that I can see. Probably more. I haven’t asked her about them yet, less from negligence than fear. If I don’t ask, I can sit here imagining that they sprouted from some profound message I was previously incapable of conceiving. I can pretend they are reminders of life experiences that make my portfolio of silly antics and drunken adventures insignificant.

But her explanations will most likely make me vomit all over our pizza and render me incapable of faking interest for the rest of the night. “I got this one on spring break,” or “this one represents the hardships suffered by the victims of genocide everywhere.”

She isn’t who I thought she was. It always happens this way. The first date was a model of perfection, but then again thirty-second loves are my specialty. I am a master at channeling a life-time of past and future experiences and feelings into one brief interaction. I can envision our lives together and I paint my pictures of perfection onto the blank canvas in front of me. It’s when she takes the brush out of my hand and starts filling in details that my enchantment with the image begins to falter.

Everything after the initial steps is what causes me trouble—balancing the desire to text her every hour to tell her I love her and to never call her again, balancing my pre-conceived visions of a girlfriend and my interest in this norm-breaking creature sitting in front of me.

When I was a kid, every time I left the house, my Dad made me to agree to do my best. That interaction, which I hated at the time, has shaped my being. Every time she left the house as a kid her dad told her “Your body is your temple.” Now, sitting in front of my apartment after our second date, I’m suddenly and surprisingly petrified that I might not ever learn the significance of these symbols she has carved into her temple.

That dude in the motorcycle jacket, listening to something that is bringing him to tears. The touristy grey-haired woman sitting next to him with wagging-tail dog and doting husband. The Deloit business consultant, her tattooed writer/farmer friend, the skinny Asian from New Jersey who is used to rain and inclement weather, and the wise black man from whom they are soliciting advice. All of them. The little girl riding too fast on her bike and her worried dad hollering after her. The wonder-eyed Asian boy in the stroller whose life will go in directions neither of us can imagine. The dude with the tarantula pet and abundance of neck tattoos and his eclectic table of fellow regulars. The girl braving the fifty degree weather in a purple tank top and the woman next to me who thinks she must be from out of town, because all the locals like us are bundled up. The woman who wants a pair of brown corduroy pants, despite her knowledge of them being out of style. Them too. The boy cringing from the taste of some chocolate covered treat he just procured at the trinkets store next door. The confident and energetic lesbian who, if I recall correctly, loves James Taylor. The older, beret-wearing gentleman, strolling confidently along with a gift and card, heading perhaps to his new girlfriend’s place with just the right amount of hope. The same man returning twenty minutes later with a hint of dejection and loneliness on his face. The comfortable Saturday-morning-strolling couple who spontaneously decides they want to get coffee. The ugly little ear-raised pug, tied with a cheetah print leash to the parking meter in the rain, and the girl in the scarecrow hat that smiles at him. The curly-haired actress who signifies her remembrance of me with a smile, despite my three-month hiatus. The limping, but consistent and cheerful man who gives treats to every passing dog, at two o’clock every day. I’ve pick-pocketed all of their souls, tucking them away in my old-man artist sweater for some future unknown use.

We all know that girl.

She is having entirely too much fun with that plain looking dude in that nook next to the bar where you stand trying to look cool while waiting for your friends. She is wearing that strangely attractive chinese-print-esque shirt that ties with a string around her neck. She’s got that loosely assembled pony-tail that makes her look to be just the right amount of hippy to make you feel like you’re with someone exotic, but with enough normalcy to satisfy your desire for a girl who has a steady job.

When you notice that girl your future life together flashes before your eyes and you begin to plan a coup to overtake the position in front of her smile. But that damn smile she keeps issuing in response to that guy’s drivel gives you pause. It makes you think, “that lucky bastard” and resign yourself to just sneaking glances at that girl for the rest of the night.

Later, after you’ve temporarily, and thankfully, forgotten about her existence, you squeeze in close to the wall in order to let a group of people pass through. You recognize that hippy pony-tail and string-tied shirt as they pass and you look left to catch a glimpse as she heads in the other direction. To your surprise, she does almost a complete three-sixty, while continuing to walk, and looks deep into your soul with a longing glance of love.

By the time you decide that you should rudely leave the woman you’re talking to and give chase, that girl, who you’re now certain is the one—you can tell she likes coffee shops, hiking, and Jason Mraz—is gone.

So I just got home from a week of long hours, challenging logistical issues, enough exercise to make my abs visible for the first time in years, hours upon hours of TED talk stimulation, and match after match of asserting my dominance in ping-pong.

Before tonight’s workout, I’ve sat down in front of my laptop to listen to a tune. There are a wide variety of songs at my disposal and I must choose the right one. My weekend, and perhaps my life, depend on it. I doubt that I will die if I choose the wrong song, but if I have a religion, it is a strong faith in chain reactions.

I could build on the momentum of my pong ballerocity and play Jedi Mind Trick’s “On the Eve of War” and take a determination into the gym where I push myself to new levels of fitness, in the process creating a chiseled physique, which I’ll casually pull out from under a Boo Berry shirt at the beach tomorrow. Women, both known and unknown, will scratch and claw for their chance to touch me.

Or, I might turn the volume up and dance friskily around the apartment to Mya’s “Free.” My female roommate will come home and cock her head and say, “boy, what are you doin!?!” I’ll temporarily ignore her, then turn, strut over to her, take her hand and start a dance party in the living room. Our other roomie will show up, join in, and we’ll decide to go to a party we’re invited to at a night club. As we ride to the bar, we’ll all sing loudly, dance terribly, and yell things like, “work it girl” to pedestrians of both genders. At least one of us will wake up somewhere other than our apartment and have to take two-hours worth of public transit to make it home.

