So I get back from NY. I land Wednesday night; it’s 6-hour time zone change. Two weeks of unprotected sex, drug use, neuropsychoanalysis lectures and trying to figure out how the fuck the subway works. It was spectacular. Considering I nearly attempted suicide three days before I left, this kind of experience is supposed to turn my life around. Give me a new perspective. Show me what’s out there. And it did.

Well, kind of.

Friday afternoon I’m opening the door to the IT lab I always go to. I used to go there to fuck around: mindless internet surfing, video game binges. The electronic numbness before I’d drive home and get high and eat shittons of McDonalds. Not this time, though. I’m a changed man. I’m going to work.

This door has this little sensor where you have to hold your student card so it authenticates you and briefly unlocks the door. I pull out my wallet and hold it against it. Blue light, flashes, flashes, flashes, green light. I grab the handle and look up. Robyn is standing right in front of me, looking me in the eye. Out of fucking nowhere. She’s kind of smiling, gives me this half expectant look of ‘are you going to take out your earphones and say hi’. My knee-jerk reaction is to briefly plaster on a fake smile and open the door for her. She enters, walks to her desk, I walk to mine. I’m stuck thinking of her for the next hour.

What the fuck, I think. I’d met this girl during first-year university orientation. She set the benchmark in terms of compatibility: she was me with two X chromosomes. Attractive, but with a clear flaw that precludes beauty; a huge hook nose, in her case. Smart, humorous, thoughtful. It took two weeks before I realized I didn’t love my bland girlfriend back home and I tried it on with Robyn. Didn’t work. I was needy and desperate and made her extremely uncomfortable. She tried to be patient and tolerant, but that shit ran out quick. We stopped talking. Then I tried speaking to her again, ‘as friends’, just wanting to fucking be with her. Please, let me be with you. I don’t want to be alone. Please, be my surrogate fucking mother.

Anyway, this cycle of talking and not-talking repeated itself over and over the last three years.

I see her in front of me, and I think: it’s time to send another Facebook message. She didn’t reply to the last one, but fuck it, maybe this one will work.

She replied. I’ve been a relentless bitch to you, she said. I don’t like ignoring you. But, you always talk to me with these poorly hidden advances. You don’t have the balls to just go for me without reeking of neediness, is what she meant.

I write her a long reply saying I know, I know. I know how uncomfortable I made you, I know how and why I fucked up, but I’m aware of that now. I used to be completely socially inept, oblivious to my desperation, but I’m not like that anymore, I’ve pulled my shit together. I value your company, your conversation, and even though I’ve spent two weeks overseas having the time of my life I still have these feelings for you. Let’s hang out, or not. Either one is fine.

Her reply basically says thanks, but no thanks. She thinks I’ve always had my shit together, that nothing has really changed. She says I’m just doing the same thing again. She wishes me a pleasant evening.

I get inpatient reading it. Fuck you, I think. I’ve been to psychiatrists and psychologists who’ve confirmed my slew of developmental maladies. I’ve read up on all of it. HPA axis dysregulation caused by chronic childhood stress. Chronically low opioid tone due to insufficient social interaction. I can send you the links to the fucking scientific articles, I think. I attended fucking lectures on this shit on the other side of the world.

I want to write an intellectual riposte with an undercurrent of ‘I’m going to make you feel sorry for me and want to be with me with logic and neuroscientific mumbo-jumbo’. I don’t, though. I just reply with ‘I understand. You too.’

I mean, what’s the point. Is petty Facebook drama going to fix this? Fuck no. If we were meant to be together, that shit would’ve happened spontaneously a long time ago. All life, including humanity, is wired to do two things: survive and reproduce. Nature has this way of magically drawing two people together who are compatible enough to fuck. It just happens. And it hasn’t happened here. This is classic oneitis. Just move the fuck on.

I can easily bag someone without a nose that can cut diamonds and has all the other qualities I’m looking for. Someone who hasn’t seen me two years ago when I’d never even seriously thought of the words ‘neediness’ and ‘desperation’ in a social context.

There are a million attractive, smart, funny, interesting, compatible women on this planet. If there’s ever a problem with one that even remotely makes you feel like it’s not worth it, find the next one. I’m not going to beg and dance and perform for your affection.

Of course, the man has to keep up his end of the bargain. The day I get the girl is the day I stop writing blog posts about having no self-control and being dependent on substances to numb out just how shitty my life feels.

But at least this chapter is closed. Or not. Perhaps we’ll somehow have a conversation tomorrow after class. This time, she’ll see how much I’ve changed, what a great guy I am.

Hah. Not fucking likely.

God, I need to sleep. I’ve been up since yesterday. Fucking jet lag.


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