Steellover

There is a cliche that you "Can't Go Home Again."  Leaving home, go away to college, move two states away, find a job, start a new life. But then, coming home, returning to the old town I grew up in, always felt like re-charging, reconnecting, refreshing. Although with each passing year, the old home town as I remember it fades away more and more, and the new city become less and less recognizable to me.

In my mind, and in my dreams it's still the same.  I imagine bumping into old high school crushes, reconnecting with old high school buddies, and inadvertently crossing paths with bitter high school enemies.  Us old neighborhood kids are still thrashing around, riding our bikes, playing ball in the street, tromping through the hills and open spaces.  We lived in a middle class subdivision up in the hills above town with a lot natural of open spaces to hang out and play in.  Now it's no longer a middle class subdivision, as all the homes are priced at over two million apiece.  Nor are any other parts of this California town middle class- the average home price even in the "Working Class" parts of town is still over a million dollars. 

But in my mind and dreams, its still us middle class kids.  Dad grousing around, my brother in and out doing his thing, neighborhood kids occasionally dropping by, and, when we were older, the same kids hanging out at the mall, the bowling alley, and all of the other places teenager hang out. The old school, and everything else looks the same, and everything is preserved like in a diorama, forever unchanging.

But the world doesn't work that way, of course.  The high school has been rebuilt and remodeled. All of the neighborhood kids are gone; some of their own kids are now probably ready to graduate and go off to college. Same with all the old high school gang- buddies, old crushes and old enmities long since buried and forgotten.  I realize that since I have left, a whole generation of kids has been born, grown up, gone to high school then college, and moved on with their lives, just like me. Kids I never even knew. I cruise the streets, and ride my bike around town, and see nobody I know- they're all gone.  I walk through the neighborhood, and many houses have been rebuilt and remodeled, old 2000 square foot homes replaced by mini-mansions twice the size. Even most of the families, empty-nesting parents of the neighborhood kids I grew up with have moved.  Dad is gone now, passed away, and even my brother rarely drops by Mom's house when I visit there, as he has his own family to take care of.  The trees are grown up, screening away the view of the valley below where we used to run around.  

I just returned from such a vacation.  Came home feeling re-charged and refreshed, and even re-connected.  But reconnected only to a geographical space; the sense of place no longer my own.  You can only go home to a location, but to really, truly go home again, you would have to go backward in time as well.  And unless you have one of those magical blue telephone boxes, you just can't. 

Being recharged and refreshed also means being ready to embrace the present and the now, where things are far more interesting- and exciting. It's good to be home- here, where I live right now, as I finish typing this. Anyway, thanks for reading, see ya.

Okay, guess I better write something....

So, quite a while back, I joined an erotic fiction site.  I may not exactly be the next Shakespeare, but I do like creative writing, and always did.  In particular, I wanted the opportunity to explore some of my, well, darker and edgier erotic fantasies, and saw the opportunity to write about them as a cathartic experience. To live vicariously through the story and perhaps, to share the fantasy with other like-minded readers.

Then, several years ago, when I was still new to the site, I had an idea for a story.  It was entitled "Torment of the Bikini Goddess" and the overall theme was the story of a meeting, courtship and ultimately, the marriage of a femdom-led (dominant female/submissive male) couple.  Of course, the story contained plenty of kink, bondage, dominance and submission.  I won't go too into detail, but some of the scenes, particularly the opening scene where "They met" were, shall we say, pretty explicit. 

I was new to the site at the time, and posted it in a category called "Loving Wives," which generally featured stories of cheating wives and cuckolded husbands.  And the cuckold scenes in my story were pretty explicit as well, but the difference was, in my story the "Cuck" relished the humiliation factor of the dynamic, rather than being angered by it.  However, because I was new to the site, I did not realize that most of the readers of that particular story category tended to be very conservative in their sexual tastes.  They liked reading about the sex, but any story where, not only did the cheating wife escape any negative consequences but the man actually ENJOYED watching her with another man- well, that did not sit well with that crowd- at all. And as for the whips, paddles, and other stuff, well, their reaction was, "Man, if I were him, I'd have that psych B**** locked up!!" 

