image stolen from oklahomacitybotanicalgardens.com
And now I’m shirtless. Trimmed my chest hair this morning. I feel like a naked pink baby. Can’t tell if I look good like this. Sitting Indian style. Folds of fat choked out by my belt. At 9% body fat this still happens. By the time I get rid of my last chub I’ll be so old I’ll just be skin. There’s another shirtless guy and I keep looking over thinking: does he look better than me?
A girl is checking me out. I guess that means I look good. Now I have this flash of fear. A burning house feeling. A girl looked at me; I better do something about it. This is it, Rocky. Your one shot. She looks away, then back. I don’t have the courage to maintain eye contact. I’d like to think it’s because I’m too mature to pick up girls. It’s because I’m chickenshit. So I look up and awkwardly half smile, making clear that I’m a small dicked nebbish whose seed is unworthy of her loins.
Relax. She’s not that hot. She’s not Asian so who gives a shit. Little gut behind black high waisted pants. If she talked to me I’d talk back. But it’s my job as a man to talk first. If it’s gonna work like that, what do I get in return. She ought to pay me.
She looks again. A giant invisible hand forces my eyes into my phone and mushes my face into a stupid smirk like there’s something amusing on the screen. I know smiling makes my nose looks big. This makes me smile more. I know my teeth are slightly out of whack. Somewhere in my eyes there is probably agony but she’s too far away for that detail. She’s still looking. I’m summoning material in case she talks to me. All those years of words. This is what they’re for.
If she talks to me I’ll have to ask her out. I don’t want to go out with her. I want her to come home with me and have unprotected sex right this minute. That or nothing. What I don’t want is to dance. Be funny. Have to be funny. Beg a merciless God for enough fucking funny to keep pouring out of me for the long hours it will take to get the pussy. Just please don’t let it lapse into that one awkward instant of fucking up that blossoms into a million dickshrinking eternities. If I have to do all the work why can’t shit happen on my terms. Lift weights, good haircut, couple jokes equals pussy. Jesus Christ, what more do you need. You have to be confident too. You have to keep that confidence in a world where you’re a worm.
Someone texted her. A shinier object. I’ve blown it. This is the last time I’ll ever have my shirt off and a woman near me. A comet will wipe out all women on Earth. I’ll be compelled to eat 15,000 burritos and get fat. She leans into the sunlight. She has bad skin. Thank God.
delicioustacos 
Yeah what takes the agony away is becoming truly indifferent. When you feel enough resentment that you as a man have to play this role and she can just sit there knowing there are a hundred guys like you waiting to talk to her if you won’t…at a certain point you just stop giving a shit. She can continue to sit by herself. ..alone. 🙂
I hope there is a blog somewhere full of the stuff you actually think.
Stop using “cringing nebbish.” It’s awkward and your repetition of the phrase makes for a boring fucking read. Be a more creative wormlord.
I agree with “dicks” above. You have greater ability than what you have posted recently. You are holding back the visceral floodgates with jokey (and for this blog, hackneyed) cliches about your cock and the pussy/ass mask stuff. We get it. You eat sleep breathe dream shit cum bleed because: pussy. Also, you’re old, struggling, small penis despite fact of you: travelling the world, having very attractive women interested in you sight unseen, ability to live in relative comfort in expensive city for years (a decade?) and your shirtless photos.
Also, for a “manosphere” or “red pill” guy, you sure are wimpy at life. This has absolutely NOTHING to do with women though. Just your own lack of discipline beyond what will get you easy sex. Either embrace the lifestyle of fucking randos or stop fucking or go monogamous. This monotonous halfway point is exhausting to observe, can’t imagine how fucking boring it is to live.
So, in the parlance of your blog recently: Basically…try harder.
Junkie personality, I think – and I don’t know what’s left to overindulge in after you’ve gone through coke, booze, women, and self-pity. I think you have to start getting creative after that. I’d read a blog where he turns into a gambling addict instead, though. He’s a smart guy; it would go much more interesting places. You’re right that there’s just not that much to say about what it’s like to want upper-class teenaged Asian pussy and not get it. After awhile it’s like, yeah bro. I want decent health insurance and a phone that Tases bill collectors. But we don’t always get what we want. Clearly.
But you do need something to live for, some constantly-receding goal. When you stop pursuing then you become something else, some other kind of animal. An herbivore. I’d be interested to see where DT took all of this talent and passion if he stopped plowing through women and crying about it. Selfishly, I’d much rather he didn’t go monogamous – I don’t want this blog to be neutered, and I don’t want read a dozen goddamned baby updates a month. I don’t know if he *has* anything else that he cares about, if there’s *anything* else to write about. And I like his writing. I appreciate that he chooses the subjects he does, actually, because I feel like I get to experience what it would be like to date him. It would clearly not go well, so I get the benefits of knowing him intimately without any of the crushing rejection after a token fuck or two. It’s also a look into a worldview that I don’t share, a set of feelings I just don’t have, and as an outsider (a woman who’s usually on the other end of things) I appreciate this window. I feel like some of these updates are letters to women like me who’ve wondered why the *fuck* this is happening to us.
