Message in a Bottle

Oh, lordy.

I lack the words.

I have a bubbling, upswelling desire to update this blog, and yet I find my verbal capacity positively anile.

I had grand plans for this evening, my first Thursday off in three weeks. Unfortunately, my plans were all subject to the ol' Robert Burns treatment and have ganged agley.
(That's from To a Mouse. Look it up if you are unfamiliar. Or don't. None of this literary tosh matters anymore, anyway. Facts are so goddamn disposable. They call this The Information Age, and information has never been more worthless. People need not remember anything, because its all right there in front of them, at their fingertips, on the internet. Phone numbers are saved on cellular telephones. Our memories are failing. Remember Fahrenheit 451? Probably not. No one remembers anything. But the old men at the end? Who serve as repositories of great literary works by memorizing them word-for-word? Well no one will be able to do that soon. But, beyond the increased access to information, and even more frightening -to a trivia slut suh as m'self - is that nobody fucking cares! No one is excited by new information and titlating factiods. Which means I am all but useless.)
Anyway, my plans have fallen through.
But, the lack of viable plans allowed for a pleasant dinner. I briefly considered having an early dinner at Osaka, but decided instead to buy supplies at a grocer's and cook my own meal. For one, it costs less. Secondly, I can be there to oversee more stages of its preparation. And most importantly, I wouldn't look like a lonely fool eating by myself with nothing but a glass of sake and graphic novel for company.
So roasted fresh Brussels sprouts and a perfect medium rare Ribeye the size of a wire-bound notebook, accompanied by a Rioja I had in the past been favorably been impressed with. The wine has failed to live up to my memory of it, however. I remember it grabbing me by the balls with a blood-red, full-bodied Spanish sneer, like Michele Rodriguez in a bottle. Now it seems flat and thin and completely unremarkable.
I had assumed the wine would stir me on to heights of creative fury, but such is, alas, not the case. All I got was a mild sort of listless loneliness.
But this leads me at a sad-eyed slump, like Eeyore, to my first topic: I am lonely.
I long for female companionship. My feelings are nauseously mixed. Part of me, as a heterosexual human male in modern American society, longs for the closeness of a soft, pleasant-smelling companion, for obvious reasons. But beyond this, I long for a relationship. I'm not saying I'd turn down a one-night-stand at this time, but . . . I would. I broke up with my last girlfriend because I wanted to fuck other people, but, more deeply, because I wanted to know other people. I want to wake up after a romantic night, give and receive a morning-breath kiss, shower together, and then go out for breakfast. I want to meet new sets of parents, and serve as the token arm-adornment at little-cousins' fourth birthday parties. I want to spend a day-off in pajamas, with intermittent, lazy, half-clothed sex and order Chinese take-out.
But, beyond even that, is an astoundingly conceited notion that people are missing out on having me as a boyfriend. I am a damn good boyfriend. I have never spent any serious time as a young bachelor, out-on-the-town, picking up a different girl every night. I have, however, had a good many years experience as half of a couple, and at this I excell. I feel like there are girls out there feeling sad and lonely and unappreciated and it is madness that I am not in their lives to bring them flowers at work or surprise them by having dinner ready when they come home or give them a foot massage while we watch a romantic comedy. And I even go so far as to blame these hypothetical girls for not being my girlfriend.
"Can't you see what you're missing out on?" I say to these ethereal girls I have yet to meet.

And I am starved for reader response on this blog. I am lonely as a web diarist. I know people read this ridiculous exploration of my neuroses and prejudices. I know several people read it, in fact. I just have no idea who reads it. I think my precocious younger cousin reads it, as my readership has been tracked to Europe, where she is currently studying. Beyond that I have no clue. Coy requests for comments have illicted no response. Now I am not fishing for comments here, like an insecure teenage girl fish for compliments by moaning about how fat she looks in her prom dress. I would actually be mildly upset if people were to actually respond to this. But still, I just launch these posts off into cyberspace, like a shipwrecked sailor sending messages in bottles, and wait around for a Red Cross vessel to save me.

Oh well.

Listen. I have so much I want to discuss with you -- ha! Discuss! As if you'll actually participate - but I am sleepy. Perhaps I shall update with something of substance soon.
Until then, I'm off to bed.