Then there’s always the sick rendition of Ray Lamontagne’s “Jolene” on YouTube that would go well with the strange downtrodden mood that is lurking beneath this current current surge of adrenaline. Playing this song once, would lead to repeat plays, until I’m sending texts to people to whom I don’t need to be sending texts. When I press send, I’ll be confident a loving response is forthcoming. But minutes will pass, then hours, days. I’ll be lulled into a seemingly incurable funk that will affect my ability to make simple decisions like whether or not I need to go to the store.

And because I have now listened to “Jolene” six times in a row and need a jolt of silliness, I just searched “Fuck You” by Cee-Lo. It hasn’t provided the relief I was hoping for, so I’m gonna throw on “Block Rockin Beats” by Chemical Brothers, change into my workout clothes, then listen to “List of Demands” before bench pressing a new personal best.

The momentum of the workout will carry over into an affirmative RSVP to a going-away gathering. Jamming to Michael Jackson’s “The Way You’re Making Me Feel,” Spoon’s “The Underdog,” and Eric Hutchinson’s “Rock N Roll” on the ride to meet friends will cause me to drive more recklessly than usual, but the 80 mile-an-hour lane changes will cleanse my soul of any ill-thought and prep me for a night of dancing and making friends with a sexy half-black Bolivian artist who, within one week, will ask to see my bedroom.

Hey you! Yeah, you. You there, sipping that 99 cent margarita and asking for more than your fair share of chips and salsa on the balcony of the riverfront Tumbleweed. All of you. You see those guys? Those guys in the grass just below you? Yeah, I know you see them. You’ve been exchanging glances and snickering about them for the past twenty minutes. Not that I blame you. They are dead sexy. And they keep jumping around and doing these strange push-ups where they alternate between having their legs spread apart and together. Now they’re jogging in place and bringing their knees up really high. They aren’t speaking, but they both switch to the next exercise as if they were well-choreographed ballet dancers. Yeah, those guys.

Those guys are my friends and I’m damn proud of it.

If you live on the West Coast, you probably got an email this week from your mom, like I did, imploring you to order some Potassium Iodide. “What the fuck is Potassium Iodide?” You thought, but she saved you a Google search and told you that it prevented radiation from entering the thyroid, which would decrease your chances of getting thyroid cancer. You don’t know much about the thyroid, but know that you don’t want cancer there.

So, if you’re like me, you ordered a few bottles from Amazon only to find out that they’d take three weeks to get here, two and half weeks too late. So you called around to Rite-Aid, Good Earth Vitamins, and GNC, where you were laughed at. You were left only with the decision either to pack up and head East or hang tight and clinch your thyroid.

Then you probably started thinking about armageddon and the things you haven’t done yet and people who you aren’t sitting on the couch with. And about the things you’ve learned this year and how you wished you’d learned them sooner. You’re not as much scared of dying as you are pissed off about not living the way you thought you would.

My specialty is love letters to women who will never love me.

I can write sad even when I’m laughing, and writing sad often makes me smile.

In describing failure, I am generally successful.

When lonely, there are plenty of words hanging around to describe it.

I’m confident and direct when choosing how to paint my indecision.

But happy, I haven’t figured out how to put on paper.

Its a pure, but fitting coincidence, that I finished this the day before Valentine’s Day.

Hiking down a mountain a few months back, my friend Sheila told me her cousin was having all of his groomsmen wear custom Van’s sneakers to his wedding. For some reason, I’d always pictured having a traditional wedding (minus the church), but her comment unlocked a magical kingdom in my mind where both my bride and I would wear pink and our best friends would wear pastel cardigans. The location would be an abandoned warehouse and the minister would be James Van Der Beek. Dinner would consist of B.L.T.’s from Morris Deli and Burritos from Q-Doba. Dessert: Pink Berry. The only drink served would be Schlongerbeasties (Kentucky Gentleman and Mountain Dew) and Shake Ya Tailfeatha would play on repeat for the entire night. “I want to do shit like that at my wedding,” I said, “I just have to find…”

“The perfect girl.” Sheila finished the sentence, except I don’t think I would have said “perfect girl.”

I’m not convinced the “perfect girl” exists. Like careers, I believe most people choose mates for lack of a better choice. For years, my life has been filled with a fear of taking steps down the wrong career path. I’ve managed to suppress that apprehension for a year and think I’ll be able to stick it out in the same industry for the foreseeable future. With women, I am a stereotypical man with a stereotypical problem. I’d like to dress it up into some complex literary/psychological diagnosis, but its just fear of commitment. Fear that the girl below exists and if I fall in love with some sub-par creature that we’ll either get in a heated divorce or I’ll have to force myself to be happy ‘forever.’ At the same time, I realize that I could probably find a girl who meets one or two of the following qualifications and be perfectly content.

She will find reality television, especially shows starting with “Housewives…” repulsive and an utter waste of time/brain cells. She will not be completely disgusted by the thought of back-country camping. She will not be too uptight to dance friskily in the street. She will laugh at my jokes. She will find enjoyment in staying in on Friday night and reading, playing games, and being silly. She will not drink coffee, soft drinks, or energy drinks regularly because she knows they make her more prone to cancer and give her a big ass. She will not have been brainwashed by fairy tails. She will have an unhealthy obsession with Jason Mraz, or at least rank him in her top 50 favorite singer/song writers. And I will have a strong desire to jump her bones.