A Love Letter to that Which isn't Afraid of Dorky Clowns

ou know, I'm not myself these days. Even when I'm in a bad mood, I have to wait for my fingers to catch up with my mind. Even when I felt like committing suicide (I blame video games), I could've grabbed a pen and paper and written the entire affair in graphic detail.

But right now, I'm struggling for words. I have to literally strangle them out of myself. Proof: this is my second post; the first, while good by some people's standards, trailed off into a dusty road about something to do with children dying in Africa and murdering for unprovable delusion, or something or other. Even as I write this, I have to stop at every few words to figure out what to write next.
That's unheard of. Seriously. Since the day my parents gave me my first notebook and pencil, I'd say I've had to search for something to say (or write) maybe five times. I've always written what came to my head, and just gone with it.

Gone with the flow like a dead fish.

The reason I'm struggling is simple, and accompanied by a little brother: I know exactly what I have to say and can't deviate, and what I have to say happens to be quite difficult.
This is a left-right combo to the cheeks (I'm not saying which). I have to put my little secret into form, and then shape that swaying pillar of smoke into something definable. Before it breaks and starts dancing to the beat of eddies and whorls.

So... that dirty, little secret of mine.
It's not really dirty. I don't think it's little. And it's not much of a secret, since the occurrence is common but the person is the surprise, and I won't be mentioning names.

Well, then... here goes...

Uh... I think my crush on someone I can't have has developed into something more.

See. It's not that big.
But it's slowly getting to me, to the point where it's intolerable.

I don't want to go saying it's "love" or anywhere near, because that's a can of worms I'd rather keep in my bottom drawer for now, but all I can think about is this person.
The first thing that creeps past my ears and into my mind when I wake up is her. She's there when I brush my teeth, when I'm getting dressed, when I'm accidentally cutting my finger (and I bet she's reason for the lapse in concentration), when I'm supposed to be writing, when I'm watching 6-foot men break each others' orbital bones in ice hockey... I mean, if that doesn't throw Melissa Hill's All because of you at my cranium, I don't know what will.

And I don't get it. I don't understand why I feel this way, and why she's the one making me feel like this.
This relationship could not possibly work. In so many ways, ranging from our age difference (I'm younger by a few years) to her living about 3000 miles away to class issues and petty superficialities.

What sort of movie star wants to be with a lowly, unsuccessful (but brilliant) writer... we could say.

I could, up to a certain point, explain why she's got my intestines all in a twist...

The fact that my very first relationship was much like this. It shouldn't have worked but we were just right for each other, regardless of our little differences.
And ever since it ended, I've tried to recapture the "magic". I essentially started searching for Her, the One... one with whom I share a profound mystical understanding, as a certain space coyote would say. And all that bullshit.

I don't believe in Destiny and Fate, I don't think my future and who I'm supposed to end up with is decided from the very moment I'm born.
But I do think that if I have a somehow definable set of traits, and She has a similarly definable set, it's possible that one could simply put the two together and predict with relative ease whether they have any chance.

That said, by "Her", I mean "she whose set of traits will not conflict with mine". I've been searching for the person who'll "fulfill" me; who'll "get me"; who'll, rather than call me a dork, join me when I start singing Over the Rainbow. Not for any romantic reason, but just because we feel like doing it.

That person who'll come home one day and find me walking around in my boxers with clown makeup on my face, and not laugh (and call me a dork), but say something like, "Cool, but I think you missed a spot on your jaw... just let me get these clothes off, and I'll help you out..."
And we'll walk around the house. In our underwear. Wearing clown makeup.
Just because I feel like doing it, and she's cool enough to dig it.

Or when I decide to do interpretive dance during the Danse Macabre, and have her join me.
We'll look like idiots, sure, but it won't matter.

Or how about when I get one of those horrible colds (not influenza, since that means I should've gone to the doctor), and rather than send me to the couch, she'll pat me on the head and say, "Don't worry, koala bear, I'm here."
She'll obviously get sick, but then I'd do the exact same thing.

Or when I talk about working as kid or never finding "home", she won't reply plainly that she has no idea what I mean, because she spent her weekends and holidays playing whatever game it is we played when we were young and has lived in the same patch of land for her entire life.

Or. When all my depressing writing gets to me and she walks into the bathroom and sees me lying in a tub of cold water. Rather than ask if I'm fine, and walk out when I lie to her and say yes, she'll get in with me. And I'll get to do my inevitable breaking down in her arms, rather than alone.

Ultimately... I'm looking for someone just crazy enough to walk around with me half-naked and in clown makeup (among other things...). Who'll for once understand my nonsensical, packaged in a randomised manner, clinically confounding ramblings. And who'll connect with me in every way.

And what you do, where you're from, when you were born, whatever... it all doesn't matter. It can't matter. Because unless I've gone and made the same mistake as assume I'm the only one who derives inspiration from masturbation, this whole thing can only have one ending.

I've either finally found what everybody else is searching for ("the One"), who happens to be a little more difficult to ask out than I expected. Or I'm destined to end up like Beethoven. And trust me, I don't really care for the latter.

(sorry for the chaos... this was more a love letter to one person - and me getting this off my hairless chest - than something for the world to enjoy)

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