Well, maybe it's better not to be in love. All bullshit, believe me. It is not better to sit in a chair watching your life waste away in some video game. It might be cheaper. Socializing now costs more than I remember. It's now four dollars for coffee just because it's cold. I aught to put some in the freezer. At least, it'll have less guar. It doesn't mean I don't wish to socialize. If anything, the games might be a cry for help. Who helps you as an adult? Your friends…some say. Well, if I had more than two and if we hung out more than twenty minutes once every three months. The ants help. But ants don't have ways of becoming anti-social due to loss. In fact, in most cases, they forget their losses and regroup. Perhaps, that is my purpose—to regroup. Ants are bitches.

Rejection is the problem. But unlike any other thing rejection is a complicated machine. Generally, rejection is not overly-complicated. You're a guy. You see a girl. She makes eye contact. You walk over to ask her out. She instantly realizes you're not her type—and rejects you. If you're lucky. Men prefer to be spat on and insulted than be let down easy. We are not old ladies getting of a bus. Easy is not required. At least, with rudeness the rejection is clarified.

Then, there's the complicated rejection. It's the rejection that is accompanied by the question—"Are you going to give up so easy?" And then followed by the statement, "Quit stalking me, psycho." Really? Let's try to keep our feelings in one direction, ladies. And yes, I intend to give up way easy because it's fucking hard asking you out. And, it was hard enough asking and anticipating being rejected. In fact, being rejected was among the most illuminating of all the other things that happened—for if you had accepted—well—I can not imagine that concept. There's no plan for acceptance. It's never happened to me before. On the one occasion when I did act first, there were no questions—just kissing and very weird feelings that to this day linger in unknown compartments of my heart.

We kissed, that's it. It was memorable enough to be considered a success, although now—I ponder if it would have been better without that thought. Nothing permits it in my mind to escape—every night I think of it and every morning that I wake I say goodbye to it.

But—back to love, a thing which I'm not too sure of. I see that it's real, as it happens among so many but not those around me. Don't get too close. I may be love's Kryptonite (the Blitz of love). Is it a joke or me building barriers? It might be best not to question it but then why live without it if we know it's real—simply because we lost it. I lost my phone last week. I got it back. Nah. Love's an opportunity thing. God gives you one or two but if you missed them—well that's you—not God.

It's not to say I don't want love—sometimes I hunger for it like the air I breathe, couldn't help it. I've felt it before but it is too sudden. It's impact is meteor-like and no I've never been known for preparedness. The sudden impact of an earthquake may claim a right to me…yet not without a fight.

Love is too unpredictable as well.. and then it stops and the pain is crippling to your future social life. For someone who didn't have much of one to being with—major dork's anonymous syndrome—video games to put the mind at ease. No job. It keeps you off rejection's radar and worse mom's house—ugh—ad no driving to the list and two more years—welcome to Foreverlonelyville, population: this guy.

There are side effects. You begin to write all crazy like you know something daring that others don't. Do I? Hell no. I studied Chicano History in college. Some people said it was the easy class but shit was pretty hard. And depressing. Basically, a generation of people died so that another generation of people could live in comfort. The white people tried to make themselves feel better later on by calling it survival of the fittest but people are obviously not animals. And even if the cause was worthy for white-skinned fellows a person who puts people on death-crosses and hangs them by trees or kill beautiful women to say (we're speaking of the Spanish versus the Aztec people) they are better—it doesn't make them not-murderers. I guess it would be like what happens to endangered beast in the wild—in order for people to eat comfortably—not just chicken s or corn and rice—they had to say goodbye to entire generations of people(25 or so million, half from the white man's sickness)—all this death cause by three-hundred. But Cortez is the one remembered. In any case, back to love.

Is it important to be in love? Okay. What's more important to be in love or your next facebook update? Or to be in love in facebook's version of the The Sims? There was an old song that declared that being in love did not happen to everyone—that's a fucked-up song. Some people who are in love try to rationalize their addiction to facebook—like they say "Well, I've always been in love but my next update is what's happening now." What should be happening now is a decision about what makes not socializing fun. Not does, I assure you. Not even fake pictures of real-live boobies.

That's it for now. Enjoy.