Needless to say, the public reaction to that story was not positive.  It was met with a mixture of outrage, disgust, shock, and outright anger by the readers, who were not afraid to express those reactions in the comments fields. I was deeply embarrassed, but most of all, it really made me question whether my kinks were even healthy, and I even contemplated seeking therapy to overcome my submissive kinky side.  I've posted in the past about "Bingeing and Purging" and feelings of guilt, and this was one of those incidents that led me to at least try and disavow my kinky side- for a while anyway.

But I also realized something else important.  You have to know your audience.  For example, you would not book Cannibal Corpse or Deicide to play at your Christian Family Music Worship Potluck.  My posting that story was the literary equivalent of doing just that.  Just like, if you booked multi-platinum recording artist Taylor Swift to play at your Wisconsin Death Metal Fest, she'd probably get booed- assuming the audience could even stay awake through her performance (ha ha ha ha ha)  When I posted that story, I did not know my audience...and it was clearly the wrong audience for that story. 

Here on this site, people are, by and large, far more kink-friendly.  But even here I have learned, that it's still subjective.  I've noticed that sometimes when I post "kink" content in this blog and in the forums, a lot of people aren't that into it.  Not everyone has the same kinks, and some of mine probably would make even "kink friendly" people uncomfortable, particularly dominant males and submissive females (and yes, even some certain dominant females too.)  For my part, the very idea of urethral sounding makes me squeamish, however- if that is your kink, then certainly I will not judge.  

So anyway, that's all I got.  Don't bother to look for that story by the way, I had the site admin take it down shortly afterward.  But I have since posted others on that site, some of them in a specific section dedicated solely to BDSM and kink, and these actually have had much more favorable reactions.  Much like on this blog, I have also written several non-erotic stories there, just because, well, I like having an outlet to express my creative ideas.  Anyway, thanks for reading, see ya.

So many times I've wondered... I find a woman I like.  Even, perhaps, have a hopeless romantic crush on.  I try to do everything right, everything my dad taught me about the proper way to court someone, to be respectful, a gentleman, and all that.

So I do... only to see some jacked-up truck driving, motorcycle tweaker caveman type jerk on up to her...and it works.  Sweeps her off her feet, leaving hopeless romantic guy dejected and lonely.  So, meathead jacked up truck driving meth-snorting biker dude wins her heart by seemingly being exactly the WRONG type of guy, doing everything I had thought was exactly WRONG to win a woman's heart.  

Frustrated, I pondered this... Then one day, I got it.

What am I attracted to?  

Women in leather boots, short leather skirts, cuffs, and paddles.  Goth types and punkers.  

Bad girls, basically.

Girls that can look at a man and with a snap of her fingers, order him to kneel in front of her.  Women who will slap, spank, tease and torment a man ,and he will not only love it but worship her for it.  

So to those women who only love bad boys, now I understand.  Perhaps I even apologize.  We may not be right for each other, but maybe we are not so different.

I just hope to find a bad girl who can love and accept that maybe It's okay that I'm not a bad boy.  Maybe I don't want a big truck or need a Harley.   She can even make me her cuck, her slave, her partner, and her toy, and of course, if She wants, she can have her bad boys on the side- because as her companion, submissive and lover, I would still want to see Her satisfied.

I can't remember where this place was now.  It may have been in San Francisco or in some other place I was visiting, or it may have been more local, somewhere on the outskirts of downtown here, but it doesn't matter anyway.  The name of the place was something like "Fire Saga Studio", I think, though I'm not even sure if that name is entirely correct. It was in this old glass-brick and old sandstone block building that looked like it had once been part of some medieval keep. Intrigued, and with some time to kill, I thought I'd check it out.

There wasn't anyone else around when I first stepped in.  What I saw were these crazy sculptures- enameled skulls wearing wrought copper crowns, collages adorned with skeletons, skulls decked out in this crazy cyberpunk fashion, all with crazy glass and enamel.  Not everyone's cup of tea but it brought out the old thrash metal fan in me. I could see photographing one of these pieces for an album cover.  In my mind, I pictured the guy making them, envisioning some total goth looking dude, long black hair and goatee, dressed in black, working in the shop using a blowtorch and arc welder to make these pieces.

"This place is metal as fuck!" I said aloud, making a forked "Goat horns" symbol.

"Thanks!  You like it?" She said. 

I wheeled around and saw that she had stepped into the room from the workshop behind me.

She was every schoolboy's dream crush.  Long blonde hair, blue eyes, petite but athletic, with a gorgeous smile that made you melt. Looked to be maybe 18 or so- at least I hoped she was at least 18, anyway.

