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.