It seems lately I flow seamlessly from being depressed about one girl into being depressed about the next girl. I’m not the begging type, I’m not going to grovel and crawl for months and years buying you gifts and drawing you pictures; there’s just no time and it’s hard enough to stay upbeat and attentive for girls who actually like me back. Furthermore, it’s a sick joke this business of never giving up-- convincing her you’re the one. I’m not the one. I’m not that one anyway. I couldn’t keep a straight face if I were to say, “hey listen, just gimme a shot, you won’t regret it, I’ve got a few surprises up my sleeve, there’s more to me than meets the eye, I’m a provider baby.” Nope, I’m an open book, I’m about as neurotic as they come and any woman that dares to love me has her work cut out for her. I mean I’ll try my very fucking best to hold it together for her but the truth is I’m a miserable bastard. My previous lovers will attest to this. I’m happiest when I work myself up into a romantic frenzy though, when my feet are so high off the ground that the inevitable crash becomes hilariously ominous and when the voices of my detractors disappear into the thundering hum of my creativity. And, were an unimaginably brave girl to appear --a girl who wanted to live in a crazy lawless universe-- I must say I’d be thrilled to hell. These sorts of things can’t last though.
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