You Know What’s Unpleasant?
When you meet a lady who seems like a nice enough lady; and then you become friendly and get to know her and she seems like not just a nice enough lady, but a rather amazing lady; and you two continue getting to know one another, becoming friends, partially thanks to travel for work, which placed the two of you in a car for multiple six-plus hour car rides, all of which contained a combined zero lulls in conversation as you spent the rides talking, joking, then hoping to get stuck in traffic to extend the chats; and with each conversation or new thing about her you learned she, once thought to have a rather plain appearance, has become the prettiest lady of all time; and you start to get excited for work because there’s always a chance you’ll run into her in the office, where in a room full of people the two of you would isolate in conversation, completely unaware of the surrounding world; and you start getting all anxious cause you realize that you want to ask this lady on a date, a thought that once it’s entered the mind won’t leave it; and then you second-, third-, fourth-, fifth-, sixth-, etc.-th guess asking her out, as the only thing, in your mind, that is uglier than your physical makeup is your mental, so surely she wouldn’t agree to a date; and then operating under the assumption she would never date a fat, socially retarded asshole like yourself, you also assume that if you ask her out, not only will she turn you down, but she’ll want nothing to do with you in any capacity ever again; and so you decide not to ask her out, because having her, the person you enjoy being around more than any other person in the world, in your life in some capacity is better than none; and you continue on, her perfection only growing greater; and you desire to ask her out doing the same; and little things, a glance from across the room, a playful compliment in an email, a touch of the arm make you reconsider your assumptions, especially the touch, as every tv show ever has told you such an act was a sign opposed to just a touch on the arm; and so when the two of you are alone, a few minutes away from everyone else in the office, a trip in an elevator, all you can think about is blurting out your request for a date, but you never do; and soon enough your mind is filled with two ways of thinking, of her and of your pathetic self esteem; and all while you connect with her only to go home by yourself with time to reflect on all the things you’ll get to do going through life alone, graduation nears, with neither of you from the city you live in nor with reason, job, school, each other, to stay; and so you man up, man up in your own way, responding to emails with one full of questions so she’ll answer yours, creating some more conversation; and finally one day, after 30 minutes of mental coaxing, you call her, but she doesn’t answer, of course, so you leave an awkward message asking if she wants to “hang out” tomorrow, for fear she’d think you were asking her on a date, which she’d of course turn down; and an hour goes by with nothing; and another hour; and a few more hours; and you haven’t left your phone alone for a second since you left the message, so you’ll be there when she calls back, but with each passing second the doubt of a return call swells; and finally, about 9 hours later, it’s dark out, the phone still silent, you can’t take sitting in your room anymore waiting for a call that’s not going to come; and you go for a walk; and a 30 minutes into your walk, you’re completely engrossed in you music, oblivious to the throngs of peers drunkenly shuffling around on the weekend night when your phone vibrates; and it’s a message from her saying of course she’d want to hang out tomorrow; and you smile; and read the message a few times before putting the phone back in your pocket, as you don’t want to answer right away, make her think you’ve spent the last 9 or so hours thinking only about that message; and a few steps later, you’ve waited enough, so you respond; and so the next day the two of you go out to eat at some sea-themed chain restaurant because of time restriction; and you sit down in a booth, behind you what is clearly supposed to be the back of a boat named “The One That Got Away” which she questions what you think it means; and instead of making a joke that pops into your head about it being an omen she shouldn’t let you go, you say you don’t know; and then the two of you go see “The Blindside” which you had opted not to see as it looked terrible, but sitting next to her it’s fantastic, despite being a movie made solely to make white people feel good about themselves; and as she drives closer to your house you still haven’t asked her out; and she pulls in a parking lot next to your house, where you sit for a couple of minutes talking, but don’t invite her in, not because of nerves, but simply because the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind, just to come in, see the house, hang out, drink, something, anything; and so after a wonderful night, you’re once again left alone, sad; and you hang out a few more times before the semester ends, but still can’t ask her out, with the date nearing where it’s very likely you will