|May 29, 2006
________________________I reflect upon my confidence.
Confidence, fuck, I’ve been scaring away girl’s left and right with my overconfidence running on a Rick James level. Shit, I’ve turned off enough little ladies with my jabber of on and on and just me and me and me nonstop. But that self-centered banter must quickly diminish in hopes of redeeming myself with these females. One thing I’ve learned through the process is that girls only want to hear about themselves. Yet they don’t want to hear the blunt slobber of “how hot they are” and “how sexy they look” with “this light in here brings out the color in your eyes” and “the perfume you’re wearing smells wonderful (even though I don’t like most perfumes).” They just don’t. Instead they prefer some slow talk with getting to know one another, with much beating around the bush. Most of you know my “disinhibition” where I freely say whatever I feel like voicing, and apparently this is a no-no in the dating world; apparently hot babes don’t want to hear about my interest in bedroom gymnastics; apparently the females care for a lot of filler in conversations with talk of this or that handbag going well with a certain pair of shoes or whatever belt. I’m not crazy about it, but that’s it in the dating world. And lemme tell ya, I’ve been “feeling out” and “getting a grasp on” many of the many many XY chromosomes who done been runnin’ around this house—here we have a roommate’s troop of oriental girls commonly known as “The Asian Army” who frequent my living space. It’s a meet and greet on the street with the owners of loud and fast cars from miles around. Having trouble finding the house? Just roll down your car window and follow the sound of loud mufflers to Geneva St!
It’s nearing midnight—a time when we must evacuate the many drunken monkeys slurring their speech around the house and hugging the sides of an impromptu Beirut table constructed in the back yard. Yes I’m writing this gold as a time-out from partying with partiers, and that’s exactly why I jumped into this essay with mention of my “overconfidence.” Me, I’d like to think that my hot and wild sex appeal flows easily to the target of female hearts who sing for a man of a caring and daring nature—yet apparently referring to my talent in the bedroom does not go over well WHEN USING IT AS AN ICEBREAKER. I’m quite overconfident, period, and I must retard my garish nature in weeks to come. But don’t you see me shaping up though? Can’t you understand that I’ve improved my lifestyle? Meaning I’m writing this gold for kicks when I could instead (yet not really that motivated to) watch drunk people do whatever stupid shit that is common of alcohol festivals. Isn’t that cool, huh? And most of you thought I’d be drinking in this location where my guarding parents can’t slap me on the wrist and say, “You’ve been a bad boy with the beer!” But, no, I have absolutely no temptation to sip a drink, none, zip, zilch, aren’t you surprised?
And aren’t I crazy enough, as is? You read whatever I have to say with this glorious interest of mine which has seen enough progress so that I can ramble on with not much of a message—yet even so you find it entertaining. That’s what I love about this talent. Although you’re only seeing me as a writer at this moment and not viewing who I really am, me, in the physical world, at this second. Besides, I’m not nearly this gaudy with my speech for interaction with those in my life; I’m just a weirdo moving his fingers right now. Getting back to overconfidence, isn’t that better than under-confidence? Wouldn’t you think of me as pathetic I just moped around and whined, “No girls are gonna want a boy who’s been so injured,” and “No one’s gonna hire a guy with a bumped head.” With my whores as verification, and with my upcoming internship as proof, that ain’t the case!
I feel good about my life. I am confident my days are beautiful, currently. I love my life. I love who I am. Me, I see a bunch of you as UNDER-confident. It is clear as day my ass has been kicked into such a high gear where I’m grabbin’ my balls over denim with one hand and raising my middle finger to The Man with the other.
God bless overconfidence!
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