Dear Cunt, I’m Going To Clear Your Plate

Dear Guest,

Classes. Something basic, yet complicated in its definition is what we deal with on a day to day, moment to moment basis in many an aspect of our existence.

One goes to a bar. He spies a beautiful woman, yet shies away from approaching her either for fear of rejectment or acknowledgement of his own inadequacies.

Or what he thinks are his own inadequacies.

In reality, what’s happening is he perceives himself to be a part of a specific group of people; a people that is unable to mix, mingle or be a part of any aspect of the subject of his adoration, interest or focus.

The fear of rejection is but a by product of the inner workings of his mind. Because he believes himself to be but a cog in the current events of his community, his surroundings and that of the general society, as opposed to an active, contributing part of a vibrant, successful and kind circle of supporters, he therefore lacks the self confidence to simply say hello to a beautiful woman.

Nail an audition.

Introduce himself to the CEO and prove himself to be worthy of that 150k a year salary.

You see, the moment one looks at life like an opportunity to prove, rather than explore and be stimulated by his surroundings, as Harold Guskin speaks of so eloquently about the actor’s audition process, he’s indeed simply a cog, a piece in the puzzle, as opposed to an advisor to the king.

The difference between the two, while very much a reality, began not as an issue of capability, but of inner self worth. The cog decided he must simply turn, move the wheel that moves the other wheel, while the advisor realized he was smarter than the king, and can better make the cog work.

Being in one class or another may be defined by the world at large. Working class – blue collar and white collar, millionaire, billionaire, immigrant. Personally I very much am aware of the difference between various peoples in society. Mexicans clean the tables in the pizza shop, models from Ukraine sell you jewelry and promote Vodka brands,  blacks steal that same jewelry, blonde bimbos find millionaire husbands and host charity events, get plastic surgery and send their bratty children to prep schools, and Jews control most of the above.

But I’m also aware that what I just mentioned is but a stereotype, a mere perception of the races, a division of the classes partly judged by the vocal minority of its disruptive, beautiful, or dumb individuals, and partially judged BY those individuals.

We’re all people. I may be serving you, I may have made your martini (you wanted it dry, shaken not stirred) but I sure as hell don’t feel like the image that comes to mind regarding servers, bartenders, housemaids or however else society deems it appropriate I view myself.

You may regard me with a certain air of superiority, intelligence or raw disdain.

Just know that I don’t care.

And if I did, I’d pity you.

Sincerely,
Your server

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My Inner Beta

I usually avoid becoming Facebook friends with any girl I have a romantic interest in, at least for the first few weeks. And by romantic, I mean anything ranging from a bar-slut you want to pump and dump/be steady fuck buddies with or a cute girl you met and asked out for drinks, and have a feeling she isn’t the fuck buddy type, if there even is such a thing as not being a fuck buddy type.

Well I took my own lesson with blue-haired girl, and haven’t friended her, and won’t at least not until I get the bang, hopefully this weekend. I didn’t take my lesson with another girl I met at a get together a friend was having at a bar. I friended her before getting her number. First mistake. The reason I did that was because I wasn’t sure if she was with a close friend of my buddy or not…until my buddy said, “Hey, she’s single, go for her.” So I did. I walked over to her and said let’s grab a drink tomorrow night. Good.

“Be bold. Make your move. Ask her out. Just kidding, fuck her without asking her out. Or forever regret it.” – Cookie Monster (just kidding he never said that)

But now, I’m sitting here, a day before our meetup, and am thinking twice before posting anything on Facebook, because if i keep posting stuff, she’ll think I sit at home all day on my computer. Which of course isn’t remotely true. Honestly. Now on one hand, I’d hate to have my verbal stream of diarrhea that is my Facebook feed cut off, as I feel it’s a good method of expressing myself, and I have legit things to post about. On the other hand “Dude, WTF, posting on Facebook more than once a week? So 2007.” Possibly, but irrelevant, as I’m discussing the reason why, in my current state, I don’t friend the bitch right away.

