There are people in this world who are blessed with an uncanny ability to impress upon others that they are trustworthy or friendly so as to invite a conversation or a smile. They are able to sow seeds of friendship with incredible ease; as easy as I can direct pee onto a urinal (though, given the state of some toilets, this may be a more difficult task than I give it credit for).
I, on the other hand, have the unfortunate ability to impress upon others that I am a sociopath, ridden with disease or some other contagious ailment. That is not to say that I am or have any of these things - it's just the 'vibe' that I give off. I have, what I have coined, the deterrent factor. I have it, Yangus has it, the hobo outside Wynyard station has it, Ivan Milat had it, that disgruntled fat lady who was irritated because I didn't get out of her way on the platform when her girth spanned the entire width of the platform, has it. It's an inexplicable phenomenon (at least in my case. I think Yangus et. al. were/are psychopaths or suffer(ed) from severe weight issues). I don't bother musing over the prospect of having advanced social interactions with strangers, like having a conversation. Hell, I have trouble getting people to sit next to me on a train during peak hour.
It is scant consolation that even Mr. Darcy had the deterrent factor. To quote him (from the 2005 film):
"I do not have the talent of conversing easily with people I have never met before."
Unfortunately, unlike Mr. Darcy, I am incapable of transforming the rather creepy notion of walking out of the mist with wild hair and a half unbuttoned shirt into an act of romance. I suspect that a restraining order will be made against me if I approached my love interest in a similar fashion. We can't all live on £10,000 a year and be ruggedly handsome.
On second thought, a spare seat next to me on a peak hour train isn't too bad. I guess the seat is reserved for someone who can see past my deterring countenance; whenever she decides to come around. For the meantime, I will also accept stinky-shit "I need some deo" guys or old asian blokes who pick their noses and wipe it on the seat in the vicinity of my thigh. Urgh.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Rusty
Much like my blog-writing skills (if indeed I ever possessed any) my ability to 'engage women' (pick up) has become rusty. This really shouldn't come as a surprise, for I have been well and truly out of the game for the better part of three years (or was it four? It's been so long that I've forgotten). In fact, during my hiatus from dabbling in relationships, and continuing hiatus mind you, I have not had the slightest inclination (or perhaps it is more accurate to say serious inclination) to become intimately involved with another. As a result, I am now prone to spontaneously devolve into a babbling fool when gorgeous women come my way.
Now I will be the first to admit that I am not immune to (wo)man's insatiable desire for affection and intimacy - even I, stoic and emotionally stale as I am - will from time to time, feel pangs of loneliness. Yes, even the proudest bachelor has moments of uncertainty - an identity crisis if you will.
5:07p.m, Thursday evening, three weeks ago, Wynyard station. Identity crisis. I sat next to one of the most gorgeous women I have ever encountered. Now there is one thing worse than being a babbling fool in front of a woman that interests you and that is not even being capable of babbling. I stole glances in silence - such was the extent of my courage.
Fast forward two weeks. 5:01pm, Friday evening, Passionflower, Kensington. Identity crisis (at this rate I am certain to suffer from bipolar disorder). A gorgeous waitress. Rewind and repeat. Silence.
"I'm rusty."
What an excuse.
The fact of the matter is, I was not rusty. I am not rusty. Rusty assumes that there was steel and resolve there to oxidise after lengthy exposure to the air and to liberation. In retrospect, I was never made of steel. I never had such resolve. I did not become rusty. I merely maintained my malleable constitution: a soft, cheap plastic that bends at the slightest touch. There is no rusty bullshit. Just a lack of balls and a pathetic knack for retrospective analysis. Someone needs to harden the fuck up, pronto.
Now I will be the first to admit that I am not immune to (wo)man's insatiable desire for affection and intimacy - even I, stoic and emotionally stale as I am - will from time to time, feel pangs of loneliness. Yes, even the proudest bachelor has moments of uncertainty - an identity crisis if you will.
5:07p.m, Thursday evening, three weeks ago, Wynyard station. Identity crisis. I sat next to one of the most gorgeous women I have ever encountered. Now there is one thing worse than being a babbling fool in front of a woman that interests you and that is not even being capable of babbling. I stole glances in silence - such was the extent of my courage.
Fast forward two weeks. 5:01pm, Friday evening, Passionflower, Kensington. Identity crisis (at this rate I am certain to suffer from bipolar disorder). A gorgeous waitress. Rewind and repeat. Silence.
"I'm rusty."
What an excuse.
The fact of the matter is, I was not rusty. I am not rusty. Rusty assumes that there was steel and resolve there to oxidise after lengthy exposure to the air and to liberation. In retrospect, I was never made of steel. I never had such resolve. I did not become rusty. I merely maintained my malleable constitution: a soft, cheap plastic that bends at the slightest touch. There is no rusty bullshit. Just a lack of balls and a pathetic knack for retrospective analysis. Someone needs to harden the fuck up, pronto.
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