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.

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