Monday, October 12, 2009

Diary 8/8/09: Seana

So Seana. Seana has not texted me back. I keep thinking about it. About her. Her face is absolutely perfect. Absolutely every thing about her physical appearance is completely perfect. Her deeper qualities as a human being, less so. Still. I really wanted to go out with her again. I mean, fuck, I really wanted to fuck her. I acknowledged from the beginning that she is not wife material but I am still extremely pissed— actually, no. I am extremely sad. That she hasn’t texted me back. That I will never hear from her or see her again. I really did have a good time singing Grateful Dead songs with her. And drinking and smoking. How important is it to have a chick that drinks and smokes a lot. I keep thinking— eh. Whatever. I mean, maybe one of the dozens of people who overheard me talking about how horrible it was to have to sit on a couch next to her and watch myspace clips of her performing her utterly talentless music with her stupid band, how terrible an experience that was.

Anyway, I thought maybe one of those people would have turned out to be her friend and have heard her version of the story, put two and two together, and told her. But no. No one has ever told me a story about overhearing strangers talking about me in my entire life.

Seana. Why haven’t you texted me back. You are making me into a pathetic chick about this.

She had a yeast infection. Or at least her pussy was extremely sweaty and smelly and my attempt to jam my flaccid drunken penis into it at 6am caused a red dot to appear on my helmet. Why hasn’t she texted me back. I thought she liked me. She told me she got on match.com specifically to email me. Then she threw me for a loop with this whole be your real self thing. If I had been my real self I would have told her I really, really, really want to fucking see you again. I need to do so as soon as possible and I will move absolutely anything out of my schedule to accommodate. But that would have been too desperate. It would have come off as desperate because that is the fucking truth, that I am desperate.

The texting was going well, and then it just stopped. One shitty text. One not-perfectly-though-out text. Everything is too fucking delicate. There will not be a girl that pretty in my life again for as long time. Fortunately there will not be a girl that retarded in my life again for a long time either.

Looking for some cause for this—looking for an answer to something I already know. She just doesn’t like me. Somehow she thought better of it. It’s good. I’m looking for true love. But yeah— what if I had done something different? What if I had been my true self and said those desperate things? The— what the fuck is the phrase from unbearable lightness of being— what would have happened is unknowable. Life is meaningless because you can’t see what would have happened if you had done the other thing.

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