What’s going on with you man? Well I’m reading three books I won’t finish and writing two blog posts that will be bad and nursing a half-dozen hopeless crushes. Everything is weird these days and nothing is really working out and I’m nostalgic for times that I know weren’t amazing.
I didn’t get that good teaching job that would have given me some cash and cred just in time for my 30th birthday. Now I have to act like I didn’t want it anyway. Also, I stopped studying Spanish again. Also I stopped making healthy smoothies every morning. Then I keep wasting all my free time by trying to write. These days “writing” takes the form of going out for long walks at night without my phone, with the goal being that ingenious insights are going to come to me since the signal-jammer of Facebook has been removed from my person. Nothing comes to me though. I then realized that if a walk was all it took then everyone who ever took a walk before smartphones would have written some dope shit. I took walks all the time back in like 2006. And I was still boring.
Relax man. No one else has their shit together either. Every day 7 billion of us wake up and just fake it, the idea being that we’ll eventually make it. None of us will make it.
Another thing with another girl is done now. Sex with her, it was, it was… (my brain is sputtering as I search for adjectives)… I mean, god damn. Impossible for it to be any more passionate. Writhing and shuddering and then falling asleep with our foreheads pressed together. You think that this sex is so good, she’ll remember me for a long time. Even if she gets dementia. But no. Every guy thinks this but every guy is an idiot. She had transcendent sex before you and will have more after you. You are but one name on the list.
She had these buxom fertile hips and wasn’t on the pill. For a week we thought she was pregnant and my ego enjoyed the possibility that I might be about to make my own lame little dent in the universe. But she wasn’t pregnant and that hypothetical fetus better thank the Maker that it was never called into existence. With the amount that girl drinks the baby would have dissolved in utero before it had the chance to live this weird life it didn’t ask for. 100% of the next generation will have learning disabilities because their mothers stumbled home from the bars at 6.00 am. None of these children will be capable of doing mental arithmetic or dribbling a soccer ball. There will be only short buses going to the schools. But I shouldn’t complain because Party Girls are the only way I get laid.
Anyway. There’s an attractive girl in this café right now and we’re stealing looks at each other. Or maybe I want her to be stealing looks at me, but she’s actually just stretching her neck or checking the window, which I am sitting next to, to see if it’s raining.
She hasn’t looked over here in a while but nevertheless I am trying to sip coffee in a sexy manner in case she does. I’m crossing my legs at the knee as if I have a dignified backstory, as if I’ve been in rooms with ambassadors before. I’m doing a hard brow furrow and glaring at my $200 Lenovo laptop as if the screen is displaying classified documents or some shit.
Sooner or later one of us will have to leave and it’s looking like it’s gonna be me. I’ll have to stand up and sling on my messenger bag in a sexy manner. That will be difficult. The placement of the strap is where it gets tricky. If it’s above or below your nipple then it distorts your pec and the muscle smooshes over the strap so that it resembles a squishy suburban dad tit… this happens to your pectoralis major even if you do 100 pushups a day, which I do. Donning on a messenger bag without looking like a dork is a delicate operation. You have to hoist the bag over your head and then bring it smoothly down across your chest so that the strap is placed flat over the nipple, and you have to do it in one fluid motion — with no adjustments afterward — because you’re a sexy man after all and you get everything right the first time. God damn this pretty girl being in the coffee shop is stressing me out.
But there is a valuable lesson to be derived from the fact that even if you manage to place the strap around your torso so that it flatters your musculature, she probably won’t be looking at you anyway.