Somebody called me “attractive” last night. For the first time that it was actually meaningful. Because every other time it’s either been:
a) in response to my saying “Jesus Christ, my face looks like it was hit with a fucking shovel.”
b) a horny gay guy trying to get laid or
c) an even less attractive friend saying “Jesus, you must have it so easy, you’re attractive.” To him, I am “attractive” just like to a Somali war orphan the guy clocking fifteen grand a year at Arby’s is “rich.”
Or it was my friends, or my girlfriend, or my mom, etc. I don’t believe any of them. For my entire life it has been my absolute bedrock belief that I am a hideous unlovable mutant whom no woman could let her eyes linger on for even a second lest she gag. And this is borne up by reality, because no women ever look at me, talk to me; no woman ever makes the first move to approach me, ever. Gays do it all the time, but you know, I hit on fat chicks all the time. Gays want to fuck me the same way a drunk guy wants to fuck his couch. Continue reading
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