Thanks Conner

I didn’t even think I was in a bad mood. I had band practice and it went exceptionally well. The four of us went to the bar. I was having a blast at first. Wasn’t drinking, just laughing with some of the only people I like. Time wears on, I get tired, start to feel a little down. Whatever. Bar had an exceptional quantity of good-looking women wandering around that night. Only saw one that was really my type, long-nosed dyed-red-hair trash barbie in a short skirt who was there with a skinny face-tattoo messenger bag guy. The guy you’d expect her to be there with. Lots of actual beautiful women there though. They didn’t grab me by the throat like she did, but they were striking. There was one who was incredible. Vaguely Asian looking, black hair with bangs, black fur, black jeans, perfect tan skin, carried herself like an ethereal, mythic creature. I spotted her as soon as she walked in. When I see a girl who’s hot to me, it makes me nervous. When I see a like this, I’m just floored. Impressed. Amazed. And then I forget about it, because it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t arouse me and I will never consider talking to her. It’s like a lose-lose. Actually, it’s a win-win. I get to admire something beautiful and I don’t have to worry about wanting anything from her. Desire is the stressful part.

I was sitting at a table with Mike. He was quite drunk and he began to comment on both the quantity and quality of ladies at the bar. “Lot of beautiful women here for a Monday”, he remarked with a hearty slur. The Oriental vision in the black fur passed by our table. I saw Mike spot her, amazement washing over his face. “Yeah dude, I know. It’s fucking hard to believe.”, I preempted as she floated out of view (and presumably, earshot). “Damn. Yeah. That is incredible.”, he said. Our conversation paused a moment, both of us paralyzed by her beauty. “I got a chick in Cleveland I’m seeing”, said Mike, “but you should go over and talk to that girl.”. I replied: “If that chick slept with me, that would be a crime against nature.” Mike laughed, because that is a funny thing to say. “God made laws about how I can’t talk to that girl.”, I said. Mike continued to chuckle. I wish he’d left it at that. Just laugh at me. But like clockwork, he started with routine I’d heard numerous times before. “Nah, cmon man, don’t be so hard on yourself, have some confidence.” My response was well-rehearsed. “Nah man look, I know I can be charming, I’ve got some confidence, but like…. C’mon. Just look at that girl. That’d be a stretch. She is objective out of my league.”. I’d been given the “you should have confidence” lecture so many goddamn times, from every goddamn person I’d ever known. Just laugh at me and leave it the fuck alone. Mike got the message and backed off, with one addendum: “Well, look man. All I’m sayin’ is, she’s sitting at a table with Conner and Zoe right now.” Conner and Zoe were people that we knew. This surprised me. Why would someone like that be hanging out with people that I know? People who enjoy talking to me? People who enjoy talking to me are fucked. I expressed a modest quantity of surprise at this and changed the subject. I didn’t want to think about it, because I didn’t want to talk to her.

I wasn’t getting out of this that easily. I’ve gotten out of this easily and very consistently over the years. Recently I’ve felt that time running out. I cannot be like this forever. The level of discomfort that I’ve survived with thus far is not sustainable. I don’t want to overcome it. I need to. Zoe made eye contact with me and signaled me over to their table. Shook my hand. Dread gripped my being already, as I knew what was about to happen. A dread that throttled my entire being, asserting its visceral grip on my body and mind. She was going to ask me the same question that I was asked multiple times a day, every day, and each time I gave the same bullshit answer, and each time I felt the dread’s grip. “How’s it goin? How are you?.” Her impossibly gorgeous friend was directly to my right. I deliberately avoided looking at her. I don’t know if she was paying attention to what I was saying or not. This time, my bullshit answer was an especially sizable load thereof. Even my tone of voice was a mess. I could see Zoe’s face shift, smile swiftly disappearing into the ether, as I warbled my response with uncanny weakness: “Oh, you know… pretty good for the most part.”. Terrible. Absolute shit. The same response I’d given hundreds of times before, at work, at the gym, in line at the supermarket. A pitiful dodge, devoid of meaning or substance, mercilessly programmed deep into my brain until it became second-nature. Ruthlessly uncomfortable every time, but still second-nature. Instinctive. Creating and enduring unnatural and unnecessary discomfort. Over the years I had adjusted to it, as an animal mutates according to its terrain and/or circumstance. The “circumstance” in question here is the treacherous terrain of my soul itself.

There was a brief pause that felt about the same as you’d expect it to, and then Conner put me on blast. He doesn’t know me as well as some of my other friends do, but he must have picked up on a critical fact about me that my very best friends realized long ago. If you’re looking to help me, the only way to get any sort of advice through my exceptionally thick skull is by putting me on blast. He turned to me with a deliberation that I spotted before he even said anything. “Yo Jake,” he said, “you don’t have to read off a fuckin’ script. Just tell ‘em that you’re doing lousy.”

If I just told ‘em that I was doing lousy, there would have been a litany of conversation topics for us to draw upon. I am literally in the process of writing a book about how fuckin’ lousy I’m doing. I would have had plenty to talk about. But that’s not what I told ‘em. I told ‘em that I was doin’ fine, for the most part. I made a few awkward jokes as Zoe’s friends took refuge in whatever app they were browsing, shielded from my disquieting presence by the dopamine-rich glow of their smartphones. Conner’s remark was a revelation. I had been offering up bullshit about how I was “doin’ fine” for years. Every single time was a missed opportunity. Every time I seized up and spat out vapid things that I heard other people say, people who bored me to tears but people who were functional, people who were different from me and therefore inestimably better, I was chipping away at my limbs every single time. Crippling myself. Rewiring my conscious mind against the precious Will of my unconscious soul, rather than aligning them. Drilling that stupid fucking script right into my bones. It was overwhelming when this dawned on me. Conner fucked me up. I paced around the bar awkwardly for a couple minutes and then left.

I’ve had to throw a lot of hoop dreams in the trash over the years. There are a cubic shit-ton of things that I am constitutionally incapable of. I cannot do anything that requires spatial thinking. Building physical things, putting things together. I cannot do it. I can’t work in a machine shop. I can’t be a toolmaker. I can’t work in construction. Anything involving technical competency, even relatively basic technical competency, there is no fucking way. I’ve tried, and it doesn’t take. I can’t do math. I can’t understand science. I cannot write code or do any of that computer stuff. Again, these are paths that I’ve already ventured down. This isn’t me self-deprecating; anyone who knows me well would concur. I’m not cut out for any of that. Anything that could be described as a conventionally “Masculine” life path is a hoop dream for me, and I’ve decided that it’s time for me to give up on my hoop dreams. I have a sneaking suspicion that meeting and pursuing women is a hoop dream for me. It’s just not gonna take. I am hard-wired in a way that ensures as much, and it would be a waste of time and energy to even contemplate changing that. But this is one hoop dream that I’m gonna keep clinging to. Falling in love and/or having a bunch of sex is a lot more appealing than writing code or working in a fucking machine shop.

The next day was Christmas Eve, and I had to go to work. I was tired. Stayed up too late. There was nothing to do at work. All I had to do was stand around and watch my coworkers not work, while they chit-chatted with each other. I took my morning shit around 10am. While sitting on the toilet, I got a phone call from an auto shop where I had made an appointment to get my windshield replaced. They must’ve been calling to confirm my appointment.

“Is this Jake?”

“Yeah, why? What’s up?”

“Hey man this is Tom calling from SafeLite, how’s it goin’?”

“I’m fine. I’m taking a shit at work.”