Aside from a little bit of exercise, the walk did nothing to alleviate my longing for the closure I never received regarding the unrequited matter of twenty-six years and five momths past. The person is gone. I was too proud at being rejected to ever speak with her again, despite longing for a second chance, and also too much the coward to ever confront her over what was said to me. The last time I would see this person was when she marched to her junior prom in high school, even as I gazed upon her boyfriend (a former friend who had discarded me from that role several months earlier because I wasn't cool enough to remain his friend after we no longer had anything much in common once he had quit playing Dungeons & Dragons) wishing my stare alone could and would kill him right there on the spot, eliminating him as an obstacle to my desires. Of course this prick has moved on from the once common object of our affections then after they dated for five years some twenty-two years ago, married someone else, lives in the Lexington, KY area, manages a business in that area and with two children to raise. Of course it it's a business (bookstore) where someone like me could be promoted were I better known as a writer, but I'm not holding my breath waiting for this former friend to ever invite me for any book signing there. I don't even know if I would accept if asked.
I guess in considering that fromer friend turned one time romantic rival I fall back upon that old question asked by King David to Yahweh (Jehovah) God in the 94th Psalm verse 3: "Lord, how shall the wicked, how long shall the wicked triumph?" In this fallen, sinful world in which even the Bible states Satan is its current King holding sway over humanity from being cast down upon Earth before man was created, not ruling a separate kingdom called Hell as Dante or Milton would have us beleive, in such a world (where the Kingdom of God is yet to "come" as stated in The Lord's Prayer of Matthew's Gospel Chapter 6 Verse 7), assholes finish first and bad boys always win the good girl's heart. Of course after seeing a few old late 1980s photographs of the girl in question drinking at a fraternity party with girl friends from her high school years and hanging out with her boyfriend and other young men having a good time on Spring Break in some motel room, I wonder just how good the little Party Whore (who loved having fun) truly was.
Walking past the former two-story house near our high school where she lived and grew up in our common hometown did not yield any Twilight Zone experience for me, nor did it grant me any sense of closure. Now that the whore is dead, nothing on Earth can do that. While still hurt by her rejection of my desire for her, a few years after the event I wrote a poem wishing she would die, never knowing the desired hateful sentiment would come true on December 9th, 2004 on a two-lane road in rural western Ohio when her car's collision with a truck ended her life, leaving behind a husband and two children I neither know nor ever wish to meet, because I can never feel any sorrow for them. I should've had a life with her after we met in high school, not the man she eventually married or their spawn. I should now be the father of my own children, not sitting alone in a metaphorical prison of a rental house lamenting a past I cannot change and seeing no good things waiting in an uncertain mortal future.
I also walked to gaze upon the place in September 1986 (damn, I wish I could remember what Friday evening of that month the rejection happened) where she crushed my young foolish heart. That also did not help alleviate the pain or provide any closure, since I could not magically return to that time and witness even as an intangible outside observer the heartbreaking moment that killed my spirit as a hopeful young college freshman who had lost 50 pounds of ugly fat over three months to impress her. She didn't even care or seem to notice.
If I had accomplished something by this point in life, the past would be easier to forget, mistakes made up for by later successful deeds. Unfortunately I failed to become a college professor, have so far failed to become a professional author with even a modest level of success, and have no backup plan to fall upon once I accept I'm never cut out to be a working fiction writer who can make a living doing it. I've only sold possibly two copies of my novels within the last three months, and nothing since sometime in November. My covers are terrible and I cannot find anyone who could do a better job, certainly no one I could afford right now. Some readers have complained my writing is too complex for the common denominator readers' tastes, with sentences and paragraphs too long or with too many elaborate constructions of words. I cannot change my style and even if I had an editor, I'm somewhat resistant to constructive criticism even when well meaning and not mean spirited. I want an audience and don't have any clear step-by-step idea or the extra resources for self-promotion to get one in any numbers that the publishing industry would have to take notice of and respect.
One negative omen, or at least supersititous people would say this (but I don't believe in luck - even though much of mine when it comes to getting anywhere in live seems all bad), today I saw a black cat with yellow eyes walk across my path as I was headed toward the Party Whore's former childhood residence. Nothing bad resulted from that encounter, unless the bad luck has a delayed effect.
I don't know the woman in question's family, apart from meeting a younger sister one time in 1986 when returning to my high school for my senior high yearbook's release into publication for picking up a copy. I don't want to ever meet them, for I could do nothing except make inappropriate, hurtful comments about their dead loved one they would never want to hear. It sickens me to see once how the girl's mother praised her dead daughter's ex-boyfriend (the asshole I referenced in an earlier paragraph who lives in Lexington) as a great guy. I'm sure a slick-talking player like him could charm the girl's parents into thinking he was wonderful just by being falsely charming and being a running enthusiast former high school track and cross country athlete.
There was also a time when I believed her spirit visited my home on the night she died, due to a strange experience I had being touched along my left arm and kissed on the left cheek beside the earlobe while lying in bed earlier than my normal bedtime trying and failing to sleep. The room was dark, my door was closed and when I sprang from bed to flip the switch for investigating who or what had just touched and kissed me, there was no one else there. I never told my parents about the visitation by something unseen, even though they were 30 feet away in our house's living room on that December 2004 night watching television. I think this incident occurred sometime between 9:00 and 11:00 P.M. Of course now I suspect it may have been some demonic spirit bothering me, since I've since beome convinced the departed are sleeping with their bodies in the Earth until one of two promised resurrections mentioned in the Bible. The ghosts of dead people do not visit the living, contrary to popular myth. And for those other believers in Christ who say when we die our spirits are in Heaven with Him, they misread 2nd Corinthians 5:8. There, the Apostle Paul writes the believer wishes to be absent from his/her body and present with the Lord, not that they actually are upon death. So, even though I once liked to imagine my unrequited love came to my bedroom after she had died in the accident and gave me one last goodbye kiss to a potential friend she could never love romantically, now I know better that such a supernatural visitation is not possible.
And so after my rambling about a useless trip down memory lane, strolling past the house where someone I once thought I loved had dwelled as a youth and the spot a few blocks north of there where she broke my heart and left me incapable of ever getting anywhere with any woman ever afterwards, I close this series of babbling paragraphs, not expecting anyone reading it to understand or sympathize with what I've typed here.
To the anonymous trolls who will laugh their heads off upon reading these words, I'm so glad I could entertain (I'm being sarcastic now) your mocking souls with heartfelt honesty from a pathetic excuse for a human being and a man. Don't bother to post any purile reactions. I've suffered that sort of feedback once too often (especially in one past blog post where I described with considerable detail exactly what I want in a woman at present - it was called "Black is the Color of my True Love's Hair"). Any such rubbish will be deleted. I promise that.