I am stupid. For years I labored under the delusion that I possessed some degree of intelligence, but the fact is, I really am dumb.
“Delusion” is probably a pretty good word, actually, for over these past several years I have willingly let myself fall head over heels for someone–call her, the Girl–who clearly has no idea who I am and wouldn’t want to if she did. I thought, for a long while, that she did. I tried my best to think she did. There is a scientific principal called Occam’s Razor which basically says that the simplest explanation between alternative theories, the one that incorporates the fewest assumptions, is usually the one that is true, and so, I poured over every detail of every fact, post, hit, view, like, comment and tag that I could find on social media that even tangentially related to the Girl and my complete and total head over heels crush on her, until I had ruled out every preposterous theory I could invent to try to convince myself that it really wasn’t or couldn’t be her watching: that I was being catfished; that I was being stalked by an internet bettor or bettors using my content somehow, based on her matches and her record against certain opponents, to place bets in other matches; that someone equally smitten with the Girl, better than me, was watching my every move to learn more about her, as if I knew. And so on.
The only obvious answer, the simplest one, when everything ridiculous was stripped away, as extremely unlikely as it seemed, was that it was her–she had somehow found the things I had written about her, found the videos I had made for her, and seen the comments I had written to her on social media, and that somehow we were getting to “know” each other, from a distance, over the miles, in a way that would make a sitcom writer or romance novelist delirious with glee.
I know that sounds crazy. It is. Like I said, it is stupid. I am a mere plebe and at a minimum she is a professional athlete and celebrity, and if I had one and only wish it would be her. But I am stupid for thinking that dreams such as mine, about her, could manifest like that.
For what I have learned is that, in “real life”, she is actually a model. I thought she was something else. She clearly used to be, but I guess those days have passed. I knew she was pretty, but I wasn’t aware she was a model. I think she must have kept that part of her life hidden away from the public. The point of course is that a model does not, would not, could not lower herself to the indignity of meeting, dating, being with, speaking with, looking at, anything with a person such as me. A person she wouldn’t want to look at. Couldn’t bear to look at. To a model, a person like me must be a “non-person.” She likes models, is attracted to beautiful people. I can see that now. Why wouldn’t she be? If she were even aware of me she and her pretentious model friends would laugh at how stupid I am for having my ridiculous crush on her. It looks like she has so many boyfriends on social media. Or girlfriends. Or whatever. The number is so large and the affection she spreads around to them through ‘likes’ is so pervasive that, mathematically, as a matter of pure logic, she must be in love with at least some of them.
And that, sadly, is my problem. I was unfortunately cursed, being hit by “the Thunderbolt”, the second I laid eyes on her. From that second, I never ever really wanted to even look at another girl. Of course there are other pretty girls, but what made her special to me, the only Girl, was the light in her eyes, her easy, natural smile, the fact that when I first “found” her she was doing something for a living that I greatly admired and respected and she was great at it, and she had a sense of style and “cool” that made my toes curl even as I think about her now. Thinking about that first encounter, something about her just made me hope that, sometime before I left this Earth, I would get a chance to meet her face to face and get to know her, for real. Even now my heart melts at the thought of what it would be like to hold her hand.
That’s why finding a way to wake up from my dream is heartbreaking, and the truth is, I don’t want to do it. But what is the alternative? I am miserable. Totally, unequivocally, undeniably miserable. I am in love with someone or something that is not for real. At least, will never be for me. She will never know or care that I exist, that my heart breaks with each ‘like’ of hers that I find, that I wish so much that I and my silly music videos and the things I have written about her, offered from my heart in an effort to touch her own, could have mattered to her. Someone will be lucky enough to be with her. But not me. I realize this now. Each day I uncover more and more of the reality of her life that breaks my heart. That I guess maybe she isn’t the girl I hoped she’d be. And whether this person out there, the one that really is watching, and someone is certainly watching, is truly a catfish, or a bettor or somebody else in love with her, or just some ambiguity of the Internet, blinking out or screwing up, I know it is not, and never will be her, watching, waiting, hoping, like me.
It is axiomatic that people like me have no chance to be happy in life, Even our dreams end in failure.