For No One

Hearts break. This is one of the few things I can't call a plumber about.

I know, this probably isn't what you'd call a poem. It's not what I'd call a poem either, but if there's one thing the legions of angsty teenagers on this website have taught me--which hopefully there isn't--it's that there is no piece of writing, no matter how prosaic, that you cannot call a poem to lord it over those philistines who write stories or articles. I am an artiste, you b******s, and don't forget the E at the end.

Moreover, this doesn't fit into any of the other categories on this website. A diary entry is what it is, honestly, but I'll save wikileagues a trip and post it on a public forum for anyone to read. I'm not sure why I thought this is a good idea. Perhaps the concept of dozens of internet strangers shipping me with someone I love is too tempting to pass up. Onwards, then, and if you'll pretend you never read this, I'll pretend the same. I didn't write it for you. I wrote it for no one.

Dearest No One: 

I love you. I'm not sure how to stop. I've tried clenching my fists and screwing up my eyes and trying very hard. I've tried crying in a corner for a few hours and then getting up, ready to turn over a new leaf in my life. I've tried remembering all the bad things about you, but I can't, so I try remembering all the bad things you've done to me, and I just end up hating myself. Not often, and not for long, but there are times when I think I shouldn't be alive. Times when I can't pretend I'm brave for going on despite all this, when the truth is I'm cowardly for being too afraid of the knife to end it.

But I'm not suicidal; I'm not even unhappy. I have a pretty good life even with the hole you left in it. Last time I lend something to you, I'm sure it was in better condition than this before you got your paws on it. It's fine, though. I have no reason to kill myself. That's the thing, though; do I really need a reason? Isn't it more that I need a reason to live? Probably not. I guess not. The people who can't take it anymore and decide it's time to bleach their stomach or see how many painkillers they can swallow in one go, if any of them called the Suicide Hotline beforehand, would they really respond, "Well, why not," when the poor b******s on the other end of the line asked them why they wanted to kill themselves?

I don't. I don't want to kill myself. I'm just being melodramatic. 

All right. Outside observers, dear all-of-you-who-aren't-me, I'll see if I can get you up to date before I start threatening suicide at you.

Let's see... There was a girl. Oh sweet Jesus, the clichedom of that sentence. I swear, if I find I can't cope and find the need arises to make one, I'll make something else up for my suicide letter just to avoid being so damn dull.

We were very good friends. I liked her very very much. She liked me pretty well, I think. I hope.

She was someone I could talk to. She was someone who made me feel like everything was getting better, and was pretty damn good already. Funny, really, since she'd complain about people for a fair chunk of the time we talked together. I was always more optimistic--well, not optimistic. I've been a cynical b*****d for a long time. I was more pragmatic, I guess. I'd have beat her hands-down in an at-peace-with-the-world contest.

I wanted to go out with her. Well, I wanted to marry her and have hordes of little snot-nosed children, but I figured I'd go out with her a few times first.

My God, I hope she doesn't read this. I doubt you've noticed that although I've technically been on this site for a year, I've been a complete nonentity. This account was created purely so that I could make fun of her. You may have seen that "So called because my friend wrote a truly magnificent poem by the same name. You should all read it and review it. Twice." that I stuck under my username? That friend is her. 

She's smart and funny and beautiful and creative and perfect and amazing and cruel. Read her poem. Really do. You won't find you've wasted your time. Search for "Why didn't you call", and sort your results by relevance. She'll be the first result. It's a very good poem, and the sort of poem that I find impossible to read without making fun of it. This is because I'm an a*****e. I'm an a*****e; she's a cruel hypocrite; shouldn't we make a good match?

Anyway. I plotted ways to ask her out for a few months without actually working up the nerve to do it until I went on a vacation in the summer. I traveled to Ontario and to Manitoba. We sent messages back and forth from time to time on Facebook, affirming that we both missed each other. I missed her very, very much. 

After I returned, we negotiated, still via Facebook, a time we could both get together. She worked most days, so I suggested that we go out to dinner. 

This was my plan:

First, I would get her to agree to let me buy her dinner.

Second, I would recommend a fancy, romantic restaurant with meals that have way too many words in the name.

Third, at some point during our meal, I would lean forward and gaze captivatingly into her eyes, quietly saying her name.

Fourth, she'd say, "Yeah? Why are you looking at me like that, you weirdo?"

Fifth, I'd murmur softly, my dark eyes piercing her soul, "Can I kiss you?"

Six(a)th, her bosom heaving with the intensity of my passionate stare, she would whisper "Yes" through quivering lips.

Six(b)th, she'd laugh in my face and shout "Ahahahaha! What a loser! No way in hell will I ever go out with you, you ugly b*****d!"

Seven(a)th, I'd kiss her.

Seven(b)th, I'd coolly reply, as though this was exactly what I was expecting, "Well, then, can I have a bite of your tete de croquembouche avec Nor pas de Calaise flamiche?" and I'd smile charmingly as though it was all a big joke on that ask-a-big-favour-before-you-ask-a-little-one psychological trick. And we'd go on with our friendship, if not my ego, intact, and I'd get to work on wooing her for another eight months or so.

I'm sure the reader can see that this plan seems really bloody stupid. In retrospect, I agree; but on the upside it meant I'd get to take her out on a date without actually having to ask her out on a date, which is scary as hell.

Well, it didn't happen that way. After I offered to buy her dinner, suggested the most expensive restaurant in town, and refused to split the bill (Not for stupid, chauvinistic reasons, I promise. It just doesn't seem very classy to invite someone out to dinner and opt out of paying), she caught on that I might have some ulterior motive. She asked me "Is this a date?" and before the panic set in thoroughly, followed that with, "Because it should be."

