Is it just me or has time seemed to fly by these past few months? It seems like it was only yesterday that I returned to Omaha from California, leaving a plethora of ruined relationships in my wake, but, in truth, it has been nearly seven months.
It is October. Officially Autumn. The leaves on the trees have begun to turn, their bright, vibrant greens slowly succumbing to the season, becoming dark, brittle yellows and browns. They will all too soon fall to earth, dead, to be buried under the pure white of winter.
My birthday is nearly upon me, which always raises a bit of melancholy to the surface. I'm reminded, with each passing year, of how far I've come, and of how far I've fallen. I foolishly look back at what I've done with my life since graduating from high school, knowing that I cannot change the past, but like a deer in headlights, I can't turn away. It's like driving past an accident on the highway: You slow down and look, hoping to see...what? Blood? A body? You're aware that it could be a very gruesome scene indeed, but you look anyway. For the sick, morbid thrill of it.
I suppose I'm being a tad melodramatic. Certainly, my life resembles nothing of a smoking, smoldering wreck along the side of the road, far from it, in fact, but, some days, I cannot help but feel that it is that, a twisted, worthless pile of rubble. I do not know why.
I left Omaha the first time to go to college in Ohio, to be with a girl I had met years before on AOL (this is merely one of many reasons for my dislike of this particular online service). I number this the first of my post-Millard North mistakes.
Midway through that first year, she dropped out of school and went home, to Cleveland, about an hour from campus, leaving me without a reason to actually be at that school. We would see each other occasionally on weekends, when she felt like driving. Once the year ended, I came back to Omaha, spoke with her once or twice during those first couple of weeks, and never again.
One might think that I would have learned something from this, but, as evidenced by my (relatively) recent foray to the West Coast, I was no wiser at twenty-five than I was at eighteen or nineteen or twenty. Smarts generally come from thinking with one's head (get your minds out of the gutter), rather than one's heart.
So...where am I now? Eight years removed from high school and I'm basically where I was immediately after graduation (or at least after that first year of college). Eight years. And what do I have to show for it?
I'll be twenty-seven on Halloween, living in the house I grew up in, and I'm finally making an honest attempt to straighten my life out, instead of fucking around like I've always done. It's like I purposefully put obstacles in my path so that I'd have an excuse when I failed.
Oh, who am I kidding? I've never needed an excuse to fail. Just a shrug of the shoulders and a flippant "Whatever," and I was on my way to the next screw up, confident in my casual indifference that everything would work out all right, because, really, I didn't much care. And therein, of course, lay the root of the problem.
But I care now, or so I tell myself. I've grown weary of being a burden on my family, both mentally and, perhaps more importantly, financially. I was tired of not knowing what I was doing with my day, let alone my life, and while I still don't have the answer, at least I'm asking the question. At least I'm looking, instead of waiting for it to hit me on the head (which probably couldn't hurt either).
And so I'm going to school. And I want to be going, to be learning, which is something of a new experience for me. I have something that slightly resembles a path before me. No more running haphazardly through the woods like some idiot kid in a slasher movie.
None of this, mind you, helps me with my other problem: women. I have a feeling that this one might take a while to figure out. A considerably longer while than the eight years between high school and finishing college, that's for sure.
I'm not what one would call a sociable person. Sure, I like hanging out with my friends, drinkin' and talkin' til two in the morning, but these are people I've known for years, for the most part. They are a known quantity, and I know that I can be myself and they don't care. I am who I am and they are who they are, and there's no pressure to impress anybody.
It's everyone else who make me uncomfortable. The cute girl who works at the bar (man, there was this one girl at the Fox and Hound last weekend, this little brunette with glasses...), or the one in my algebra class (although she hasn't been there since the class before our first test, which I got a 97% on, thank you very much)...like I mentioned above, I am who I am, and I don't fancy changing that for anyone. Not anymore. Not after everything I've done to try to accommodate everyone else. I've spent nearly half my life trying to be a certain something for other people and look where that's gotten me.
So the thing is, I can't imagine anyone who doesn't already know me wanting to get to know me...or maybe I reckon I don't much care to get to know them...
People are hard work. Friendships. Relationships. I have enough on my plate right now, with actually trying to do well in school, with trying to find a job now that I'm fairly confident I can juggle work and school. People just complicate things.
Fuck, I dunno. I don't even know what I want in a girl. Someone not like me, y'know? That's a certainty. I can barely stand my own thoughts on a daily basis. If I was with someone whose mindset was similar to mine...it would not be good.
You know what they say, about opposites attracting. Would that it were true, and maybe it is to a certain extent, and I just haven't met the right opposite number yet. Or I have and I'm too stupid to realize it, which is always a possibility, believe me.
I want someone who's smart (opposite from me, remember?), someone I can talk to about the world, and books, and life. But also someone who likes comics (or at least doesn't mind them) and movies, though not necessarily the same ones I do. I need someone who can stimulate me, who can make me think, someone who won't bore me with the latest Hollywood gossip and trivialities after a week.
You know what'd be nice? Someone who works out. Y'know, someone to go to the gym with, or go on walks with. I mean, excercising is pretty new to me, so it'd be helpful to have someone around to push me, to make me take better care of myself...to make me want to take better care of myself.
I have come to the conclusion, on many occasions throughout my soap opera melodrama of a life, that such a person doesn't exist for me, and at one point I decided that that was okay, that I would be fine going through life without actually sharing it with anybody. And I believed it, too, for a time.
Like most other things in my life, I've come to realize how wrong I was about this little philosophy of mine. I won't say that I need someone in my life, but you know...I sure wouldn't mind if she walked into my life tomorrow.
Only question is, would she mind if I walked into hers?
Does anyone know what this post was supposed to be about? Because I got lost a few paragraphs back. Must be gettin' old, losin' my train of thought like that. I haven't babbled like that in quite a while. Felt kinda refreshing, actually. I'll have to do that again some time.
Maybe next year.