly lame excuse (the girl even calls me out on it, but I elaborate well enough to convince her... I think) and leave, stealing an 8-year old Maipo bottle and the Passoa as I leave.

Now I'm sitting here typing this, and I don't think my Ex is even gonna show. Not that I care, it's not like I wanted to spend the night at the other girl's place anyway.

Just another night in a western civilization that's past its prime.

More.

I've given up trying to figure out what people want from me. Why should I give a shit? Nothing they do will ever satisfy me, and everything I do will fall woefully short of having the impact I want it to have on them.

Why can't I have a normal conversation anymore? I cannot attach myself to the moment, to the present; everything I say has to be measured against the future.

I feel as inadequate for the girls I like as they are for me. Love is so much easier when you don't know the other person at all.

I can't believe how still it is outside. No wind. It's almost scary, like something hanging in the air.

No-one is worthy of my love. Not a one.

Some.

Sent 14-3-10:
Ah snap. Aw snap. (06:16)
Plís... allt fyrir þig, þú ert svo svöl. (06:22)
Hugsaði til þín í gær og ákvað að senda til þín tvö örljóð til að tjá tilfinningar mínar: Myndi hringja en er of hás til að tala. (20:06)

Sent 20-3-10:
I'm obsessed with you... You just seem so fascinating. Is that so wrong? (02:40)
Irma irma irma... Ég gæti sagt það endalaust. Þú ert allt það sem ég þarf og þrái. Svo skynsöm og skipulögð, en samt svo sniðug og viss um hvað þú vilt. (03:25)

It all seems pointless, so one-sided. I want nothing more than to stand firmly on one of those sides. All too often, I feel like the ancient mariner, "Water, water, everywhere, but not a drop to drink." Beautiful, talented women surround me, and here I am worrying about their compatibility with my tastes in music and movies. What a waste.

But they're just so fascinating.

Want.

I don't feel whole without her.

What else is there to say? I mean, that's it, right? That's the final truth that discerns whether or not you're soft on her.

I want the birthmark on her right hand pressed to my lips. I want her wavy hair intertwined with mine. I want her bright, observant smile shining upon my deeds. I want her world to envelop mine, but still I do not know her... have I just created a much-too-perfect image of her in my mind's eye?

She is everything I want, and everything I cannot allow myself to have. I only wish her own opinions were more powerful.

Not.

I refuse.

I refuse to be in love; it's just so untrustworthy. So... uncouth, somehow. I'm always so tempted to find her hand... being drunk around her just makes it worse.

What is a boy to do? I never wanted it to go so, but she's just too lovely. She does not appear quite as agonized over this as I. A friend of mine once decried how women were always represented as the emotional side of one-way relationships in movies, and although I have since discovered that girls seem incapable of sex without emotional attachments, boys tend to overdramatize the simplest of events. It needn't even be sex. A kiss, a caress, even a look is all it takes... the boy has already started planning the entire relationship in his head.

He's a fool. Right? She's lovely, but I'm a fool for believing there's any kind of future in this.

She is so lovely, though.

Waste.

Another puny evening wasted in pursuit of some ridiculous goal. Three explanations are possible for my abject failure: first, she was teasing me. I've seen people do it, I guess. Second, she liked me at first, but grew tired of me as the night went on. Third, I misunderstood the whole thing, and she was there with her... her date, or whatever you want to call it.

It's so weird, that feeling of when you're out with your girlfriend and some guy starts hitting on her, and your first impulse is to get ashamed or embarrassed, instead of trying to make your presence known. It's tied to insecurity, but not in the way most people would think.

You see, most people would think that I'm insecure towards the guy. He's assertive, I'm not, he's confident, and I'm not, etc. But the truth is, is I'm insecure toward my date. What if she likes him better than me? Would it be chauvinistic of me to intervene? She can handle herself, can't she? And then there's that old truth, that the tighter you try to keep people, the harder they'll strain against you. Some weird tough-guy maxims start creeping into your head about 'looking like you don't care' and 'playing it cool'.

Fuck it. At least there's one thing about being in a relationship I don't miss.

Guilty.

I'm guilty now, and I don't know what I've done.

Supposedly, I deeply offended someone tonight, and I honestly wish I hadn't. The ironic thing is, is that I completely deserted someone else, and she didn't give a shit, and yet somehow I manage to mortally offend another person without even realizing it. It's perplexing.

It doesn't matter how old and mature people get, they're still offended by drunken bullshit you pull without even understanding what it is you're doing. This depresses me somewhat.

I find myself longing for a time when my words weren't considered gospel, and my presence was not regarded as someone's ticket to an enjoyable evening. I rather like my friends who can do without me.

Strange thoughts. I wonder if these emotions are brought to light simply because a person does not want to sleep alone tonight. That's understandable, I guess. I know I'm not looking forward to it.

Spark.

She's making me think warm thoughts again. I have no desire to sleep with her; and yet she is the most attractive and inviting person in my life right now.

I'm tired of sleeping with all the women I know, which is maybe why I don't particularly want them around anymore. And what will I think of her, when and if I do the deed? Will I just avoid her, too? Lose respect for her? We only want what we can't have, I guess... hmm.

You never want to fall in love, but what other name is there for how I feel?

Pussi.

Caught between two worlds, as it were: performing for, sociologically speaking, two little girls... were they interested? Are they interested? It's so hard to tell these days, what with women's rights and free will and all.

And another one. I've approached her several times and she appears willing, but something about me's obviously not sitting right with her. My hair? My clothes? My general attitude? Anyhow, she read some poems that actually moved me... well, one of them, anyway. Am I solely interested in the poetry because of her, or is it the other way around? We beta males do so love our creative women. The other day I had a conversation with a friend, and we came to the conclusion that the chief benchmark of an alpha male is how he treats women: if he talks to and them very differently from how he talks to men, he's an alpha. Betas tend to measure people by the same standard, regardless of whether or not he can fuck them.

When I'm hitting on girls, I have no idea whether I'm trying to lure them into bed or just trying to be their friend, and frankly, there's no real difference: I'd have the same conversation either way. All I have is my friendliness and my humor. I'm not picking up girls by use of my rock-hard abs here.