Woody Allen, Jerry Seinfeld, and Nicholas Sparks fall into a blender. Bloodbath ensues. Yet when their well-chopped and mixed organs and bones are churned into a liquefied state, throw in some horseradish and a celery stem for a perfect Bloody Mary — pun intended.

Once again, my life displays events that coincide so perfectly that no one has any idea of such nonsense except myself. It’s already an odd continuation that glancing at my military-display phone reveals times with double numbers (i.e. 11:11). Being alone at the time allowed me to fully verbalize my giving in and frustration: Fine, if this is to happen, if a/the wish is supposed to be made … well … so be it. Fine.

The Universe is still listening and holding my blatant telling/asking to be more open against me — it has a right to do so — and putting in such a request can make life interesting when you least expect it.  Before we get to the situation, let’s just consider a couple things. First, a buddy of mine, who is living in Queens. I always designate a high position for him at the New York Times  to others who may not know him. He could be my Dean Kansky.  The texts came today, and the thought of him writing obits for the Times passed through my mind, generating a little chuckle. John then admits his writing a couple obituaries. It seemed fitting.

Let’s look back at the recent post about the praise for my seventh grade English teacher. The other night, while waiting for Mexican food (Boom Boom Mex Mex — for all you Central New Yorkers), life presented my eighth grade English teacher to be in front of me while standing in line.

Coincidence? No friggin’ clue.

Considering the last time I saw Mrs. Breen was in 1997. She pops up into reality after I write about middle school.

We had a nice conversation, and it was good to see her again. She was a tough cookie, but she was a good teacher. Group projects completed through her taught me a lot about a topic, but that some projects should be tackled by yourself; sometimes others don’t pull their own. The favorite project of mine has yet to be decided:  the autobiography, the radio program based off a book, creating your own myth/God.

As she headed out, after the hug, she told me that we have to talk about my love life the next time we run into each other. I hope she is in the mood for a few mugs of coffee or glasses of wine. It’ll take a bit.

This brings me back to the point of the post.

My life plays out like a Woody Allen movie without the hopeless romance that Nicholas Sparks writes (so often) about. However, I live in New York state, not North Carolina. Instead of life being painful in terms of things, the qualities are more quirky and bitter and humorous. Everyone remembers how bad the grand finale, the final episode(s) of Seinfeld played out: terribly awkward. Old characters kept popping up to bring these four characters to justice. It made no sense for many, many characters’ returning for cheap jokes. A similar occasion happened with How I Met Your Mother, and Ted’s recalling (literally calling) his old flames.

So the past couple days, a 24-hour period, running into the past few month’s interests and curiosities — minus one person — seemed only fitting to happen in the span of one day.  You ask, How is that possible? No idea. They just happened. However, the missing person is completely unattainable and interest from my person has completely dissolved.

Poem Girl is a frequent, but she has my full attention. Due to life scheduling, the possibility is looking bleak, but there is optimism and hope. She’s beautiful, naturally beautiful, and she’s the type you would not hesitate bringing home to mom. Availability and/or willingness on her part puts a hold on any progression.  Cute Barista was interacted with, but due to reluctance and hesitation, her position has been erased. Now, penciled in is Blondie, the most frequently interacted with of the bunch, whose small acknowledgement the other day was the good-feeling-equivalent to a base hit, a two-run RBI.  The types of girls I find myself attracted to have confidence, but hey have a quirkiness to their personality.  The quirk, whatever it may be, grounds them to make them relateable. Although there is something that I cannot put my finger on about Blondie, but it’s not a bad quality — it is hoped — since there is a strong desire to talk to her more. Something tells me she has a boyfriend.

The following two: Red Dress and The Leer are close in frequency, but the former has a slight edge. I thought about The Leer the other day, actually, because I popped into Marshalls to look around, to kill some time. She is a coffee shop attendee, and she had me watch her things one day. It was random. She’s on the tall side, which I am cool with, but she has that look about her — that slight moment when you catch someone checking you out. She had that nonthreatening leer about her that showed intrigue, not intention (to kill). So she was spotted with a friend at Marshalls, and my mind said, Oh! I was curious if it was The Leer, and out of my peripheral vision, the duo — in line to check out (pun intended) — looked over at me. So she was there the other day. I paid no mind, played it cool as if I didn’t notice, but she did only glare  and smile ( the one-two combo) once before heading out.

Red Dress was first noticed in a coffee shop — if you haven’t detected a trend, there is no sympathy for you — but I’d run into her randomly. There was a month or so where she never appeared, but now she is back. Red Dress — a white polka-dotted red dress was what she wore last (sounds better than continually referring to her as That Girl) — was then suddenly spotted at the dying mall after an improv class of mine. We looked at each other as if to say: You! or Wait, You look familiar. or Hey… I mean Hi?

It’s awkward every time. We see each other, make eye contact, and that’s that. I smile, she donesn’t. The looks say, Oh, you again,instead of Allow me to finally introduce myself. To be interested or not to be, who knows. It’s the same awkwardness every time. I try to smile, the try is not reciprocated. It’s as if I’ve been a misbehaved pet, and she’s going to spray me in the face or swat me with a rolled up newspaper/magazine (Syracuse New Times).

I know. Just talk to her. Gotcha.

However, the universe throws in a wrench. The wrench is cute. She writes. She is busy but not overly busy. From what I have read, she is interesting, and we may have a lot in common with potential to have enough not-in-common things.

But it’s time to shut up. Keep pressing puree.