“Now I’m haunted by all these holes found in my armor
and if my heart beats any harder I will lose it”
– Flatsound, Don’t Call Me At All
So I met a girl a while back. And if you’ve any sense of who I am at all, you’ll immediately be thinking to yourself uh oh, this is not going to end well.
Well, you’re not wrong. Naturally, I fell in love. Or what I perceive to be love. Whatever. We’ll tackle that problem another day. From here on out let’s just assume it’s love, because it damn well feels like it. Every last agonizing second of it.
See the problem is I’m as unlovable as I am prone to falling in love. Which is a lot. Don’t ask me exactly why this is the case, because I’m still trying to figure that out. Not the unlovable part; that I’ve got pretty well figured out. It’s a combination of my unattractive exterior and my unattractive interior. The part I don’t understand is why I keep falling in love when I know it’s pointless, when I know it does me more harm than good.
But back to this girl. She’s literally (and I’m an English Major and a writer so you know I’m not just slapping that word around) been on my mind every day since the day we met. I could tell you about how great she is, but those are just words, and she surpasses them. Besides, after awhile any poor sap in love describing his betrothed begins to sound like every other poor sap in love describing his betrothed. You know what I mean? It’s always the same adjectives, the same compliments. Real love can’t be quantified in words. It’s just something you feel.
So this girl has inspired four of my short stories, three of which are completed and up on this blog (no prizes for guessing which ones) as well as a poem (which is not on this blog). Yeah, that’s right, I wrote a freaking poem about her. If that isn’t love then I don’t know what is. The thought of her keeps me up at night, it governs my every decision, it makes life unbearable for me. So you can imagine why I’m not the biggest fan of this “love” shit.
You may or may not recall The Amputation Contingency, my method of dealing with such situations. But here’s the problem, the one that sets this girl apart from my other amputated infatuations: this one just won’t go away. It’s like I severed my ties too late, and the infection has already made it to my brain. I can’t stop thinking about her. Even now, over three months since I’ve last seen or heard from her, I still can’t stop, and the fever’s showing no signs of abating.
I don’t know what to do.