“Hey.”

I normally demand substance from my text messages. Say something, say more, demand my time and attention from me—take me away from my world and into yours, with your text message. But on this day, and with this one, “hey” is fine. “Hey” means all the world, because it’s coming from you, a boy I was forced to say goodbye to—someone I wasn’t ready or willing and able to say goodbye to, because we had just met, and everything was still warm on the inside. “Hey” from the boy I still like means all the world.

I look down and see the three little letters, those letters which I have wanted to send myself for weeks now. It’s silly, the rush of emotion that is swelling inside me now.

And then I wake up. I blink, I’m at my desk, and I look at my phone and there is no “hey,” or “hello,” or “how are you.” There is nothing.

“Hey.” No response. “Hey.” No response.

Goodbye.

There’s something you should know about me. I’m not proud to say this, but I need to say this, just so you have enough time to run away and protect yourself. I’m not easy. This won’t be easy. Normally, it’s the opposite. I’m really easy to get along with and I can have rapport with anyone and I’m always passive about what I do with people, but with you…no, none of this is easy. Because you’re different. Because I like you. And that makes me nervous because I don’t like people, because I’m not in the 7th grade any more.

What’s scary is that I knew I liked you the moment I laid eyes on you. It was immediate— when I first heard you speak—because it was exactly what I imagined. I made sure to walk behind you because I didn’t think I was yet worthy to stand next to you. Later I couldn’t help from staring at you and the way your clothes hung on your body, and how your hand gestures—fuck, just the fact that you had hand gestures. And then the next thing I know you’re sitting next to me, and my heart is racing and on the inside I’m smiling, because you’re here. Because you’re next to me and that’s all I wanted.

But what makes this hard is that I’m never going to tell you any of this, because I still am in the 7th grade. Because underneath all of me there is still a boy who is scared of wearing his heart on his sleeve; a boy who is scared to tell the other boy “I like you.” Instead what I’m going to do is walk beside you, and not look you in the eyes, and not care about what you’re wearing and just completely try to ignore you while you’re sitting next to me. I’m not going to make it easy to get close to me, because at the end of the day it scares me that my heart still races for someone I fell for the minute I saw his face. It won’t be easy being my friend, because it’s not easy being yours.

Tomorrow will be 44 days from my 23rd birthday. Recently Actually, for some time, I’ve been bragging to people about how wary I am to be turning 23. Because it’s so old. Oh, I know it really isn’t. But that doesn’t help the fact that I still feel like a 23-year-old burnout. Anything I say about my life has to be modified. I have range, but no depth. I am alone, but OK with it. I am poor, but it builds character. I am stuck, but one day I will move forward.

So tomorrow, on the 44th eve of my birthday, I plan to start moving forward, step by step, 44 in total. Every day I’m going to do something odd, out of routine, something that scares me, or something I’ve been wanting to do, but have funked out of. I will memento-ize this experience by creating superlatives to give it a soundtrack: Song of the day, picture of the day, quote of the day thought of the day, outfit of the day, conquered fear of the day. Etc.

I know I’ve fallen away from myself based on how little I use my blog to write about myself. I’m going to try to fix that, and me. Day 0.

He was full, but not satisfied.
“That’s what I’m going to title my book,” he said.
“What?”
”Full, Not Satisfied. Of ideas…of life…of eggs.”

It was much easier to feel like a failure when everything around him was failing. The downtown strip was shattered with outdated architecture, “For Rent” signs and obese townspeople wobbling to their next drink. The street was wide and empty, almost like a ghost town, with a tinge of Detroit and just a small scent of farmville. So then, yes, when taking a snapshot of this town—of the scene in which he was just another detail—it was easy to think of himself as a failure. Bleakness erases one’s reputation and good will. Poverty—just being in presence of it—-makes everyone more conscious of their own good fortune, which then streamlines into a harrowing thought of, if he is so much better off, why is he there. Because he’s not any better (yet), and because they fit as nicely in with the dilapidation and cracked infrastructure of a town left behind by the society that booms around it.  