But DT, if this is the post where we all write letters to you in the comments: you actually need *more* bodyfat, bro, I think you may be developing an eating disorder. I can’t rep all women here, but especially at your age I want to see a guy who can definitely catch and provide food. An alpha, if you will. Ideally he should be muscular, but too thin and corded and he looks a little rangy. Like, on some primal level, he spends a lot of time chasing food and not a lot of time catching it. And like he’s got problems he’s dealing with by going absolutely fucking nuts in the gym, and where else are those problems going to surface? But anyway. Thanks for sharing yourself with us, whatever parts of you make it here are fascinating and I appreciate that.
^^ don’t listen to these faggots. Keep the hits coming.
i know you and your readers don’t care what one anon guy thinks, but here it goes:
i’ve been reading your stuff for ~1.5 years now, and while i think your writing is entertaining and funny as fuck, i do agree with “dicks” comment that you are starting to sound repetitive.
you sound like a wannabe hank moody/don draper…caught in a cycle, going nowhere. complaining when not getting pussy, unhappy when drowning in pussy. unhappy when broke, unhappy when employed.
but actually, who knows, why should i assume that what you write on this site is a true and accurate reflection of your life. after all it’s just an alter ego. while i don’t doubt that these things did happen to you, i question whether you are just creating this “man vs. self” narrative simply because it’s what you’re interested in writing about. and obviously it’s interesting to read.
at least, it used to be. now i just shrug with indifference when i hear or read people’s stories about doing cocaine, or in your case, that time you did black tar heroine or whatever with bums. talking about doing drugs or being a drug addict just makes you sound like a wannabe. like, you saw rock stars and movie stars doing drugs so you did it too to be cool like them. and for a while the world also thought the charlie-sheen-rock-star-don-draper type of addict was charming in that self-destructive way.
but to me, and this is just me…it’s getting old.
oh, you did coke off a girl’s ass. wow, how original. think that was shown in californication. wow you have issues with alcoholism. wow you did illegal drugs with bums. look at you, big man. oh, you fucked whores in tj and
the point i’m making is that these topics are getting so old and tired.
your one saving grace is that your writing is hilarious and poignant. your words express an authentic experience. even when you talk about water fowl it’s funny.
in conclusion, keep writing, sober or not, broke or employed. but don’t feel like you need to entertain with that other hollywood-wannabe-rock-star shit. it’s not necessary.
maybe the only way to become as good of a writer as Bukowsky is to follow his example and just be a hobo who only works odd jobs/temp shit whenever he needs to.
people come to this site and read your shit because it’s good and relatable.
anyway. 4 out of 5 stars.
DT man write the book, write the book, write the book. You have to make a deal with yourself you will write one hour a day. Nike shit man, Just Do It!
For the record I follow you on twitter and you look great! You have a six pack at 39! You are not stupid, and you are funny and can write your ass off! I like the post man, keep writing.
Tough love from some fans I see…
But, I needed this piece. And I loved the way you ended it because I do the same thing. “Ah her hands were too big anyway”…”She had bad perfume”…etc.
That small consolation and backwards rationalization we do when we get rejected…
I don’t care if the topic is repetitive. This was a great entry, it’s a number of thoughts and feelings that I’ve never had words for. And I know you have talked about girls and approach a lot in the past, but this felt new to me. Too many times when I’m trying to just meet girls there’s always this “have to” attached to every action. Rarely am I being funny because I just want to joke, most of the time it’s this fear pushing me to force a joke because I’m worried there’s some clock ticking in the girls head and I have to pass each stage in the allotted time or she won’t want to see me.
I feel like most of it comes from a lack of self-esteem, but it’s so difficult to carry self-esteem through rejections and dry spells. It only ever seems to come naturally when I’m still wearing my “freshly fucked” glow and really couldn’t give two shits if I’m rejected or not. Even by the hottest girls. People always talk about cultivating “abundance” and all of that shit so you can walk around with that “freshly fucked” glow 24/7 but that doesn’t even seem realistic to me. How could anyone carry that with them every day of their life forever and ever? Maybe it only seems unrealistic because I’ve never had it for longer than a week at a time. Maybe everybody lied when they told me I could be whatever I wanted. I never wanted to be “barely scraping by at the edge of obscurity.” But that’s exactly what I am. And the fear of being exactly what I am looms up before me every time a girl looks my way or smiles.
She’s a burning house, and I’m the first one on the scene. Why can’t I just keep walking? Why is every girl just a thing to be acted upon? Why do so few ever show initiative towards me? Whats the point of working out if I still have to work when I meet the girl to get her to like me? What’s the point of dressing well, getting my hair cut, shaving, driving a nice car or any of that if I still have to convince her to like me. I feel like I’m starting on the same footing as an overweight slob living in the basement when I open my mouth. Why the fuck does my brain have to acknowledge and remind me of all of this shit everytime a girl appears? I’d probably do fine and be happy if my brain wasn’t smart enough to remind me. Instead it prods me right before a natural action would occur. Like a roomate who reminds you to do the dishes as you’re walking towards the kitchen. The first instinct is to stop and yell that you’ll do them when you’re ready an you’d already planned to do them anyways. And then to turn around and leave the dishes unwashed.
Every girl is a set of unwashed dishes to me. And I keep putting them off until my brain decides to shut up about it… which only ever happens when I’m drunk.