Conundrumn of a Twenty Year Old and Other Related Musings

I’ve recently realized that I am at the absolute worst possible year in regards to expanding my social horizons, pursuing relationships with women, and the like.

Twenty years old.

There’s no longer the forced-socialization of public school.  The old peer groups have dissolved, most have moved away, and many of the women (and men, but I’m not exactly interested in having lots and lots of sex with them) are psychotic enough to get married.  I’ll get back to that particular  issue later.

The people I’m most likely to connect with, intelligent urbanites who may or may not be attending college, are in short supply.  They’re in especially short supply as far as I’m concerned because my age has another critical limit to it.

Alcohol.

I can’t drink, can’t go into bars or clubs.  Not legally, at least.

So a great stone wall currently exists between me and what I want at this period in time, which is to emerge from my cave and start participating in the affairs of mortal man once more.  Barriers.  Obstacles.  Issues.

The path of least resistance is something I find mildly pathetic, internet dating.  It’s the only feasible option for someone like me, in the nether-zone of society for the time being.  And I have met some cool cats via these tubes, though obviously had one given rise to a relationship I wouldn’t be writing a bitchy blog right now.

Issues.

My ex-girlfriend got married recently.  This is a girl who I had the misfortune of falling in love with at the age of fifteen.  The circumstances surrounding our relationship are storied, and steeped in internet lore.  No doubt there are a few versions of the story, many existing in the public record in certain circles.  I’ll cover it in further detail in the future as part of an upcoming series of autobiographical stories entitled “The Epic Legends”.

What gets to me about that isn’t that she’s barely older than I am.  It isn’t that she married someone dumb enough to enlist in the Marines during wartime.  It isn’t even that she got married, hell, if she wants to get into something like that she’s smart enough to have a good reason or two.  It’s perspective.

I recall some time ago, during my senior year of high school I learned a lesson in perspective from her.  We had just become friends again following our legendarily acrimonious split, and she made a passing reference in conversation to our relationship, a funny little joke about it being the “Summer of ’69”

Funny, no?

It was, at first, until I figured it out.  To me, she was, and to this day remains the one girl who ever really got to me, who got under my armor and brought me out.  It was a few weeks in the Summer of 2003 that we were together, just under three months, I believe.  To me, an eternity, when you compare it to the comparative void around it.  To her, a little summer fling.  Something not entirely serious, that we both got hurt a little too much over.

Perspective.

I’ve been going through this pre-life crisis, locked away in my cave, snug within my phalanx of digital paraphernalia.  Battling insomnia, stress, and depression, things I really don’t have any reason for having.  Myriad doctors try to solve my problems when I begin to think they may not be problems, they may just be parts of who I am.

And how much introspection can a young man take?  Surely I must be reaching some critical mass after which I’ll not have anything to over-analyze anymore.  I’m not entirely sure how I’ll spend my days after that happens.  Wake up, sit down, reach deep down into your soul and tear out a bit of your humanity.  Look at it for a while, try to figure it out.  Why was it in there?  Who put it there?  Should it even exist?  Am I making it all up?

Insanity.

I see young women posting ads on Craigslist and the like looking for their one true love, their soulmate.  Women no older than I, and in many cases younger.  Anyone who gets married at 20 is either stupid or insane or an unholy cocktail of both.  Anyone looking for that sort of commitment and fulfillment on an internet forum might as well write “I Have More Baggage Than A Trans-Atlantic Flight” on their forehead and march into Union Station holding a placard that says “Love Me”.  Sorry, it’s the truth.  Not misogyny or anything, I love women, but I’ve got a keenly-attuned PDA (Psychotic Detection Array).  It’s nothing personal, just years of seeing the more unhinged side of the human race first-hand.

And I’m sure there are men more than willing to jump into those shark-infested waters.  Hell, I was born to one I think.  The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, either.

Thinking too hard will kill a man.

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