Charles Bukowski, speaking about writers and boxers, once said, "If a Fighter doesn't feel like he owes the crowd something he's no good." (i'm paraphrasing here. corrections are welcome)

that's how i try to feel about my nodes. with limited success. anyway, i'll keep this short and sweet, because the shower's running.

most of you don't know me. ok, there's one person on everything who knows me. but otherwise, i'm just some lowbie. that's cool. but for you, my people's, benefit, i'll provide some background:

i'm 26.
i live in Seattle.
i broke up with my girlfriend of 2+ years in November.
i was never in love with her.
i haven't been in love since i was 19.
i thought it was impossible.
i met someone, a month or so ago, who i starting falling for.
i've been sleeping with her for weeks now.
it's requited.

so, what's the problem, you may be asking. the problem is endless, enormous. the problem is insurmountable. the problem is me, the problem is her. the problem is our past. the problem is nothing.

it's 10pm, The Postal Service, specifically Such Great Heights is blaring from my speakers. i'm waiting for a call. i don't think it'll come. i'm trying to prepare a backup plan, a more relaxed posture, an attitude of carelessness. i stink at this.

the phone is silent, overdue. there's an air of menace, implied misfortune. and i'm tired of struggling not to fight. my well-honed emotionless instincts are straining like dogs on a sled. i'm ready to speak dispassionately. i'm ready to act ruthlessly. i thought this banal assassin was dead. let's be clear about something dear reader - i'm not impressed by my own sociopathic impulses. they disgust and exhaust me. i suppose i feel that at the end of the day, when you've reached out all you can, when you've exposed everything you could, and you're still facing hostility - well. i don't feel much choice but to reach for the heap big medicine. the hold-out at the bottom of my traveling case. my hard forged, unpleasant, poorly-regarded ability to feel nothing. i'll slip it on, stare you down. where's the choice? it's gone, minutes, hours, days ago. i have no options left but the ugly.

I am thinking it's a sign
that the freckles in our eyes are mirror images
and when we kiss they're perfectly aligned

I have to speculate
if God himself did make us into corresponding shapes
like puzzle pieces from the clay

True it may seem like a stretch
but its thoughts like this that catch
my troubled head when you're away when i am missing you to death.

- The Postal Service, Such Great Heights - Sub Pop 2002