Wednesday, September 8, 2010

No. 127 "Rejection."

No one likes rejection, especially when it comes to chicks. Some guys have the ability to write it off with a simple "bitch was probably a lesbo" comment to his buddies after he makes the shame-ridden walk back to his table. Others loath rejection to such a point that they do everything in their power to avoid it. Jessica Alba could be sprawled out naked on their bed, using empty beer bottles to pregame her pussy and they would still be apprehensive about making a move. I put myself somewhere in the middle. I hate being rejected, but at the same time know how to read a girl to an educated degree.

During my formative years I didn't have to deal with rejection since I was the most popular kid in high school. Cheerleaders, hot teachers and Hispanic custodians would throw themselves at me regularly. OK, that's completely untrue. I wasn't exactly a Lothario back in my high school days. In fact, rejection was not even an issue since teenage girls weren't interested in short, pimple-ridden sixteen year-olds without a car.

Every time I swooned after a girl I liked I would be immediately put in "The Acquaintance Zone." This was similar to "The Friend Zone," except I was never greeted with boobs-to-chest hugs or invited to themed parties. I would just see them at school and waive while they smiled and made a comment to one of their hot friends that probably went like "Ugh, there's that weirdo from my English class." Perhaps I'm remembering my years in high school a bit rougher than they actually were; but that is how it felt back then. I can look back on it with a smirk now, knowing that all the girls I had a crush on way back when are now single mothers or have serious drug addictions.

In college I was able to make the transition into the person I am now. The added six inches in height, Accutane medication and development of a personality helped. Plus, I had a car! This was new territory for me, and it was quite awesome. Instead of sitting in Chemistry class staring at girls' thongs from my chair I was able to talk to chicks without peeing my pants and running away while crying uncontrollably. And of course, alcohol helps.

Alcohol is the single best innovation to get past rejection. Going up to a girl dead sober without an established skill set or boy band looks is almost always met with hostile eyebrows and a cold shoulder. Its like tightroping with a safety net. You know the net is there in case you trip and fall. The same can be said about alcohol. You can blame the unsuccessful proposition on your lack of sobriety, slurred speech and vomit-stained cardigan. Also, memory loss is a side effect of alcohol, so you might not even remember it the next day. Win! Girls are much more approachable in social situations and sparking a conversation can be quite easy. If your cards are played right, you could be using the guest closet as a romping room in mere minutes, depending on her social graces.

During my sophomore year I had developed a perfect record of non-rejection. I still had a bit of apprehensiveness and only went for the kill when I knew the success rate was close to 100%. But, I had never been shut down whenever I attempted a shy kiss or sloppy make-out maneuver. A certain amount of arrogance was gained on my part and I was positive my chick-reading abilities were atop the national rankings. I even thought about developing t-shirts that read "Mr. 100%," but a screen-printing machine was not available to me at this time. In hindsight, I probably would have been mistaken for an excellent student with a shirt that read the aforementioned slogan. People would request tutoring and notes in my classes, and I would have to begrudgingly explain the true meaning of the shirt.

I had little room in my dorm due to my collection of trash and dirty laundry

This all came to a head when I met a girl. Lets call her Tracy, since I don't know anyone by that name. I had met Tracy a few weeks earlier and developed a fondness for her. By "fondness" I mean that I wanted to frantically titty-fuck her on my futon. We would text and AIM (I'm dating myself with that one) every couple days. These texts were filled with "LOLs" and winky faces, so I knew she was into me. Tracy was a bit above my pay grade looks-wise, but was a naive freshmen so I thought I could coax her into blowing me.

I would occasionally drop by her dorm to hang out and watch movies I had no interest in viewing. Lamentably, her obese roommate was always roaming around eating and cock-blocking me; sometimes at the same time. This made it nearly impossible to swoop in and make a steadfast advance on Tracy. Eventually, her roommate wasn't around the next time I came over. She was probably at some sort of hot dog eating contest or chili cook off. I finally had a window to make my move.

Tracy was complaining about back problems; probably due to her glorious ta-tas. So, I did what any red-blooded male would and offered a free massage. So far this was going swimmingly. She took off her shirt and I began to give her a half-assed massage; which was basically me focusing on her butt for ten minutes. Then, quite slyly I went in for a momentary kiss. This is how it went down:

Tracy: (Perplexed look) "Uh, what are you doing?"
Me: "I, um... Shit, well..."
Tracy: "Did you just try to kiss me?"
Me: "Yeah. What's wrong?"
Tracy: "What gave you that idea?"
Me: "Just going with the flow, I thought you were into it."
Tracy: "No. I'm not."
Me: "Well, fuck."

I then went off on a vitriolic tirade where I called her not-so-generous names such as "a mind-fucker," "cock tease" and "bitch." I had never yelled at a girl previously; with the exception of my mother whenever she grounded me or my sister for unplugging my video games. After I was done assuring that every girl in her hall thought of me as a misogynistic dickhead, I slammed the door and stormed out. I felt concurrently jilted and aggrandized. This feeling lingered until I realized I had left my favorite jacket in her room.

Tyler Durden's jacket can't hold a candle to mine

If this was just a regular jacket I would have abandoned it at her place where she would eventually throw away weeks later. But, this jacket was fucking sick. I just had to add that. Anyway, I had to go back up the elevator, walk to her room, apprehensively knock on the door and request my jacket back. My storm out was nullified a bit, and I'm sure she got a chuckle out of seeing me come back with my tail between my legs. Even though I just grabbed my jacket and left without saying sorry.

Since then, I've been rejected numerous times. I like to compare it to a swift kick to the balls. Sure, it hurts for a couple minutes, but if you wear a mental-cup you won't get hurt. Rejection is something we all have to live with; like the fact that Justin Bieber is still breathing. Being rejected isn't that big of a deal and we all handle it differently. Whether its by calling the rejector a dumb skank or taking a swig from your beer and casually moving on to the next girl. For me, I've learned two lessons over the years: Don't throw a fit over superfluous situations, and leaving your jacket in a hostile environment really ruins a sweet storm out.

1 comment:

Hipstercrite said...

oh man. hysterical! glad i stumbled upon your blog.

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