I can almost see you out there I hope you see me. (Midtown West)

Name: I can almost see you out there I hope you see me. (Midtown West)
Brand: I can almost see you out there I hope you see me. (Midtown West)
SKU: genClassifieds-713940
Availability: InStock
Rating: 4.2 (32 reviews)

Let me preface all this with one thing, and I only ask you at least read it through: I'm not your prince charming. Please don't misunderstand - I'm not some pickup artist or 'redpiller' here trying to play the cool bad guy angle on you. I'm not some quasi-mythical bad boy archetype stepping out of the ether, all swagger and confidence and smoldering eyes. It certainly doesn't mean I'm coming at you like a slab of meat or a prey animal or a trophy. Indeed, there's no disrespect here - very much the opposite. You deserve to have it all laid out, raw like a bare wire spitting into the night. So, why am I not the one to sweep you off your feet? I'm not good for you. I'm polluted, toxic, taken: a real fucking mess. Plenty more, too, which I'll go into with the rest of all this.

Alright then. Still with me? I hope so. Let's go.

I suppose we'll start with the title of this, right? Appropriately vague and mysterious enough to catch your attention; unless it was just the location - in which case, I should warn you that the verbosity of this won't be fading. Again, for reasons I'll make clear somewhere in the depths of this.

Anyway, the title. Excuse the poetic nonsense for what it is - but sometimes I look out the windshield or the window or into a crowd or into nothing at all and I swear I can damn near make her out. Make -you- out, maybe. Not so much a physical thing as a mental one, as this person who steps out of the night and blows into my life like a wrecking ball. Just around some dim corner, just inside that jazzy little nightclub I drove by, just passing by on the highway - a tantalizing, infuriating little notion.

But before I go any deeper into who I hope you are; I think it's time I give you me. All of me. I owe you that.

You start off these miniature autobiographies with the basic stats, right? I'm 31(nearing 32 within weeks), located obviously in the Lehigh Valley region of PA, and here's a big one - married. I imagine you may have "early mid life crisis" or "just wants a wild fling" floating around somewhere in your head at that, but whomever you are? I don't want you to be a crisis or a fling. So what is it? Why am I here, going on and on in this post? I write. I love to write. Worth noting is that I can only write when I'm some degree of miserable - so here we are, me at about 5am typing away for you, full of a cocktail caffeine and nicotine and alcohol and anxiety medication and headache medicine. Don't misinterpret this as incoherent things fueled by these substances, things soon to be regretted and deleted. I'm lucid and I need to be right where I am to write this. Raw.

In no particular order, here is me. Born and raised in politics and upper-middle-class polite society, driven through religious school and groomed to chit chat with rooms full of suits and showy smiles and firm handshakes. Presented with all a growing boy could really want; certainly too much for me not to feel more than a bit shitty for bemoaning it all online. Limits were there, though - travel, adventure, friendships, girls; these were something for another time.

I'm at a quiet little 20's speakeasy themed bar, sipping a mixed drink named after a poet and soaking in the dim, smooth ambiance. Moments later my circle of loose friends is deciding on different surroundings, and the hours ahead are a rush of dives and sports bars and thumping clubs and me fitting in just well enough that no one notices I don't fit. I'm a social chameleon now, just giving them the laughs and stories they need before retreating outside to answer a pretend phone call.

I'm walking in New York City at 3am, slipping out of the hotel and lighting up a cigarette I only smoke if drinking or out on such a roam. I'm listening to wistful jazz drift from some hidden spot and as I hunt, I never quite find it. I imagine classy people, each one a novel of stories and passion, all looking and talking like it's an artsy old film no one will see. I imagine sultry vocals set upon the backdrop of the music, a smiling barkeep shooting me a wink when I manage to stumble on their secret rendezvous. I imagine a lot; I never find the music. It fades, I do, it's one more drink and off to bed.

I haven't had a best friend in fifteen years, likely more. I have friends - quite a few. You know the cliche I'm about to say already: they don't know me; don't care to. Don't, in many cases, have the ability to. That's fine.

Married. Together well over a decade. Happy. This isn't about unhappy marriages. We meet before I can step foot in a bar, things happen and we're living together and by the time I'm in my mid-twenties, I can't remember a 'me' anymore, just an 'us'. I look back and realize I never figured out who 'me' was.

So. Me. Writer. Model. Journalist. Comedian. Activist. Theologian. Bibliophile. On and on. Words I know grab attention, words that prop me up. Mostly holly. Writer? Sure, I write. No one reads. Journalist? No such thing these days. Comedian? No one's laughing at the real jokes. Model? Sure, all the time. Not many folks throwing money to take pictures of me, though.

Here I am, from coddled life to cossetted life. No chance to make mistakes, no shot at adventure and thrills and all those wild things. Restless and content. Young enough to burn for more, old enough to appreciate what's here.

I talk to my wife about it. She knows. She supports. She pushes me. Go sow your oats, she says - believe it or not. So I go, I flirt, and I'm honest. Nothing happens...and none of it has the bite. None of it has magic. And maybe it'd help if it did, but I don't know anymore. I reveal this to anonymous people online and receive lectures on the nature of marriage.

Here I am, dawn's cracking through the window now and I want to sleep so much. A nest of insomnia, anxiety, and occasional depression. An existential crisis in a man suit - and damn I can wear it well when I want to, and I DO want to...but when? Where? Why?

Here I am, the friend that's a friend when a shoulder or a ride or advice is needed. The responsible one, the good one, the honest one. The one no one drifts too close to - and that's plenty my fault, make no mistake. Here I am, unemployed and unable to support as I always have from my mid-teens. Here I am, a drain - contributing nothing but, perhaps, this amusement to your eyes. Here I am; weak.

Here I am, neglected tv basking me in the blue light of an old movie while the harsh light of the laptop lasts just long enough for this message in a bottle to hit the internet.

That's all me. Now, what about you? I don't know the answers I'm looking for. I don't even know the questions to ask. I do know one thing - a thing I'm loathe to admit. I thing I never could admit, never was allowed, never allowed myself: I need help. Your help. I'm so turned around in my head that I don't know where else to go or what else to say. I talk about magic and moments and electric...and all that's so integral that it goes without saying. What I need? A hand from the darkness, taking mine and yanking me out - not giving up and demanding "I'm gonna get you through this." with a wink and a smile that makes it all okay.

That's all. Thank you for reading this...this disjointed mess. I'd put a finer point on it all if I could, but this is all I have. I lay myself before you, weary and restless. I hope you see me.

Location: New York -

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