Logically I assumed she was the curator, so I replied, "heck yeah. I'm an old metal dude. These are awesome!  Where's the artist, is he here?"

To which she replied, "These are mine.  I am the artist; and I own this gallery."

Mind blown.  Totally goes to show you, never judge by appearances! 

I chatted with her for a while.  She was, obviously,  much older than she looked, (Well past 18) and not single either, sadly- but just a badass artist who worked in ceramic, metal, and fused glass and made some incredible gothic, Edgar Allen Poe inspired 3-D artwork.  She said she gave classes on welding and enamel. If I lived nearby I would have taken her up on it.  I wish I could remember where this place was, because it was amazing.  

Anyway that's about it, see ya.

One day, descending down some old rabbit hole, I came across some youtube thing where, for a reason that wasn't really clear at that time, someone had put together a six-disc compilation of old ballroom and ragtime music from the 1920s, 30s, and 40's.  "Dark Ambient" was the category, however. Well, what could be so dark about old ballroom music?  I mean, what could possibly go wrong?  Curious, I started listening. 

The first disc was just what it sounded like, rich, old-timey ballroom and ragtime music, though admittedly it did have a rather unsettlingly weird quality to it. Like it was SUPPOSED to sound old and faded, somehow.  Not my usual listening tastes, which generally run towards alternative rock, metal, and punk, but...hey this is different. Maybe good for some halloween haunted ballroom party mix or something.  Though the track "Slightly bewildered" sounded almost strange, like there was a glitch in the disc, or a weird skip; like maybe there was a scratch on it or something.  Turns out, no; this wasn't the case. It was supposed to sound like that. Ominously foreshadowing perhaps.

Disc 2 though, it was like the songs were slower, more tired sounding, more depressing and more faded, and the overall mood was lower.  Kind of depressing music, if you ask me. Even the titles were depressing, like "Glimpses of Hope in Trying Times" and "Surrendering to Despair."  Somehow I pictured the 1920s as being happier times.

The third volume was where things got weird. The ballroom music was still there, only it was more echoey, distant, and distorted, and the songs became increasingly fragmented and disjointed sounding as it played on. This was the type of music you would play for a haunted house party, for sure. Sometimes it would just fade out into a shimmer of feedback noise.  Okay, by now it was clear this wasn't just a compilation of old ballroom music, there was definitely something really, disturbingly off here.

Volume four was like- indescribable. Sonic gibberish. Instead of ten to twelve four minute tracks, we had four 19-20 minute tracks that were just collages of gibberish- broken fragments of ballroom music playing over top of each other, playing backwards, or flipping back and forth like a broken radio, over static. And at one point, it was like the radio abruptly tuned into what sounded like a world war 2 documentary, with loud angry brass instruments. The songs were titled "Post Awareness Confusions parts 1-3" and "Temporary Bliss State," which sounded more eerie and alien than blissful, to be honest.  My first thought was, is this SUPPOSED to sound like this?  Apparently yes it is; and it became clear by now that all of this was symbolizing one thing- the sound of a mind unravelling, losing one's sanity, falling into oblivion.

The fifth volume was pure nightmare fuel.  Nothing but dissonant noise and chaos, though occasionally, early on, a bit of old, scratchy 1920's music would break through the static, only to fade back into dissonant chaos after a few seconds.  Tracks were titled "Synapse Retrogenesis" and "Advanced Plaque Entanglements."  Is THIS what your thoughts are supposed to be like when your mind dissolves?  That is probably more terrifying than the music (if you can even call it that) that was playing through the speakers at this point.  

Volume 6- I would describe the last volume simply as the sounds of entropy, or sounds of the void. Waves of rolling static and deep rumbling drones, though occasionally random piano notes and what sounded like an opera singer could be heard beneath the noise.  The final track had this curiously melodic drone that was almost uplifting, before giving way to a singing choir, and was called "Place in the world fades away."  The symbolism being quite clear there.  This was death- growing madness over six volumes of deteriorating music followed by death. As I researched more, apparently the creator was inspired to create this work by the slow degenerative process of alzheimers on the human brain, which makes the whole thing even more disturbing when viewed in that light.  Having lost close family members to this disease, it does give me some insight to what they were going through, and it is horrific.

