S.O.L.

The best investment [you can make] is your own education.

--my Grandfather

Death of an Airman

I got my denial letter from the FAA stating that I am officially fucked.  The most likely course of action is that my broken heart mystery will remain unsolved and I will re-apply for medical certification in two years.  Until then my Private Pilot's license will sit in my wallet as a monument to the feel-good platitudes found in movies such Yes Man and Meet the Robinsons.

I executed a sell on some stock that my Grandfather gave me that probably should have gone to a house, in order to reset my finances for a new set of opportunities and challenges.  A sportbike is number one on the list.  You'll see why in part two.


"In our moment of triumph?"

You start off with a 10 and a Jack of Hearts.  Not a terrible hand, eh?  You bet solid.  The flop has the queen and the king.  Of fucking hearts.  Your own heart races, your hands sweat, and you play the best damn poker game you know.  The flop has an extra king in it.  You think nothing of it.  The turn is another king.  Whatever.  You're in it to win it, and there's no turning back.  Your eyes fixate a little to much on the river card.  Everything depends on it.

Its the fucking ace.

You have a 10 of hearts, the Jack of Hearts, the Queen of Hearts, the King of Hearts, and the Ace of Hearts.  Royal fucking flush baby.  You go all in, and as soon as the dealer says "show 'em" you slam your cards face up on the table and say "suck it bitches!"  You debate whether to slide the pot to yourself one stack at a time, or give it a big 'ol hug and pull them all in at once.  You're too excited to really think about it.  You grab a handful of chips.  Someone grabs your arm.

Its a girl with slightly darker skin and a sort of exotic beauty.   She's 24 and has a wild pair of eyes that dance around the room.  She flashes you a crooked smile as she lays down a king and a joker.  There's four kings on the table now, and she says the joker is the fifth.  Ladies and Gentlemen, Hot Lego Girl.

Weird, now, didn't know we were playing with jokers.  Not sure how one even got into the deck.

That's basically what happened to me, except it wasn't a poker game, it was my dating life.  I would have made an analogy of Grand Moff Tarkin getting blown up with the Death Star just as they were about to crush the rebels, but the girl in this story has never seen Star Wars.

It was like Laura all over again.  I thought I was there.  This time I was sure I was there.  "There" might not have even meant the strongest versions of dating, but there was a me and her and we had just started something awesome.

Then, today, in the same text, she told me that last night was amazing and that she just wanted to be friends.

She sounded apologetic, even.  Let me give some advice to you girls, that I believe will make the world a better place.  Don't ever fucking apologize for the Just Friends.  When you deliver the Just Friends sentence, you are informing a boy that he has completely and utterly failed, so say it like you mean it.  Despite the nomenclature you are not, in fact, his friend.  You are a judge assigning the death penalty and you should act accordingly.  You can maybe apologize for being batshit insane, but never apologize for the fact that you think he's a sweet tool.  That just rubs it in.

There's really not a lot I can say here--not without going back to the bitching and moaning I've hopefully left behind.  Needless to say, I watched everything I hoped for slip away in a frustrating exchange of text messages.  My best move, maybe, at this point, is to acquiesce to the sexless prison and hope that she accidentally gets drunk and makes out with me frequently enough to change her mind.  It is an extremely dangerous move, less likely to succeed than pulling a Gatsby, and I've never even attempted it without walking away with considerable scars.  Also, I think she is hiding something.  We exchanged words and it was all bullshit about things becoming too weird.

I experienced every emotion you would guess I would experience, and to a numbing degree.  I then paced around my apartment, unable to summon motivation to do anything, not work on projects, or work, or even play Starcraft.

My continuing attempts to devise a means to expedite the process of forgetting about a girl have so far proven fruitless.


Next Moves

T.B.D.