Thursday, November 24, 2011
Post One Hundred and Forty Eight: You Make Me Feel Like A Wanker.
I hate the dating game. It's a thorn in my lonely side. Think about it with me, if you will.
I spend a lot of time cooped up into small, sterile spaces. I focus on and over clammy unresponsive corpses. Then, after eight or so hours I go home to 'decompress'. This down time sometimes involves baths. It sometimes involves wines. It sometimes involves Bruce Springsteen and a quiver of crackers and dip. More often than not, I think about how nice it would be to do/hear/eat these things in the company of someone else. I admit to owning romantic feelings.
It's reasonably difficult to meet someone that you'd like to spoon with when your money making activities involve aspiration, exhumation and repatriation. Moreover, it's problematic if you suffer from repeated bouts of sexually induced frontal labotomisation. Oh, how shit it is when you like someone and you turn into a mumbling and/or babbling retard in the presence of the very person that you'd like to kiss on the face. I am like Stan and the sexy time target is Wendy, or however the South Park simile would go.
It feels like this disintegration of any personal social charm is worsening too, assuming that I had any in the first place. When I was younger I believe I was happy to make a dick of myself. I have learned a helplessness in my latter years like Scar from The Lion King, but I can't function well enough to imitate a crappy pseudo confidence.
I suck at the dating game. Let's jump to third base and buy a puppy. By let's I mean, me.