Six hours of old creepy ballroom music?  What could possibly go wrong? 

Everything.

So that's all I got. See ya.

The large white Siamese walked up to me, purring softly. I wanted to reach out, stroke it's soft, thick fur, but...

...Karla would have thought it was weird, like, "Why are you petting my car?"

Karla was a year behind me in high school but one of my first crushes- tall, athletic, strong, and muscular, with long curly dark brown hair. Something about strong, muscular, hot girls always did it for me.  She was a year behind me but yet, she thought I was too young for her, preferring seniors and college guys to dudes who were "only a year older."  Story of my life, sadly. 

But this isn't really about that.

It's about her car.  She had one of those early 80's Mercedes models that looked like big cats.  If you were around back then, you would probably recognize one if you saw one.  If you weren't around then, you'd probably laugh at it.  Those cars always made me smile; whenever you saw one on the road, it was like watching this big furry stuffed animal running down the road toward you.  They not only looked like cats, but they even sounded like them; they had this turbo-diesel motor that gave off a distinctive purring noise at idle that was as unmistakable as the "Garrr-rarrr-rarrr-rarr" of a Dodge Ram or the "SputtSputtSputtSputtSputt" of a Volkswagen boxer-four.  Mercedes built them from roughly the mid-1970s to the mid-1980s, but they were so well built and durable that, even like 15 years after they stopped making them, there were still millions of these large, furry critters running around the streets, roads and highways.  There was a two-door version and even a station wagon version, and they were built under various model numbers, I guess depending on level of trim and engine size or something. (She had the basic 300-series four door model.) They weren't particularly cheap; a new one cost like $24,000 back in 1983, which would be equivalent to roughly $65-70K today.  Nor did they have particularly cat-like reflexes; the turbo-diesel engine had marginally adequate performance for the time, but they certainly were no "Cat Rods."  

So Karla's car, like many others like it I'm sure, became the butt of many cat jokes. As pranks, we would leave bowls full of cat food in front of it sometimes.  Uh, maybe if we hadn't been such juvenile shits and made fun of her car, she would have gone out with me?  Don't think it would have worked that way.

Nowadays the Mercedes "Cats" are becoming more and more scarce on the streets. There just aren't that many left. I mean, it's been almost 40 years since they stopped making them.  But just this evening, I saw one while riding my bike around town and it made me smile. In fact, every time I see one of these oversized stuffed animals on the road it just makes me feel, well, warm and fuzzy.  It's weird, I guess, to derive such simple joy in such a dumb thing, but that's how it is.  Maybe in another 20 years, people will feel the same way about the ubiquitous Nissan "Frog" (Juke) or the Fiat "Mouse."  If Karla's car were still around- and I haven't seen either her or her car in many long years, I'd like to think it would chase the Fiat mice and Nissan frogs around for sport.  

It would be cool if Mercedes started building them again, like some retro-model, the way Volkswagen did with the Beetle. Maybe we should launch a letter-writing campaign to ressurrect this iconic model.  Like, "Bring back the Cat!"  It would probably end up being some kind of lame generic tall-wagon/crossover mini-SUV type thing though.  None of the current Mercedes models have much soul anymore. They just have that huge circle-star thing on the grille that looks like it's trying to scream "MERCEDES!!" at you.

So like I said earlier, I like to write blog posts about stuff nobody else ever writes blog posts about.  Hopefully I succeeded with this one. And that's about all I got.

Around 2016 or 2017 or so, there was this youtube channel that I loved to follow, which I discovered the usual way of going down youtube rabbit holes.  It featured a group of characters who all lived at and/or hung out at this somewhat dilapidated house in London, Ontario Canada, and worked for this guy Jeff McCafferty. Most of them were either young street urchins (like 21 year old Wil), recovering drug addicts (late-30 something Drew) or 20-something guys who had either done time in jail or who were likewise dealing with various substance abuse issues, all of them trying to live their lives and get back on their feet.  So the main character, Jeff, took these guys in, gave them jobs, and tried to hook them up, and the channel was about their various exploits. It was all raw, real and unscripted.  But despite the stated theme of it being about "A bunch of derelict Canadians pranking each other" there was an underlying theme of addiction and recovery.  And when Jeff eventually relapsed into his own addictions and his own life spiraled out of control, the channel became difficult to watch.  I'd like to think that Jeff and his Ramshackletons crew eventually got their lives together and were able to pick up the pieces, though I don't know; after Jeff posted a sort of "Farewell" after a stint in jail, nobody seems to know.

