Where: MMA Today
Where: MMA Today
Confidence is a fickle prick. It took four months for mine to turn on me.
Another six have passed since my dalliance with K put another premature investment in the red and sent every ounce of chutzpah there with it. But between the bougie box, steady flow of cabbage, and freelancing that fills the occasional afternoon, I’ve finally worked my way into a day-to-day without routinely questioning my decisions or barreling down the existential rabbit hole. With that has come just enough gall to chip away at two women I’ve set my sights on of late.
C bows and scrapes in the box alongside me and dozens of others whose dreams have reluctantly taken a backseat to the paper chase and all its temptations. Her looks haven’t ballooned her sense of self-worth, nor is she prone to the chubb-stifling hissyfits synonymous with her colleagues. Almost alarmingly sweet, but indecisive and unavailable, just like those who came before her. Her glorified paramour’s status remains intact, and I’ve already had far too many women run hot and cold on me with their divided allegiances to do anything more than regale her with the occasional witticism until she sends his ass packing. Even in a drought, the name of my game is the long kind. So much for learning from your fuckups.
Which brings me to the Italian bird, a tall, redheaded Venetian thing with the ass I’ve made the subject of my praise once before. My scruffy, olive-toned mug graces her cafe a few times a week for white-collar work as much as it does to build the rapport and gumption required to take the plunge. She’s told me of her origins and aspirations between short spurts of banter, but true to my ass-backwards ways, I’ve yet to obtain her name. I made it the mission of my past two visits, only to catch her in the weeds and get anxious as a motherfucker over my lack of progress. Still anxious, but undeterred. The things I do in the name of companionship.
For reasons largely related to my wardrobe and curmudgeonly disposition, I gleefully awaited fall’s arrival not a month ago, only for the grey to sink me further with every morning it’s greeted me over the past week and change. The season turns up the dial on my undying feelings of longing, and every frustrating night in the bougie box leaves me coddling my seasoned inner-fatty until the itis lethargically pushes me from the couch to bed for another marathon of maiden-filled dreams.
The women at work have been fawning over me since I got my hair cut, but that’s done little to renew the long expired lease on my confidence or make life in the box any more palatable. I wonder if I’ll have a shot at wooing C away from her glorified paramour once she’s back from Europe. I’ve been angling for position with every opportunity. Pre-trip returns were positive, but the fear of premature attachment to another woman who’ll leave me in the dark never fully subsides. Maybe I should repurpose my efforts toward the redhead with the onion-shaped ass who works at the coffee shop.
I woke up late for a morning flight home. The visits to old haunts, existential crisis and update on my mother’s health will have to wait. N came through with some more work in my field, yet I spend the afternoon looking for some sense of immediate and eventual purpose in my dusty-ass apartment until my bar opens. Neither sleep nor gallivanting leave me feeling rested or anything even flirting with serene. Maybe I should stop living like a knockoff Travis Bickle. Maybe J was right. Maybe this isn’t a temporary, but a permanent condition.
A nightmare featuring a hairy, naked monstrosity rousts my ass out of bed shortly past noon. I’ve yet to figure out how and why this otherworldly creature made its way into my erratic subconscious, and I don’t think I want to. Never been an early riser, but long shifts of bowing and scraping in the bougie box have made me burn nearly as much of the midnight oil as my worst self did with regularity when I first moved here.
I hit my coffee quota, take an alarming handful of dumps, call my mom, whip up an article I’d egregiously put off for my rinky-dink website, and rub one out to one of several foreign beauties that work at my coffee shop before leaving the confines of my east end abode. The changing of seasons, my mother’s health and an ill-fated opportunity botched by yet another wastecase intermediary have put me in a place I’ve struggled to leave of late, so I aim for a day of blissful solitude on the west side.
I read up on a variety of fascinating theatre productions I can’t make in an issue of NOW over a couple of paper planes at Northwood before taking my ass south for an early dinner at Bar Isabel. A half hour to kill until the tapas joint opens its doors to the hipsters, the faux creatives, the gentrifiers, the targets of my perpetual contempt. Ain’t no thing, at least not today. I detour to a nearby Scottish pub for a pint and a scotch egg. My waitress, a redheaded 30something with blue eyes approaches me as I – an Irish and bourbon man to the bitter end – interrupt my reading to admire the joint’s scotch program. An inquisitive D lets a few terms of endearment fly and leaves me smitten before tending to a pair of schlubbs who just walked in. The my loves and sweethearts I chose to believe were solely meant for me ride that Scottish brogue to new destinations.
Con artists, all of them. I’ve killed nearly an hour.
The grub was worth the wait. Consolation. I leave Isabel sated and get to steppin’ on College Street while the damp chill of fall sinks its hooks in. I think about the prospect of crossing paths with K and whether I could emerge from the resulting interaction unscathed as I head east through her stomping ground, D’Angelo’s “Another Life” the aptest of soundtracks to my dome’s denizens and the season’s abrupt arrival that feeds them. Enough, T. Enough already.
I cap the day with some Haagen Dazs, regional MMA and laundry. What to make of it? Great food and drink were had, a respectable – albeit uninspired – piece of work was published on a site run by a gang of glorified fanboys who’ve never heard of a nutgraf. Maybe I’d deem it a success if it had gone down at another time. I’m on the fence.
Outlet: MMA Today