never see each other after it; and you try to make plans, but between finals, families, graduation, your schedules don’t match up, plus she’s going on a trip the day after graduation; and finals week you can’t see each other, but exchange daily lengthy emails, but you can’t do it in an email; and so she says she’ll be back to town in a month or so, that she’ll call you when she gets back; and you send her one last email, one where you answer her compliments of you with even stronger praise of her, an email that contains one hope; and that’s that no matter either of us go from there, we stay in touch, as you like talking with her; and she never answered that email; and every time for the next week you got an email, you wished it was her response, but it never was; and you stay in the city after graduation, partially avoiding moving back home, partially counting down until her rough estimate when she’d return from her trip; and you unsuccessfully look for a job; and the date she thought she’d be back comes, goes; and there’s no call; and so you think that maybe she extender her trip, or went to visit her family after getting back; and another week passes with no contact; and another; and more weeks pass, but no days pass without the thought of her, her silly jokes, her out of proportion chubby cheeks, her smile; and you family continues to ask why you’re still there opposed to home, but it’s getting harder to make up excuses, as it’s becoming increasingly clear there aren’t, won’t be, any reason for you to stay there; and so you go home, still hopeful for a call, email, anything; and nothing comes; and you mope around your hometown for a bit, find some work, but she still occupies a large percentage of your daily thoughts; and autumn comes with no word; and she’s stopped being a daily thought, but there are relapses every so often; and you have to exchange emails for work with a woman with the same name, creating long email chains where a new email from her name would appear in your inbox a few times a week; and you’d get anxious, thinking, dreaming, finally she answered; and she never did; and so you trudge on, more work, another job, surgery, nothing; and she’s fallen out of your mind altogether; and one night, out of nowhere, without having any sort of contact with her for about 10 months, you have a vivid dream she’s contacted you, telling you she was going to be in your home state, that she’d love to see you again; and so you go to see her, pick her up from her hotel, knock on the door; and knock again; and wait; and knock; and then she calls, tells you she can’t see you today; and doesn’t want to see you ever again; and you wake up; and she’s back in your mind, albeit in a much meaner state thanks to your dream than she ever was; and the next few days she’s all you think about again; and you see the streets filled with her not uncommon car, a baby blue hybrid; and on tv someone talks about a 22-year-old not-at-all-classic-movie that she lent you because she thought you’d like it; and on the radio you hear a Big Pun song the two of you once talked about for 40 minutes; and you remember all of the other songs that make you think of her, the Michael Jackson one with her name in the title, every Dr. Dog song, “Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots Part 1” by the Flaming Lips, but you don’t listen to any of them; and you start staying up until 6 in the morning, doing nothing but being alone; and you think maybe you had the dream to finally end that storyline in your life, but you know it doesn’t really feel like that was the purpose of it; and you think about something that might’ve triggered it, but can’t come up with anything other than mental masochism; and spend the better part of a week listening to the new Lykke Li album; and you’ve been enjoying the shit out of it; and you think that if Lykke Li seems sad, maybe it’s not the worst thing; and that technically, you’re not really alone; and then it’s your birthday; and some relatives who live in other cities, or another state, come to visit for your birthday, which makes you uncomfortable; and your parents ask if you think we should all go out to eat or stay in; and you of course say stay in, because eating in restaurants makes you nervous, anxious, sweaty; and your parents tell you grow the fuck up and get over yourself; and so you all go out; and it’s fine, you get anxious, nervous sweaty; and everyone seems to have fun, which makes you feel a little less uncomfortable that people drove more than hour just to be with your for your birthday; and you don’t really say much that night, or any night; and just be; and you go home, think about the past year of your life, the past 22 years of your life; and you think about what might happen in the 23rd; and you can’t get the thought of her out of your head; and you get sad once you’ve realized you’re 23; and have formed. kept up, maintained exactly one relationship with someone that is not related to you; and you spend the weekend with her as your primary thought, kind of a throwback weekend; and you keep coming back to the same one thought; the two of you should’ve switched seats at the sea-themed chain restaurant.
That, is what’s unpleasant.