!!!

This girl is bloody perfect in every way. She is the most incredible person I have ever known, and when I hang around with people who don't know her I feel by association subtly superior to them. 

And she thought it should be a date.

I sent her my heartfelt agreement and went off into my room to have a little celebratory dance. I then spent the intervening days seesawing between untainted euphoria and crippling nervousness. 

I arrived almost an hour early, and spent the next forty minutes circling the block so as not to attract undue attention from the waitress. On maybe my twenty-fifth orbital, I ran into my date as she was walking towards the restaurant. I succeeded in not passing out. From everything I have ever achieved in my life, this is what I am proudest of. I hugged her, continued to refrain, with difficulty, from passing out, and escorted her to the restaurant.

The date went fantastically. We talked, and laughed, and reminisced, and didn't order until the waiters started to get mad at us; and even then we talked and laughed and reminisced about them for another ten minutes while they glared at us from the counter. 

It was bloody perfect. 

I thought. As far as I can tell, we had a bit of a difference of opinion there. I asked her out again a few days later. 

I wanted a second date. I got an apology.

I was madly in love with a heartstopping girl. She stopped my heart. Guess it's an occupational hazard.

And wouldn't it be nice if I could end this there. I cried, of course. I cried lots and hid in my room lots and overidentified with lots of depressing songs. But eventually, I dealt with it. I didn't stop crying from time to time, but it did become "from time to time", which I consider an improvement on "whenever I could manage to do so without running the risk of making people come up to me to try to make me interact with them". She'd said she thought of me like a brother. That's manageable; I can live with that. I don't think of her like a sister, not by a long shot, but "brother" is a solid step up from "cockroach", and I wouldn't mind going through life as her brother.

That's not how it played out. A few weeks after the date, I sent her a message asking her to meet me after classes the next day to talk it out and make sure we were still friends. I looked for her then, but I couldn't find her and eventually decided to set a meeting place for the next day. I did this.

After the next day's classes, I went to our meeting place and waited.

For a long time.

She didn't show. I messaged her later to ask if we were still friends. She said she was just nervous, had to get some help in English, and didn't want to talk about it. I insisted that I needed to talk to her before I could feel comfortable hanging around with her. Never in my life have I hurt nearly as much as I did walking home after that missed meeting, and I felt like she had no right to submit me to that just because she was nervous and wanted a hand in English. I also felt somewhat indignant; what was she nervous about? I'm not a threatening figure, I hope, and I really wanted nothing more than to make sure we were still on good terms.

It took me less than a week to give in and understand that there was no way I could do anything to stop her from treating me however she wanted. I like her a hell of a lot more than she likes me. No matter how hard it is for me to talk to her without knowing whether or not she likes having me around at all, it's a hell of a lot easier than not talking to her without knowing whether or not she likes having me around at all.

I sent her a Facebook message telling her all the things I wanted to tell her in person, and asking if she genuinely liked hanging out with me.

I know exactly how pathetic it is that three quarters of our relationship was conducted using the medium of a social networking site, but I don't know exactly how else I could get in touch with her. It's hard to ask someone if you're on speaking terms with them when you're not on speaking terms with them.

She said yes. I tried as hard as I could to believe her.

The next day, I tracked her down after classes and asked if I could walk her home, which used to be something of a routine between us before the summer. She had work that day. And the next. And the next. And an appointment the next, for variations sake. And back to work the next. And, after the weekend, the next and the next. I took the hint and backed off.

But if I had the option of taking a hint, I could've taken one when she decided that avoiding me that day I asked her to meet me was worth whatever it did to me. I don't have that option. That's why I was going on about killing myself, pretentious b*****d that I am; it's because if I take the hint that she doesn't want me around, I won't be around. I might as well lie in a box six feet under the ground as cry in a bed two feet above it.

So I messaged her again some time later, asking after her work hours that week. She didn't respond that week. The next week I messaged her again, asking if she'd got the message, and she apologized and said she'd forgotten to respond. I suggested that she should come find me sometime when she was free.

This was three weeks ago. Since then, the ten words she has said to--or at least towards--me are, "Does either of you have a dollar I could borrow?"

I did not. I have been carrying my wallet around ever since, though.

And--Dear No One--I wish we were together, but if you don't want that I think that's my problem. I'm not a male supremacistic rapist, so I'll deal with it and leave you alone. I don't feel the same about us being friends. I feel like if I want to be friends with you, it's shouldn't be a suck-it-up thing. I feel like that's a right.

Well, I guess life's not fair. I don't feel like I should have to suck it up, but I don't see the alternative. I guess there's no way I could force you to like me. 

So then there's plan C. I don't need you to be friends with me; I don't need you to care about me; I don't need you to avoid punching me in the face whenever you feel stressed out. Give me enough to make life worth living, is all.

But you're not really doing that. I've been keeping myself going for the past three weeks off a request for money. There's not a lot of margin there. I appreciate that you're doing great with the punching-me-in-the-face factor. Thank you. But I'd like to feel that you think it's a good thing that I exist.

I hope you do.

Author's Note

I solicit unsolicited advice. Interfere, offer condolences, make fun of me, do what you want. I'm familiar enough with myself to be certain that nothing would make me happier than some stranger from the internet caring enough about my whiney ramblings to leave a review. It's like I'm famous. Oh, but stylistic criticism isn't really what I'm after here. It's too stream-of-consciousness for that.