So, why does life suck for me? Because I still feel guilt ridden for two timing her. Inquiring to her health, she told me that she takes some meds for an overly active heart (something like a bleeding heart), and some other minor ailment to do with thyroids. But there was some good news and that is she is raising two healthy children, one boy and one girl. She loves baseball and enrolled her son into a baseball team which happened to win a championship playoff competition and will travel to Florida next. Wow! That's really something.
It's strange that the two of us should have been going to college at the same time. I expressed how rotten my luck was that I didn't ask her to marry me then. I was so dumb. Now I'm kicking myself about it. Life goes on, doesn't it. FFFFFFFFF.
I thought that AG might be her, but according to my friend from bygone days, her job involves fashion, not research journalism. While it is irony that the network news in L.A. should employ somebody all the way from Queens, N.Y. who is my ideal woman, my life sucks that I'm a nothing to her. I've heard it before, supportive encouragement from friends, that I'm not a nothing and that there's plenty of fish in the sea; and I agree. There's Ethel Carter from the movie The hills have eyes and there's Giannina Facio from the film Kingdom of heaven to whom I'm nothing and eight and nine years younger. So, I just want everyone to know that my life sucks because it seems that I can't bring myself to stop finding people to love from afar through my TV set. Hence, I seem to be having crushes on the creations of hairy, wrinkled, reclusive movie directors. This can't be healthy.
I've got to stop relying on the Internet for accessing bio info on peeps. That's where I'm developing this obsessiveness. Meeting a girl at a bar (or the market, laundry, bus stop, stop light) the only way to find out more about her, is through idle chat. And you know what's tragic about that? For instance, you find yourself at the mall waiting in line to pay for your stuff. You see a woman who looks like Ana Garcia, or her clone, and begin to yabber. Before the conversation begins to get serious enough to ask for her telephone number, she's already paid and out the door. A person you'll probably never see again. Imagine seeing your soul mate in line at the gap, and saying something like: "Hello. Are you single? Can I have your telephone number?" It doesn't happen. Yet, with me, if I'm not reminded or poked, I'll totally forget the reason I sparked up a conversation with somebody, and I probably didn't have a pencil on hand anyway.