At the point the Sun engulfs the Earth, being timid of heart will seem silly.

So: alcohol. This shall be written whilst a little more drunk than one should be when writing. Which in itself is enough to put anyone off writing completely, but not me, which makes me wonder if I’m even a person at all. I have spent the evening drinking rum and talking to two close friends, one male and one female, and also to my father, who comes out with the odd bit of wisdom despite himself. Now, if being drunk and examining yourself teaches you anything, it’s that you should probably never drink again. Something that is based in fact, but a fact almost certain to be ignored after you get bored of not drinking.

Just incase previous romance based posts haven’t made it clear, I am very much interested in a lovely, beautiful, talented, individual, slightly-sad-due-to-her-recent-singleness, young lady at my work place. If it wasn’t obvious to all and sundry, that is the case, and if it wasn’t obvious to her and she finds time to skim over the tiresome ramblings of an admirer, it is now. Anyway, this evening – before I was intoxicated – I decided to invite said lovely person to a fireworks display, in the hope that this would result in finding out if I had any chance in the field of relationships. I sent a text message to this effect, asking whether she might like to accompany me on an evening of exploding, colourful gunpowder, with added side attractions such as toffee apples, the opportunity to liberate a poorly cared for fish and wildly unsafe fairground rides. I didn’t sell it as such obviously. Less is more. I received no reply, and as a neurotic, pondering sort decided that this was not a good sign. So at this point it seems wise to point out that all of this is paranoid conjecture on my part and that results could differ from those suggested.
Due to the lack of response I have decided – at time of drunkenness – that a) being drunk is bloody stupid, providing nothing but a deficit of cash and increase in introspection, and b) that I should probably man up and just make my feelings/intentions clear and be damned the consequences. Now, as I’m sure most drinkers here are aware, this is all well and good as theory, when typing away all full of Captain Morgans and that, but come the morning minds will be changed. Well, you blithering, sloshing idiots, that is the very reason why I’m hammering at these virtual keys now. So that come the morning I’ll have a reference material with which to inform a new attack. No, attack sounds wrong. A new technique. Better, but not perfect. It’ll do.
I am not a perfect man. I know, surely I’m underselling myself. But no, I have many flaws, many imperfections that could put a prospective partner off to the extent that they may run, flailing arms as they go. But of one thing I am certain: wasted time is pointless. Due to this I shall be making everything crystal clear to Miss Lovely, sooner rather than later. You see, alcohol is many things. It is expensive. It is sickly. It is a shedder of inhibitions. It is a bringer of headaches, and in many cases, a bringer of sexual intercourse with persons whom you would otherwise most likely class as livestock. But it is also capable of providing unsettling clarity. Something that rum and chats with multi gendered, trusted compadres seems to have brought about. In this case I shall refer to them as bastards, simply because they have made me acutely aware of things that I was actually already aware of, but afraid to actualise.
Time is short, opportunity fleeting and circumstance shorter still. When you meet someone you think highly of; someone you are attracted to, you should probably do something about it. Sadly this often results in rejection, but that’s ok. I mean, really, rejection is to be expected. If statistics are to be believed there are now seven billion of us, which is a lot of people. I may be in a position in which I have realised that this means dwelling on previous lovers is a tad redundant, but I’ve had time to reach this conclusion. I could be face to face with my perfect match, with the person I’m meant to be holding hands with when I splutter my final splutterings, but that doesn’t mean they realise the same thing. They might be busy wondering why someone universally unimportant has decided that they can carry on without them, and who the hell am I to tell them that that’s not worth spending time on. That’s not to say I won’t try, but increasingly I find it easier to accept it when they choose to linger. I’m a lingerer myself. Not useful, but hard to break away from.
The actual message here, I guess, is that I’m a nice guy. I have artistic leanings with a focus on language and emotion, and I’m a bit drunk. But drunk in such a way that says, hey, I’m a bit drunk, but that makes me realise that it’s silly to need to be a bit drunk in order to say things that are just on your mind. I realise that now probably isn’t the best time to approach the subject of courtship, but at some point we’ll both pass. At some point the sun will engulf the planet on which we reside, and frankly, being timid of heart will seem a bit silly at that point. So if you like fireworks and toffee apples and wildly dangerous fairground rides – or at least one of those three – and if I’m not physically repulsive to you, why not take a chance and have a night out with an open, literate blogging type who sees something incredible in you? Big headed? Maybe. Hopeful? Definitely. Hopelessly romantic? Certainly. But I’m a child of soul stirring film, destiny fulfilling television and fairytale believing music, and that seems enough to say (or type) something stupid just on the off chance that it works. So I have. Worst case scenario it doesn’t pan out, but it was sure as damn it worth a shot.

So. 19.00 on Saturday? It’ll probably rain but I’ll bring an umbrella.

Post a Comment