Beat down like a pitiful dog.  In retrospect I wasn't as lonely when I stayed home alone, read, wrote, and played guitar.  I go out and socialize with the less precarious and confident selves.  They seem genuine, even when talking about The Game.  For me it feels pretentious to say hi, how are you.  Dancing is slightly better; it's like music and writing- less clouded by deceptiveness and manipulation.  Hi, how are you means, I want to fuck.  Why can't I just say what I feel?  Maybe I can. I'm too scared and insecure in the value and being I have to offer.  I should learn to say hi first.

We danced, and she gave back what I put in.  Usually, they make me put on some peacock circus show, while they approve or decline.  She was good- spun me around while we were dancing.  Then I missed the que to escalate, and just like that, attraction became null and we continued to party, drift apart, live our lives, and die never seeing each other again.  Another door closes in my face.  The brick from the path behind, lifts into the sky, obliterates, and sprinkles ashes over my face as a reminder of my failure. 

Then my best friend beats me with a stick while I'm lying on the cold ground.  If I were single this would be so easy.  If you can't get your dick sucked tonight somethings wrong, he says.  Have cameras shoved in your face to show their girlfriends the puss inflamed acne all over.  Strangers juxtaposing a bottom feeding carp next to your face and networking it to their friends to show the similarity between the lack of good facial structure and puffy lips. Girls calling you ugly in high school.  Would it really be easy for you to get your dick sucked tonight then?  I lost the acne and have developed nice facial structure from braces and overbite bands, but the belief of being a viable sexual being is still precarious, despite people saying I'm hot now.

But it won't be like this forever.  I'll get fed up as I usually do, hit the coral and go up; twenty-three pounds of mass in less than a year, cold approached over fifty women in two months, rocked my hobbies, et cetera. Even when I forget what my best friend said, the feeling will always be there.  It will manifest into another form of growth like it always does.  Because despite my self-pity there's a belief that I'll get over this. 

This is just (in a degrading way of course), my narrative and view.  Maybe he did it as a reaction to my wretchedness.  Or maybe people are assholes because that's people, and yin and yang, and it is what it is, and whatever other aphorism you want to use to console this obfuscated life.  I don't like being this chaotic and lost.  Sometimes I wish I could trade it in to be some form of a person: strictly a poet, strictly a musician, strictly whatever. Whatever, I'll get over this.