Believing that no one loves you is, perhaps, the most selfish, conscious form of self-deprication. Someone loves you. It might not be who you want it to be. It might be unbeknown to you. Most of the time, though, it is there and obvious. Your parents. Your dog. Your five-year-old nephew or your 87-year-old godmother. People do, even when you don’t.  

Sitting at my fluorescent-lit shoebox of a cubicle this morning, I couldn’t help but wonder why a career in journalism has so much clout. This is what I came up with:

1. We’re culturally relevant people, all the time — What’s that you say? Goose Island was bought out by A-B? Rosie is moving to Chicago? Chris Brown is an ass again? And Donald Trump is a bigger ass? Next is opening April 6? We know. Before you do. It’s our job to know, and dissect this information, and give it to you in a pretty package. We tweet, we blog and we’re allowed to use Facebook at work. In fact, we’re sometimes encouraged to. Having coffee with us is like having coffee with The View. You know you want to hear what we have to say.
2. People want our attention — Publicists call and email us constantly. Restaurateurs want us in their bistros. Organizers want us at their events. We have access to a lot of things most people don’t.
3. Our talent is tangible — Like that of a fashion designer, a chef, or a movie director, what we do can be easily judged—and just as easily praised—by everyone. Not every person’s job is as on-the-line. 
4. We vie for the attention of thousands, and get it — We’re happily narcissistic in that we think our work deserves your precious attention. We want you to Google our name.
5. People give us free stuff — Constant swag and free cupcakes.
6. Not just anyone can do what we do — We’re conversationalists. You think it’s easy to just talk to anyone? To get them to open up and share their secrets? It’s not. If you’ve ever been to a party where you don’t know a lot of people, you know this. We thrive in those conditions. 
7. We’re damn good at what we do — It’s safe to say that if you get published in an actual publication, or legit website, you’re pretty good at what you do. 

The day, as the one previous—and tomorrow, is filled with facts. Facts, fact, facts. So many facts. Is it a shoppe or a shop? Theater or theatre? Is “the” part of the name? How do you spell your name? No “e”? So, M-i-c-h-a-l-? One “L”? Oh,two “c”s? M-I-C-C-H-A-L?

Mounds of facts. The veal tenderloin is served with yuzu koshu, not harissa. The restaurant’s name is spelled with an ampersand. She prefers to called a lecturer, not a speaker.

There is no room for fiction. Just fact.

It’s like the moment in a conversation when the other person finishes his or her story, and you stare and just think, Really? I mean…that’s it? How do you want me to respond to that? Or wait…do you want me to respond to this? Will an “oh” be enough? No? What the hell.

I actually responded with that one time. Via text. I figured if the pointless conversation happens through text messages, it’s that much worse because texting requires an added level of physical work. Those thumbs have to shuffle a bit. Anyways…I actually wrote back “I really don’t know how to respond to that.”

“Fuck you,” he replied.

So…I’m really good at alienating myself. The bad thing is I kind of enjoy it.

And thus begins the story of how I’ve managed to stay single my entire life.

There was a moment, not so long ago, when I convinced myself that I had found love, and that it was in you. I smiled; you didn’t say anything funny or do anything embarrassing, but I smiled, because I was with you, and all was right in the world.

Except, though—and of course it’s this way—that world didn’t exist. I smiled, and you didn’t smile back. But I didn’t care, because love is painful, and this, I believed was part of the pain. I believed that being hopelessly in love was a growing pain en route to knowing its true power.

And I was right, because today, I have promised myself to never fall in love unless the boy smiles back. Today, I have turned that power against my own good will, for fear of further pain. And I will continue to hold love against its true form until he smiles, and until I smile back, letting me know it’s all ok.

And for one moment it was as if he knew the world, and he knew its cruelness, and that cruelty, it started to wear on him heavy like varnish—the fact that the world, had not—in fact—presented him with such a marvelous opportunity of eager struggle that success was all but imminent. No, today the world was gray, and not the shade of authorial commandment, but rather the shade that paints a swan sad, and turns the sky into ash at the dawn of dusk.