I could have saved myself at least two hours of riding if I had taken the metro to its limit. It feels like cheating and I'm afraid they'll check my bags, but the thought remains until I pass the last station.
Baltimore is special on this trip: it's the only place for which I have a set goal. Aside from collecting a heroin container from the sprawling, destitute set for The Wire, I'm trying to find someone here. A few months ago, I saw a show in Tallahassee and thought the lead singer of a Baltimore band fit my standards for attraction. I talk to her a bit while buying their album, and after hearing about their bleak housing arrangements, offer to let the band stay with me. Everyone is exited about having a surface to sleep on, but the bassist walks over to say they'll stick with their original place, but thanks. They continue their tour and return to Baltimore. I feel cheated.
It's difficult to distinguish between things romantic and creepy. This is a goal for the trip, but not the only one. That doesn't change the fact that I'm desperately seeking a complete stranger based on an inkling that I might have a chance with her. She's a siren, though. Upon hearing her voice I was smitten. I worry that if I can't get a girl considering the forethought needed to find her along as significant a trip as this I'll be forever incapable of attaining the women I seek.
I ride in through the slums of boarded windows and people on stoops, apathetic of my presence. The streets are covered in trash. I'm crashing with a girl from my high school, Marie Bolt. I didn't really know or talk to her at all in high school, but we ran in similar circles and were friends on Facebook. She's a cool cat with a half shaved head and a neat girlfriend that dresses like James Dean. Her and her roommates are students at the art school. I feel a little guilty and unlucky bringing up the band girl, because her roommate is adorable, dreads included. I explain my dilemma to them and they coo at my use of "smitten" and immediately begin networking to find her. A couple leads turn up dry, but they promise to help tomorrow.
My replacement camera D ordered for me has arrived. It has a working light meter, and regardless of it being the same model as the last, is a better camera. I love the shit out of my brother.
I had a great deal of difficulty figuring out what to write here, or if I should at all. It doesn't matter that you won't see it, acknowledgement of any sort gives credence to the idea that I'm not over you. Unfortunately, I think that may be true.
Eight years is a long time, especially for something as masochistic as unrequited love. Every confession of it was met with the same response of pity and frustration. I understand it wasn't fair to ask you to feel differently, but you made no effort to alleviate my suffering. You always saw our relationship as a deep friendship while I imagined it an extended love affair. We were never just friends.
It's not that I still wish I could be with you; I don't want to know you. I'm upset about the time wasted chasing you, squandering any opportunities I had to find someone else. Admittedly, I didn't want it, but all my time was spent worrying about you and all my choices based on how I thought you would respond. I'm bitter that you appear now and again in my decision making; no longer shaped by beneficence, but spite. I'm over you in any romantic or amicable forms, but I'm still resentful. How could I not be, though?
For eight years I waited on your beck and call. I devoted countless hours to restlessly worry about your state, yet without fail I would be passed up for some chump with a personality disorder. It wasn't even the assholes that bothered me, they had some sort of character, but choosing to be with someone so insultingly boring and without personality was illuminating. False modesty isn't a virtue, and I can think of no way the last guy could have even been my equal. He made me reevaluate my perspective of you. I was able to see the thing I longingly adored was just a projection of what I wanted, wholly apart from the reality of your being. I don't know how long the two were separate, or if they were ever the same to begin with. I have the habit of falling in love with ideas, and the idea of my ideal mate is no exception. There was no way you could've matched it, but it didn't matter, I couldn't tell.
I wish I weren't so bitter, if only for my own sake. You still haunt me before I sleep. Everything I do I wonder how much of my motivation is some perverse desire to show you up, to show you what you missed. It's exhausting, but it's always been. I wish things had turned out better, and I'm not sure what that means.