Oh, you.

I’d been thinking about you for most of the first week of July, and then, as I inexplicably suspected might happen, I saw you at that show I paid forty bucks to catch. Now I don’t even remember who was playing, because I was mostly paying attention to you.

At one point, while waiting for the headliner to take the stage, I could have reached out and touched you. Then, you leaned back, looking for someone who clearly wasn’t me. Your face was so close to mine I probably could have kissed you by barely moving my neck. You still didn’t notice me.

What can I say? I’m a ninja by nature.

Why didn’t I actively grab your attention? Well, that’s complicated.

On the one hand, I’m sorry I didn’t. On the other hand, I think I made the right decision. Indeed, one of my motivating factors was the classic nervousness that I have had around attractive women since I first became attracted to women. But that’s far from the chief reason.

I suppose I am also scared that you will become just like the girl I mentioned in my last post. You’ll have little use for me, either as a romantic interest, a friend, or even just as a person in general. And I will have little recourse.

I would have a hard time convincing myself that I am not inferior to you. It would be impossible for me not to feel outclassed by you. But the fact that you’re better than me does not bother me so much in and of itself. However, the prospect that you could somehow lord that over me, even inadvertently, and cast me aside so simply is a difficult one to face. Though ultimately, even the worst-case scenario is one that I could (eventually) deal with, maybe even learn something from, and no doubt use to fabricate some self-deprecating confession in the second person, as though I were writing it with the intention of using it to address you directly.

I could benefit from a worst-case scenario.

The best-case scenario, however, is that you don’t find me awkward, and maybe even come to like me. That would be awful.

I see in you the potential to make me happy. And I can’t have that. The potential for me to succeed as a writer, specifically a creative writer, is dependent on a delicate balance of uneasiness and unhappiness. I am, for reasons numerous and complex, an unhappy person and, subsequently, an unhappy writer.

My unhappiness is my ethos, and I need it.

Although some people seem to like my writing, I am painfully aware of the fact that it’s very one-dimensional. I constantly rely on similar characters and themes and the only voice I ever employ is my own.

It’s easy. And I’m pretty damn lazy.

I’m doing my best to perfect this style, and I’m hoping to ride it into publication somewhere—anywhere, really. But I’m not yet confident enough that I can make it happen. In the words of DMX, “I’ve got a lot of dreams, but I’m not really chasing mine.”

Although “a lot of dreams” is a bit of an overstatement.

I, like most people, really just have the one dream. One day, I hope to be happy. I have no idea how that’s going to happen. I’m open to all sorts of possibilities: God, charity work, velvet pants, drugs, inner peace, cybernetic limbs, music, a great dragon adventure, some sort of pantheistic technological cult, or eventually realizing I’m gay and boldly bursting out of the closet like a great big flamboyant star! Although none of that seems terribly plausible, I will admit to desiring a great deal of it.

The whole gay thing is a bit of an anomaly, though. I assume I’ve given that aspect of my personality a lot more thought than most men do. I’m sure it crosses every guy’s mind at least once, but I would hazard to guess that most men are worried about being gay. I’m really just curious to know one way or the other. Sure, there are men that I can admit to finding attractive. Although if I follow that attraction through to its logical conclusion, I’m a bit repulsed. But that’s just my personal feeling on the matter.

I just find the liberation of coming out very appealing. Cutting, crying, and countless hours in darkness separate me from the rest of the world, and I would very much like an easy way of embracing that.

But, no.

I have to like breasts.

And I like them a lot.

Which leads me to believe that a woman, a very specific woman, could make me happy. I don’t know if that’s you, but I suspect it could be. And why shouldn’t I? After all, I have no reason not to hope for the best with you.

That’s a large part of the reason I didn’t approach you that night. It’s too hard for me to continually suffer through the complete and utter decimation of my hope. The only thing I ever learn about any woman is why we’re incompatible, and when that happens the percentage of the three billion (or so) women on earth that I could potentially love decreases ever so slightly. The possibility that I am completely alone increases proportionally. True, it’s minimal, but it’s excruciating.

Furthermore, I know that it’s wrong to place my expectations for happiness entirely on you. Or anyone, for that matter. I’m not worried that you could never make me completely happy. I’m worried you would.

I hope I can be responsible for at least some of my own happiness.

And writing does offer me occasional cause for mirth. I think I could be happy writing all the time.

Preferably making gobs of money doing it.

Of course, I know: money can’t buy happiness. But it can bankroll the pursuit of happiness. And money is my passport to eccentricity.

I am, as soft-spoken advertisements from the pharmaceutical industry would say, mentally ill. And neither I nor they can’t really do anything about that.

The most I can hope for is to be my own archetypal architect.

If I’ve gotta pick, I’m gonna choose eccentric billionaire over raving derelict. Although I’m quite certain that later on in life I’ll be too far-gone to really care either way. But for now, I’m counting on my unhappiness to facilitate the purchase of the most ominous abandoned castle I can find. To serve not only as a residence for my corporeal body, but also as an extended metaphor for my soul. A ruined fortress on a cold, desolate landscape impervious to attack would suit my ethos nicely. But my body would prefer that it be somewhere warm and sunny. Although a more temperate or arctic climate would excuse the presence of giant, roaring fires.

And that’s pretty cool.

Nevertheless, I regret not grabbing your attention. But as you can see, there were mitigating circumstances. Maybe later, when I have a drawbridge, I can open it up.