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.