image stolen from bestpaperz.com
When I fuck a girl, to stay hard, I have to think about getting her pregnant, moving to the suburbs, having her quit her job, me making enough money for both of us. Having her love me, having us give up this war of dick pussy money. Just live in a house together. Nice yard with trees. Wake up beside her on a fall morning. Watch her while she sleeps. How her hair lies on the pillow. The smell of her neck.
image stolen from en.mercopress.com
I take my sponsor’s love advice even though he’s basically an idiot. This OKCupid and Tinder with you; it’s compulsive, he says. Surrender shit to God’s hands and learn to love yourself. Go talk to women in real life. Seek genuine connection, etc. He’s an idiot because he’s good looking and gregarious. What then would he know about women. I spend every second of my inner life gnawing at my own soul and my face looks like it was hit with a shovel. Yet I occasionally get laid. Therefore: genius.
Anyway, I tried it. Turns out there are no women anywhere to talk to. They’ve all been sequestered away somewhere by louder better looking men. They’re all at some house I wasn’t invited to, some party with a pool. When there is one– like, there’s a cute girl at one of the AA meetings I go to. I’ve noticed her a couple times. Young Asian, perfect face, but those weird buck teeth so you think you have a shot. After the serenity prayer I waited patiently on the sidewalk for my chance to talk to her. Finally it came. The instant half a word was out of my mouth another, louder man swooped in and literally grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her toward him and asked her on a date. He was uglier than me, even– or at least, he has no chin; he is stupider than me, less funny than me. But he knew one thing: all men are piranhas swarming on one thumb sized piece of flesh. There are a billion men behind every fucking bush and forget waiting for your shot. Coming up with the right shit to say. You won’t get an instant of a woman’s time. You better make an instant, and when you do you better pull the trigger.
She said no. She was embarrassed and scared. He didn’t get his date but what he did was enough to blow it for me. Me and my long setup, show how funny I am, and then subtly, subtly over weeks build something up. I’m left standing there like a douche knowing I’m just like him. A difference of degree not type.
Anyway: her loss.
image stolen from nymag.com
Here’s the whole fantasy. You are at the doctor’s office. Or at work. There is a pretty young woman there. That alone: fantastical. She is not looking at her phone, grunting cruelly at some other guy’s text. She does not have a boyfriend. She looks at you. You are not invisible to her. Not innately puke-inducing like a silverfish found in her panty drawer, hauling its unwieldy H.R. Giger chitin sperm casing between wispy twitchy legs and trailing a six inch smear of dust and hair from under the refrigerator. An attractive woman a) exists in the same place as you b) acknowledges you. c) does not recoil and cry out for some other guy, her boyfriend, to come kill you with a magazine while she hides her eyes, and later she’ll tell the story of the ugly silverfish in her drawer to her colleagues, wail on facebook, make an accusing phone call to her landlady.
A pretty girl who does not have a boyfriend a) exists, and b) thinks things, and says them; she speaks and then you are having a two sided conversation. Not just you digging into the terrified cavernous emptiness of your adrenalized OH FUCK A PRETTY GIRL head for a perfect thing to say, voice cracking like Peter fucking Brady, flailing to drag it out past her first sentence when it becomes clear she never thinks about anything. Or if she does, it’s dogs, or astrology. She talks to you and wants to know you and plays you some nice music and you keep hanging out and between now and when she becomes your girlfriend none of the fifteen billion other men on Earth get in her face with a better proposition, and suddenly your texts go unreturned for long painful eons, and the desperate agony makes you repulsive to her like a gangrenous wound. To her, and all other women.
Every day you are a worm dying on the sidewalk after the rain. The Manic Pixie Dream Girl picks you up and tosses you back on the grass. She’ll leave you. That’s part of the trope. But all you needed was just once, a nice pretty girl talks to you somewhere. You got a better shot at crapping out the crown jewels.
delicioustacos 