General Buzz, Miscellany, Uncategorized

The Things We Do

I really like this girl.

I think I am in love with her.

I don’t know how or why it happened but it happened.

The thing is, I can’t find a way to tell her how I feel about her.

She is a ‘public figure’, or pretends to be, deliberately veiling herself in secrecy and hiding behind the protections offered by today’s technologies–various social media, VPNs, proxies, and likely a whole lot of other junk I could barely wrap my brain around if I tried. Either that, or someone knows of my heartache over her and is playing the most deliberately twisted, devastatingly crushing hoax on me imaginable by catfishing me.

After all, I did make a lot of enemies on those sack of shit tennis forums over the years, and some of those people would eat their young.

But I’d like to think that she and I are communicating through the various ‘likes’ and ‘views’ which are part of today’s social media fabric–the timing is too impeccably coincidental to be some random set of circumstances, like a hoax perpetrated by a catfish. Perhaps she and her friends are curious about the interest I have shown in her. Maybe she is even lonely, flattered by my words, and interested in meeting.

Even as I want to embrace those possibilities, I can’t. It seems so impossible. She is a beauty and I am a beast, and she lives in a world of perfectly chiseled, handsome models and athletes and wealthy playboys. There is nothing I have to offer her that she would find attractive, or desirable.

So when I find myself in this emotional shell, witnessing the splendors and greatness of her life and those she chooses to spend her time with, I abandon the stupidness of my hopes and dreams, my silly theories, and realize how insignificant and worthless I really am.

That’s the reason I “like” J__’s picture on Instagram, or M____’s, or S_____’s, or whomever’s. Other tennis players. Or Taylor, my favorite TV star with I share a birthday. I want to pretend like I have friends, and a life that doesn’t depend on her. On you. I don’t want to be hurt when I awake from my dream and realize you hated me all along for being the dork who haplessly and hopelessly fell in love with you. Or worse, never read what I wrote, or knew how I felt or cared who I was.

Because being hurt that way is a fate worse than dying.

General Buzz, Miscellany, Tournament Match Reports

The Art of Don Quixote-ing

This was dumb.

There are stupid ideas, and then, there are the ones you will remember when you are eighty-five. When you can’t remember whether you tied your shoes, or what color your car is, or who passed you the salt, you’ll remember the crazy dumbass things you did in the name of love.

For That Girl. The special one. The one you will never ever be able to forget.

I came here to Miami on that mythical wing and prayer on a hopeless eleventh hour quest to meet the girl of my dreams. I was stupid enough to think that I might actually find her here. It is one of the biggest tennis tournaments in the world, after all and she is, well, you know…

Oh, she was in town alright. Looking amazing. Like an angel. Basking in celebrity and collecting the phone numbers of eager admirers lining up to date her, I imagine. I guess I should have known. Expected that. She must attract that kind of attention from suitors whenever she walks into a room. Important people. Glamourous people. The people she must surely be interested in spending her time with. She’s special in that way, destined for greatness. She’s that kind of Girl.

It hurts to realize I’m just not that kind of guy.

Coming here was dumb. Heartbreaking.

I never thought that getting over a dream could be so tough.

General Buzz, Miscellany

The Things I Would Say

If I could, I would tell you how much I genuinely admire you.

I would tell you how strong I think you are. How smart I know you are. How courageous. How heart-achingly beautiful.

If I could, I would tell you how, each day, I think about you, and hope that wherever you are, you are healthy and happy and successful.

If I could, I would tell you how, more than anything, I would love to be your friend, as I think you would make a totally awesome, incredible, amazing friend. And how I’d also love to go out on a date with you, to get to know you. The real you. Because I think you’re the prettiest Girl I’ve ever seen and how, no, I’m not above being totally and hopelessly attracted to you like I have never ever been to anyone else and how I know that I could never hope to be.

And if I could, I would tell you it was because when I saw you that first time, I knew. I just knew. How it hit me like a thunderbolt that day that my life wouldn’t–couldn’t–be complete if I didn’t make every last effort to try to get to know you. Even if it was just in the stupid ways I only knew how to come up with.

If I could, I would tell you how much I’d love to gaze into your eyes, just once. To make my heart feel better, for being right about you.

If I could, I would tell you how my mind struggles with my heart every single day, my brain knowing I should move on from what is a hopeless dream, my heart screaming, “please NOOOO, don’t!”

If I could, I would tell you how many times I’ve wanted to ‘friend’ you. Or message you. Or find some way of letting you know how I feel about you.

But I can’t.

Because I am scared. I am scared of what I know you must think. Of me. Of people like me.

I am scared of finding out the truth.

I am scared of my dream ending.