On another note, I’m taking this girl to a spot I usually reserve for girls I want to fuck, more than date. It’s a hip neighborhood type bar/lounge. But with a divey vibe to it. Pool table + couches + exotic beer list = fun but very cozy spot. I am however second guessing myself as to my choice of locale for tomorrow night. Perhaps I should have chosen something more upscale? But no, why am i treating this girl differently than any other girl I went out with for a drink. I dunno, but something about her screams date material only. Perhaps it’s my inner beta coming to the surface, perhaps it’s just me, not wanting to conform to social dictates of the PUA community saying not to put any pussy on the pedestal.

(Oh, by the way, anyone ever get the feeling between the time you met her originally and set a date, to the time before the date, that she’s not interested/date won’t be good, etc.? Maybe she’s just a really shitty texter…

Which is why I also like to avoid texting…)

Besides, I’m not a PUA anyway. I’m just a regular dude, who loves constantly approaching girls (as I haven’t been in a long term relationship recently) and having a good time.

“Good night moon.

Good night work and your annoying boss that always emails.

It’s time for you to come and play.

Turn your phone off, sidle up to me.

I’ll grope you, feel you, strip you naked and fuck you.

Good night world.”

-livingnowalways

Time will tell won’t it.

The place DOES have a pool table...

This represents the 8 ball.

Except I’m stupid so I posted a 7. Kind of the way you see a girl, think she’s a 9. Look again and she’s a 7. Least she could do is strip dance on the pool table.

She Had Blue Hair

“I think the fact that most men look at love with disgust, is because they look at love only in terms of relationship. Love is transient, many times fleeting, and almost always depraved.”  -livingnowalways

I’m in a very brooding, hopeful mood. I feel as if tonight is the calm before the storm, and I feel like things..scary, perhaps larger than life, loom in my imminent future. Perhaps they’ll be career related.

It’s exciting, yet terrifying, because every moment in history, in my Present, needs to be valued. Britney Spears didn’t get to where she was by drinking every night.

Ironic, but true.

Penned on a brisk November evening. Published tonight. (That isn’t correct, I wrote this all tonight. I just think that blurb makes me seem like a literary genius.)

I’m on the precipice of wild success, I can feel it stronger than I ever did. I almost feel a need for structure, perhaps to precede the coming week, to stabilize the madness. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll go swimming, then head to the premiere of “Fat Sick and Nearly Dead.” Healthy eating people, healthy eating.

WHY AM I SO VOLATILE?

I was at a bar last night. I met a girl with short blue hair. Within a moment, we were dancing together, her body pressed against mine. It was somehow more electrifying than such a thing ought to be. The music continued and we got more intimate. My lips pressed against hers, moving as one on the dance floor, oblivious, yet aware of our surroundings. Some places are so public, it’s essentially private, as no one notices you. Decadent? Sleazy? For sure. But certainly not cheap and meaningless.  We moved outside for a smoke. Pressed her up against the wall, my hand slid down from her neck, under her dress. Two people. Strangers. LIVING. In public of course. Or private. Like I could give a fuck.

Blue hair.

Not something I’m normally into, but this one was super cute, and not goth. Small black dress and heels. It was a great night, needless to say. When something about a girl excites me, something about her is different, is unique, is strange, especially something like short blue hair, it brings out the best and the worst in me. Some say it’s love, yet I don’t fall in love with a girl in one evening. It’s not straight up lust either.  It’s a combination of a sense of adventure and knowing that in a weird way, I’m writing my own history. I want to be able to look back when I’m 60 and say, “I really lived. Really really lived.” Being involved, or in a relationship with a crazy, miniature blue haired girl, is something that would make it all worth it.

I’m laughing, but deadly serious, and aware I may be in serious need of psychological help, but proud of it.

I could cry, I get so excited about moments like these. I’m ALIVE, how many people can say that??

I’m not drunk and I didn’t smoke up. I am high off I have no idea what I’m high off, maybe it’s life, maybe it’s the buzz from the beer I didn’t have tonight, maybe it is all of the above.

If I had her here now, I think I’d have meaningful, intense sex with someone who is as of yet still a relative stranger, so I can express my feelings.

Maybe I’ll call her now.

Peace.

“Real love if something so real, so concrete, that when it happens, it takes over and recreates your vision. I believe love can be fleeting or permanent, but real love is driven by both people. Driven in a way that neither of them can stop.” -livingnowalways