Around 1935, John Steinbeck wrote a novel called "Tortilla Flat."  In it, a chronically unemployed alcoholic named Danny inherits some property, which he sub-lets to a group of fellow bums, derelicts and degenerates.  All of them who struggle to some degree with alcoholism or mental illness.  However, together they try to be a force for good, banding together to help those in need in their community. (While also engaging in various booze-fueled shenanigans.)  But after Danny and the house is gone, the whole group splinters, presumably back to their lives in the gutter.

So this is for all of the Jeff McCaffertys and the Danny's out there, who, though they may have deep flaws, still nonetheless strive to be forces for unity and goodness, and bring out the best in people around them. 

So that's all I got. See ya.

Last night, I woke up from a deep and disturbing erotic dream.  Sometimes dreams can be a reflection of your deepest- and darkest- fantasies.  I suspect that was what triggered this.  I won't dwell on it, or describe it any further, other than it involved me being, well... submissive. 

But when I fell back asleep, it was all sweetness and light.  She was someone I met in the halls of the classroom unit where I was back in school once again, a 20 year old living in the dorms. Tall, dark hair, kind of pretty if not stunningly gorgeous, and quirky and intellectual instead of your typical snooty rich girl preppy princess type.   We hit it off, chatting about school, music, professors, college- and she gave me her number and I couldn't wait to call her. As I walked back to the dorm room, I saw her and we smiled and winked at each other.  When I woke up it was not without a bit of disappointment that it wasn't real.  She would have been the type of girl I have always been casually attracted to- with no deep and disturbing baggage attached.

So, one of the things I did when I woke up for good, was break down the old, rusted out barbecue grill and put it into the trash.

It's a weird feeling, to get sentimental about something as pointless and simple as a mere barbecue grill. But I still felt a bittersweet pang when I realized it was not going to make it through one more 4th of July cookout, and I needed to replace it. So I got a shiny new one for the holiday, and it worked perfectly, cooking sausages and brots for the block party we've been having, by tradition, for the last 5 or 6 years. Just a simple charcoal grill, not a gas one.  

I had got my old one at a yard sale nearly 20 years (or more) ago- before I even moved into this house I live in. Paid five bucks for it. After 20 years, I would certainly say I got my moneys worth. I remember all the fun parties in the past that I had, using that grill. Cooking kabobs on it for past 4th of July parties, which were attended by people who are now long since moved away- or in two cases, no longer alive (in this phase of reality.  I'd like to think we'll meet again in another one.)  Good, wonderful times with these people.  And my first house-warming party, held during a cold February evening, cooking outside on the deck.  Reflecting on people who have come and gone over the years. All those who attending parties over here with that charcoal grill as the centerpiece of these gatherings.

Last year, I noticed that it was leaning badly off balance. The ash collector plate at the bottom was dented and battered.  And when I examined it more closely, I noticed that the bottom of the grill, where the leg shaft brackets attach, was rusted almost completely through, by all three legs. One of them was now poking through the bottom, making it tilt.  I got one more party out of it, last year, but then I realized it was no longer even safe to use; one more cookout could potentially cause it to collapse and spill burning coals everywhere. So I realized I better replace it.  For some reason I waited until the week after breaking in the new one to dispose of it, though.  You might say I gave it an extra week to enjoy retirement, ha ha. 

And I realize now this is a whole lot of post about nothing, yada yada.  Or rather, it's about a $5 yard-sale find charcoal grill that lasted me 20 years and brought some good memories and great vibes with it.  Or maybe it's just being sentimental about dumb things.   Rest in peace, old rusted grill. That's about it for now. 

I guess one of my goals has always been to write posts about stuff that nobody else does.  It may not be terribly interesting to everyone, but at least it's original. That's the goal anyway.

One thing I've noticed about "erotic" posts is, what is erotic to one person is cringey to someone else.  If, for example, I talk about the deep erotic thrill of being spanked by a women, forced to take her strap-on, worship her boots or...use your imagination and fill in the blank-  then usually the reaction will be one of these 3 things, either  A) submissive females (and even some dominant females) will find such content cringey, or, B) dominant males will be outright disgusted, or C) only fellow submissive males will find it as erotic as I do. One out of three isn't bad I guess but that's still a pretty narrow appeal.

