Exit Wounds

Another day, another friend getting married. Another friend having kids. Another day reminded that for all those damn trophies. But no use crying over spilled milk. At least not for another month or three, since I had my one reflection last week. Pity parties are embarrassing for multiple reasons. One, your mascara runs. Two, it’s in public. Three, it’s contradictory to your persona as the cockiest bastard on the planet. Four, despite your talents (and they are numerous), you can’t beat yourself up over things you can’t change. Yet.

Or so the story goes. I can’t help but think about her, and take all the blame over what happened. I obsess over the victories that I feel slipped through my grasp. Of course, those same victories probably would have had far worse implications if I did earn them. The irony isn’t lost on me: the relationships I wanted were with girls that would have done permanent damage. But, I am a junkie for danger. I’m also a junkie for reducing people to X’s and O’s.

Case in point: salsa. I’m over as fuck. OVER AS FUCK. I’m the goose that lays the golden eggs. Being over has perks: primo parking, free food, and insight into event planning. The only perk I wanted was girls…but that didn’t happen, and when it doesn’t happen, things become interesting. The last two girls I sought were not exactly…available. Therefore, the minute my interest dies, communication breaks off. I’ll be the first to admit that this isn’t a new development; girls don’t like being pursued, so when you stop pursuing them, they fall madly in love with you. Or, they become antsy because you’re not showing them the attention they rightfully deserve. Hogwash, I say. I’m excellent at making a girl feel wanted on the hardwood by virtue of having danced for six years and being a magnetic magnet. Note to self: think of other glowing self-compliments. Anyway, when I turn off the magnetism, I turn off acknowledgement of your existence. Girls go from having 100% of my attention to barely getting a grunt in conversation they had to initiate because I was too busy fawning over my trimmed nails. I’ve been charged with ignoring girls for two weeks. I’m terribly sorry, but my roster of female friends is packed at the moment. Yes, I know that you think I would make an excellent friend. Yes, I know that I’m a spectacular conversationalist. Yes, I know that you are most comfortable with me in bachata. Yes, I know all of these things. Do you know what else I know?

I could have any girl in this club say the exact same thing about me. However, if you’re not saying what I want, you’re not meeting my qualifications for interaction. I’m not in the business to hold your bag while you shop. I’m in business for myself. I want a girlfriend, not a supposed BFF. And no, your dancing does not warrant me to reconsider, because what you call dancing isn’t dancing; it’s suck. My dancing isn’t dancing either; people consider it art. Shallow I may be, but damn if I’m not direct. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – R. Kelly “Ignition (Remix)”


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