I’m In Love With A Girl That Doesn’t Exist

It’s true. I’m in love with a girl that doesn’t exist. I don’t even know her name. Actually, she doesn’t have a name because she lives in my head. I don’t even really know what she looks like. Sometimes I think she looks like Zooey Deschanel. But most of the time she’s kinda of a blur.

Mostly I know that she doesn’t like all of the same things I do, thinks different from me, and makes me laugh. I like her because she’s “real” with me.

Yeah, I’m in love with a fantasy of a girl that gets pissed at me and tells me no!

I guess I’m kind of a realist when it comes to fantasy (at least the kind of fantasy I can freely divulge on this blog). I think I know why though. I think it’s because deep down, at the core of it all, I’m a desperately practical man. As much crap as I talk, as crazy as I’m able to think, deep down I analyze the situation and take the safe, easy route. The one that won’t land me in jail. The one that won’t rape my wallet. The one that won’t make me look attractive to the kind of girls I really (think I) want to meet.

God I have a lot to change…

Well, my rum and coke is empty, so I guess I’ll stop there.

Is this a good post? I guess I don’t care. I have rum to drink and girls in bikinis in tropical Mexico to watch.

Oh,  and the whole “changing the inner-me” stuff to work on.

Still single and sitting alone in a hotel room drinking rum and thinking about life, my core being, and girls in bikinis,

Scott

[FYI Context Update: As of 1:42 am the author would like to note that a 750 ml bottle of Tommy Bahama (yes, of the Hawaiian Shirt variety) Rum that was 1/4 empty prior to the nights events is now standing at 3/4 empty! Yes, I drank half the bottle tonight! Oops! Scott]

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Date Night Jitters

It’s 1:20 pm on a beautiful Saturday afternoon, the apartment is clean, soft jazz is playing in the background while the cats lounge in front of the balcony door chattering at the birds eating at the feeder. There’s not a cloud in the late summer sky, the thermometer reads 81 degrees, and the forecast is for a high of 90.

It’s 1:20 pm, I haven’t showered yet, I’m smoking like a chimney, and watching the clock. I tried watching football, briefly worked on some writing I have to do, and have even done some last minute strengthening exercises. Nothing works. I still hear it, the “Click! Click! Click!” of the clock. No matter what I do, I hear it. “Click! Click! Click!”

This is a problem, you see, because my clock is digital, doesn’t display the seconds, and doesn’t actually make a sound. I hear it though, none the less. “Click! Click! Click!” in my head it goes.

“Click! Click! Click!”

I’m keeping time…

“Click! Click! Click!”

…going nuts…

“Click! Click! Click!”

…second after relentless second.

“Click! Click! Click!”

The plans are set. The place and time agreed upon. It’s actually going to happen…

“Click! Click! Click!”

…if I don’t go nuts first.

“Click! Click! Click!”

We’re meeting at 5:00 o’clock for drinks at the Island Cafe. It should be perfect. A floating, outdoor-patio bar with fancy tropical concoctions, fish and chips, and beer. The faint breeze off the harbor and the shade of the umbrella should keep the temperature pleasant while the sun sets in the West. We can watch the ducks in the harbor scrabble for each fry we toss them. We can watch as the power boats, yachts, and occasional kayaker go putting by. We can talk.

“Click! Click! Click!”

But it’s only 2:00 and I still haven’t decided what I’m wearing.

“Click! Click! Click!”

I’m leaning towards the clever and funny “Zombie Love” t-shirt and shorts.

“Click! Click! Click!”

But will she appreciate the zombie homage to our first conversation, or will she think me weird for wearing something with bloody zombie heads on it for our first date?

“Click! Click! Click!”

Maybe I should wear something black and slimming?

“Click! Click! Click!”

At least I got my hair cut last night and don’t have to worry about that.

“Click! Click! Click!”

But I still have to put product in my hair.

“Click! Click! Click!”

Spiky or flat?

“Click! Click! Click!”

Combed or stylishly mussed?

“Click! Click! Click!”

It’s still too early to shower.

“Click! Click! Click!”

I need a smoke…

“Click! Click! Click!”

Single and suffering… still,

Scott

“Click! Click! Ring!”

It’s 2:15 pm, my phone just rang, and clicking of the clock has stopped. It’s my date. An emergency with a friend. Babysitting. Sorry. We just have to laugh at this point. Monday or Tuesday after work? I promise it will happen. A text tomorrow to figure out the day. Sorry again.

The soft jazz is still playing. The cats are sleeping. In my head…

silence…

a little sad…

a little relieved…

a lot funny.

I wonder if Travis still has that tee-time reserved?