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It’s Better to Have Loved and Lost?

April 11, 2012

As I’ve stated (numerous times), I’m not the most…easiest?  Attractive?

Let me start over.

My circle is small.  I tend to be picky.  I’d rather be alone inside my thoughts and my music than in large crowds.

One of my grandmothers tries to bring me out of my shell, but we’re on two different wavelengths.  I tend to not mess with people, she’s more the outgoing type.  My moms chalks it up to having my pop’s personality, but I’m as much as my mother’s son as I am my father’s.

In short, I don’t fuck with you, you don’t fuck with me.

On a safety level, it works pretty good.  I’ve rarely gotten into fights.  I don’t have any problems, and (hopefully) most people know not to bring beef to me.

On a personal level, it’s lonely sometimes.  I want to find that certain someone, but being selective gets in the way.  I don’t know what to say or how to talk.  In football terms (as a quarterback), if I’m my usual self (what most people see: that laid-back individual), I wind up holding the ball too long and taking the sack.   If I go too aggressive, I wind up overthrowing what could have been a really nice long pass play.  Then I find out later that women were actually into me, while I’m picking grass out of my helmet.  If the Art of Pick-Up were football, I’d be the JaMarcus Russell of pick-up men.

It also leads to shit like being a virgin at 23.  It’s not something I brag about, but it’s not something I’m proud of.  It’s a secret, trapped inside the closet door, but not locked in a safe so that it’s impossible to get to.

It’s also made the stakes a little higher.  Between the ages of 16-22, getting rid of my V-card became the most important goal in my life.  Of course, I was still picky as shit, but instead of looking like the JaMarcus Russell of pick-up men, I became the Derek Anderson of pick-up men.  Not the best upgrade, but an upgrade nonetheless.

Boy did those 6 years lead me into a lot of shit though.  Unfortunately, those 6 years will require a publishing license and some serious moolah, but I’ll spread it around the site.  When I have time.  When I want to get some shit off my chest.

Those 6 years can be best summed up in this speech.

Yeah, it sounds like a stretch to compare myself to a middle-aged man, but still, even now I have plenty of regrets.

Eventually it got to the point where one of my co-worker derided me for not losing my virginity, and I flat out said I didn’t care.  I could care less about getting some.  Hell, I made it where most men didn’t.  The only thing I cared about was saving up for a trade and getting as far away from Atlantic City, New Jersey as possible.

Then I start to follow this lady on Twitter.  We connect.  I knew it couldn’t be, because of the horror stories that come with relationships that develop off the Internet, as well as long-distance relationships.  Plus, up until the New York Football Giants won the Super Bowl, very few of the people that follow me saw my face.

But we clicked.  We’re both intelligent people.  She’s one of the few people that can get my humor and go blow-for-blow.  She’s a music snob, I’m a crate-digger.

She’s had my back when I go through the roughest of days at the roughest of jobs, whether it was through a text message or a video message.  I still have records of all the videos she sent, except for one where she looked like a descendant of the Shadow people.  One of them, she just says “Hi”, but I replay that shit like it was an episode of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.  You’d really think I was watching Coming to America, or some shit.

I try to reciprocate the same when she’s going through a Hell of a day, whether it’s people complimenting her hair, or whether some dude decides to use an established corporation’s call service as their personal phone sex line.  She says I do a good job of it, but me being the perfectionist I am…

In short, we get each other, and we got each other.  So after an episode The Mr. BlackBerre Treatment (on BlogTV), she asks what I want from her.  I know to be honest with this woman, because she has not been dishonest with me.  So I told her.

I explained what I wanted (in 160 characters or less), but I wanted needed her to understand that she has given me everything, despite being a 1800 miles away.  Then the longest 7 minutes of my life happened.  So many thoughts creeping through my head…

Did I get the message through?

I fucked up, didn’t I?

At least I was honest…

Oh crap, she’s gonna leave me, isn’t she?

Because…I wasn’t trying to lose her…

It’s funny, I rarely fear losing a girl.  Did I fear hurting one?  Yep.  Losing one though?  The thought never occurred.  Not with a girl genuinely into me as I was to her.  Yet here I was on the verge of breaking down, because of all the trust and rapport we built in months could’ve toppled in 7 minutes.

It didn’t happen, but still, to know that for 7 minutes could’ve turned into the worst day of my life?  Because I really came close to losing the best thing that happened to me?  Shit’s real, man.

It’s said that you’re likely to be head over heels if you can’t stand losing her.  I thought I lost her for 7 minutes, and I ain’t have a damn clue where to go from there.  Damn…

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