The things that I used to live for now kind of make me want to throw in the towel. I find myself three days without a shave, on someone else’s tab in a red-lit bar that only plays techno covers of pop hits, sitting on leather couches next to a fireplace. The girl in front of me is around three years my junior, confused, attention-starved, sporting a hoodie and Kool-Aid red hair with a few streaks of golden blonde. Aside from the trend-punk costume and about a half dozen piercings, she looks like she could be a cheerleader. I ponder what went wrong along the way.

“I really love your writing,” she says with a shameless hair toss. We’ve spent the last hour acting as if our mutual dislike of the music represents a greater commonality. “What do I have to do to be a character it?”

“Disgust me or earn my affection.”

“And which am I doing right now?” I think she thinks she’s winning.

“There’s such a fine line…half the time I can’t really tell anymore.” I am every character in every scene of every film I’ve ever seen. So is she. We give each other stares we picked up from record covers. And that’s why I can’t take this. That’s why this bores me. I’d rather pay money for the end result if it burned through the peacocking and lies.

I lack the confidence to make this sort of thing happen anymore. Part of it is a lack in myself, and the other a lack in them. I’m merely visiting the moments of my youth here, the cast re-tooled to stay hip, to stay on par with the handicap of my romantic retardation. But unfortunately in these cases, apathy is often somehow found to be intriguing.

The more they’re intrigued, the more they flick they eyelashes or send cute texts or breathe acutely with fastened eyes as they listen to me talk. The more all of this happens, the more apt I am to find myself burning a not-alone-but-lonely 5 a.m. cigarette. So by not being interested, I draw interest, which interests me, which leads me back to a lonely square one every single time. The way our souls go about things, it doesn’t really have much of a chance to work, unless we fool ourselves.

Besides, I don’t trust the poor girl’s judgment. I’m a buzzing, sunken-eyed wreck — I look like hell, I’m half in the bag and wearing yesterday’s clothes. And you can save the possibility of ‘liking me for who I am’, as this bird hasn’t the slightest clue as to who I am right now. Neither do I.

“There’s a party above the bar if you want to check it out after this.” She gives me the tight-lipped, look upward, a few strands of hair in the way, the one that signifies an offer beyond a party.

“Nah, I don’t think so. I’m pretty tired, and I came here with some people.”

“They can come.”

“I think they have other plans…and they’re my ride.”

“You can stay at my place. I live around the corner.”

“Uh…really tired…thanks for the offer, though.”

“Well, it was really nice to see you.” The clock still shows about an hour of remaining bar time. And yet our rolling conversation has been halted by my clandestine admission that I’m not interested in sleeping with her. I was more than content to continue the movie/music/literature banter our types shield ourselves behind. But she needed a solution for the evening.

“Yeah, it was great to see you, too.” I give her a hug and rejoin my friends for that crawling and monotonous time of the evening where I’ve decided that I’m ready to leave but must wait on the group I came with. A lot of my life feels that way these days. I study my drink or stare out at the carnival or watch Dallas blow out Sacramento, thinking of where I’d like to be, and who I’d like to be talking with, but beaten down enough to merely anticipate a gas station six-pack and an empty bed.

As I sit around with them, immune to the conversation, I note her across the room, scrunching her nose at a shaggy-haired kid with a Castro hat and a peach face. They’re probably talking about the same things we were. Yes, he liked Juno as well, I imagine as I watch him nod in the way all men do when they’re contemplating whether or not they could sleep with her. I immediately question whether or not I made a mistake. It’s going to feel this way no matter what I do. Can the illusions of my own head be any better than the illusions of our pretty conversations?

I want to build myself a cabin in the woods and read novels by lantern, not to get away from society, but to escape the prospect of falling in love.