So... with that, I'll post about something else.  Something nobody notices or ever talks about.

Those green boxes. 

You see them everywhere: on sidewalks in residential areas. On front lawns, next to driveways, or around bushes.  If you go down to your local shopping center or office complex, you will see larger, taller ones.  You probably don't even notice them after a while.  I mean, they don't really appear to do anything but sit there, humming away (literally) cryptically, always in the same key.

That's another thing, if you do take notice- and if you don't, I certainly don't blame you at all!- then after a while you realize the enigmatic green boxes do always hum at the exact same pitch.  It's a low B, or just slightly off of a low B,  which is a scientific 61 cycle tone.  The boxes give off an almost exact 60 cycle tone.  There is a reason for this, but the explanation involves a bunch of technical scientific jargon and who really wants to read THAT?  (It would probably be about as cringey as me talking about being spanked.)  So anyway, what you can do, is walk up to one, preferably one of the larger ones that sit in front of most Burger King or Dairy Queen restaurants, and hum to yourself in the key of D sharp. And if you have a buddy with you, have them start humming in the key of F sharp. That way you can have a three part harmony with the box, and make beautiful green box music with them. 

Or, you can set your drinks on them, or use them as makeshift yard furniture.  Cats in particular like to lie on them in cool weather.  I mean, these boxes have to be good for SOMETHING, right?

Actually, they have something to do with electricity, because when the power goes out, lo and behold, all of the boxes stop humming.  So, next time you see one of those green boxes, and I bet you probably see dozens of them every day and just don't even notice them, then raise a toast to the singing but unsung heroes of underground power lines- the Green Boxes!

So, that's about it, see ya.

This is based on a true story, but the names of course have either been changed, or they simply aren't given. There are three people involved- a love-struck suitor, a Random Guy, and a beautiful and amazing woman. It's not an entirely happy story, but maybe it's not yet over.

Once upon a time, maybe ten or so years back, there was a girl.  She was tall, smart, beautiful and alluring.  The girl of his dreams, but of course he had not yet met her.  This girl loved to go out on the town, and have fun.  Who didn't in those days. Our main character, a love-struck suitor, he liked to do so as well.  Maybe he tried to be responsible and limit his number of drinks, but maybe not everyone else did.  Certainly not This Random Guy, whom she chose over him that night.

She and This Random Guy, they laughed and drank together. Somehow, he said the right things, and they hit it off.  A superficial hook-up, a shallow bro-brah who wanted nothing more than to brag about his conquest with the rest of his shallow bro-brah buddies the next day.  After a while, he decided to make his move.  "Hey, let's ride one of those electric scooters!  My apartment it just across Broadway, behind the stadium off of Beacon!  Let's go back to my place!" This Random Guy said.  "Hop on! We'll ride together!"

But This Random Guy had already ingested a random number of cocktails, a random number that was nonetheless far too high to negotiate such things as electric scooters.  But with no misgivings, She hopped on with him. Drawn by his... who knows what, was it his charms, his looks?  His false confidence and smarmy ways he had about him?  It's not always apparent why people choose the partners that they do.  Maybe it was nothing more than the booze talking.  Because speaking of which, it was not more than a couple blocks from his apartment where he lost control and crashed.  She hit the pavement, head first, fracturing her skull and bleeding profusely. He managed to escape with only minor injuries

Ever chivalrous, our Random Guy.  He carried her unconscious, lifeless body over to some nearby junipers.  Maybe he thought, "Oh Shit!  I better get out of here before the cops get here!"  Or maybe it was just "Oops, this sucks, guess maybe I won't get laid tonight after all." But either way, he just dumped her into the bushes, like a litterbug leaving out yesterday's trash- and left her there to die.

The neighbors found her body, barely alive, and called an ambulance.  Happily, she pulled through and eventually recovered, after weeks in a coma and months of recovery.  But she would always have a scar on her head, and a slight slur to her speech.  And yes, she would always remain beautiful.   After a few weeks, detectives caught up with our gallant Random Guy, who ended up getting only a year in prison for his so-called "noble and romantic exploits."

Ten years later, our hero, ever striving to be true, chivalrous, and noble, and not just a Random Guy, he sits; waiting in vain for her to return his love.

And that's all I have. See ya.