I’m not what one would call a huge “fan” of the current take on quality television programming: Unrealistic reality be damned. So, it was with much apprehension that I took the advice of two young women and watched The Pickup Artist. I’ve tried the advice of the three gentlemen who lay everyone, but I must say that after all the ego-crushing, heart-breaking razzmatazz I danced, I much prefer the old way of courtship—Manning up, getting some balls, and walking right up to a cute girl so you can stutter and stammer at her until she delivers the polite, “No thanks.”
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I can’t seem to make myself realize that this relationship will never return. Despite the countless times she utters, “I just don’t feel that spark that I used to,” or, “I just can’t think of you in that way,” I continue to throw bits of myself at the intangibility of love; however, I’m becoming more whole than I have been in quite some time. The love I still feel for her powers me, the huge crush I have on her still motivates me, but it’s the futility of the conversations I have with her, the same rock thrown against the same wall with the same hope that maybe, just maybe, this new angle will bring the beautiful thing down and I can finally come home.
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Last night, my brother had a party for his birthday. We partied until around 2:00AM, and I had a great time, but as I tucked myself into the cold, starched sheets of my parent’s house, I couldn’t help but feel alone. The night was an exact copy of the best night of my life, save one thing—company.
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