If you never tell a story

I can’t find anymore of me. I think they’ve all grown up, gotten married and had children. At least that’s how it looks on Facebook.

“Ah, what the fuck is that about?” You scoff, and rightfully so. But it’s my only real conduit into the lives of normal adult people types. I see their profile pictures of robust and healthy babies, and digitally leaf through albums with titles like “My favorite photos of Sanchin yet!!”

I am what you would call a Man of a Certain Age. Back home, I might as well be an albino poker champion. Everyone wants to be around the freak, and there’s always a whiff of easy sex and wanton abandon lurking under the table.

Needless to say, I’ve been spending an awful lot of time trolling Expedia. I might as well give the people what they want. And maybe, just maybe, there will be some left over for me.

I just wish I wasn’t so fucking cheap. Thanks, dad.

If I would only let myself, I could afford a couple of trips over autumnal months. The first one would be to take in the fall foliage, scream at myself that if I don’t do it now I never will and will die a miserable abject failure and it will be all my own fault so get off your fucking ass and fucking do it already you miserable fuck over and over, and (finally) to connect with a certain female I used to know there.

She’s a Woman of a Certain Age. She’s had lots of issues with drugs and men in the past. I had totally forgotten, but her and I actually made out exactly once. It was when I was a DJ at this club. There was one night when the party really went off and it was all sweaty and warm and open and sexy and good. When it was over she came in to the DJ booth with her roommate and they took turns making out with me. It was fucking awesome. How could I forget a story like that?

This is where the screaming at myself part comes in.

The second trip back would be over Thanksgiving. Now that I think of it, that one is probably more important than I was even realizing. That one is kind of at the crux of the screaming. Yes, that one needs to happen. OK, good to know.

I know it’s a long shot, but Thanksgiving weekend in the land of my birth has the potential to be everything that I’ve lazily been imagining of late.

It started with fucking Facebook, of all things. She randomly hit me up on the site’s instant messaging system. We talked. A lot. About many things. She asked when I was going home again. She told me that she was going home at Thanksgiving, and that it would be nice to see me.

Considering what happened the last time we saw each other, I’m a fool for not already having the trip booked. Even just the hint that it could be anything like that is the fire that stokes my soul. It makes me feel “the feeling” and the lines begin to blur and then it’s sparkly magical dreamland time.

“Why not?” She implored with a smile. “Why not?”

Even though she's not here, I can still hear her voice. Even though she'll never be here again, I can still feel her hair coarse on my face. Even though.