"Nothing feels good"

Interestingly, the sheets of paper on my dorm room door declare that "FM Stringer's Song of the Week" for this particular row of calendar squares is "Nothing Feels Good" by The Promise Ring. If you haven't heard the song, don't sweat it. You're in good company, I'm sure.

But yes, "Nothing Feels Good". Am I a champion of apropos song selection or what?

Please excuse the following. I'm rather fractured.

So I'm sitting in the dark with The Honorary Title blaring in my earbuds as my roommate flicks channels back and forth between "the Strongest Man in the World" competition and an interview with Bill Nye "the Science Guy" on CNN. CNN of all things! Oh... it's Larry King live. Never mind.

I have math class in six hours.

But see, the terrible irony in writing this thing is that the people who really should be reading it almost certainly are not. And she's done so much for me. Despite the cryptic conversation and speaking between intentions. Despite the months of hatred and miscommunication. Despite heated words and broken hearts. Despite time gone by... I still bleed for you. I sing your graces between swigs of the Captain because, let's face it, that's when we're at our most honest. And our most vulnerable. I read that poets drink not to make the pain go away... but to fuel it. To remind ourselves that we're alive. And my best poetry is about you.

Even though there are few moments that go by in which I don't pray for someone beautiful to glide into my life in skinny jeans and flats (holla Rick)... even though my most magnificent dreams feature some- some angel brushing her bangs out of her atlantic blue eyes and asking me if I'm into Okkervil River... even though I can't think of what I wouldn't give to love and be loved again...

I think that on the back burners of my brain simmers the lukewarm hope that you'll take me back.

But I'm being silly.

And it's time that I put these absurdist fantasies to rest and start running the singles gambit again. Because kissing girls in dark rooms before stumbling back to my own is only worth so much. It's the conversation that carries the most value. The giggles between butterfly kisses. The comfort. The cuddling. The needlessness of libido.

What it comes down to isn't anything profound. This isn't an entry in which I, in all pretentiousness, unleash upon whoever fucking reads this my worldly pretty-talk and smirking quirks. This is putting down in text how truly alone I feel.

One day I'll make a living being vulnerable. One day maybe you'll take advantage of me. One day maybe you'll rape me and leave me battered and broken. But I'll get up. And I'll write. And I'll make a living being vulnerable.

But for now... this is me feeling lonely.

Math class can go fuck itself. Really.

But then

It's been 26 hours since my last cigarette so I guess things are, in some strange way, looking up.

Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike