Last night I met a club owner from London who lifts his pinky when he drinks beer and has a personal driver. If that sentence didn’t make you angry then perhaps nothing will. He told me what he pays this personal driver per month and it’s more than my salary. So right from the jump I was like: fuck this guy. Then I talked to a guy from Florida who is a session drummer and has been in K-POP music videos. Right on, something a little different. But not that I gave a shit. He could have been the first man on Mars or a time traveler from the future and I would have found it hard to care since he lacks a vagina. Men are horrifying creatures.
So, you’re out and all you’re thinking is: where are the girls, I need to stand by the girls. You plot your positioning like the venue is a giant RISK map. You want to casually post up in a high-traffic vortex zone where the ladies have to pass by on their way to the bar or the bathroom. It works, but then you end up standing next to sixteen other jackasses, other pussy pirates who are running the same play and who you have to shout disinterested conversation at because you want to seem like a man about town who knows everybody.
And Lord knows these two guys were thinking: fuck this tall guy and the fact that he exists. Walking around in a suit because he knows girls come up to ask him why he’s wearing a suit.
Well no one is stopping you from doing the same, good sir. And anyway, after the brutal stretch of another exhausting week, what else are you gonna do except spend two exhausting nights out on the scene indulging in your darker appetites. If you stay celibate too long all the pressure builds up and you go shoot up a school; I’m doing the right thing here.
One of these days I’ll wake up late on the weekends and eat pancakes with a nice woman. Read a book and watch a movie with a beer while spooning. Carbs on the couch. My hand up her shirt and she’s not wearing a bra. Sounds sublime. Anyway, time to go out.