Could someone answer this goddamn question? I’ve been pondering on it for impotent years. I’ve listened to dozens of explanations all calculated to find the average man a suitable counterpart.
Problem is, nothing seems to make sense. Shit just happens. And that’s how it is. No one knows why. But it feels infinitely frustrating.
I guess I’m somewhat of the average guy. No matter how much I tell myself I’m on the lunatic fringe of repulsion: an inborn, magnetized polarity that draws me further and further away from the female gender. In my mind, I’m an odd person trying to be normal. While other men often struggle, but kinda, sorta manage to get by.
And that’s the key, ladies: no man has EVERYTHING you want. Or is EVERYTHING. If they appear to be, guess what: they’re putting on a show. All of us put on an act for you: it’s part of our job. Our task is to make ourselves LOOK LIKE Don Juan (if that comparison is even relevant now). But we ain’t. Some guys are better than others at pulling it off. About 95% are better at pulling that off than me.
But I’m gonna be the full blown cynic on this one, like Diogenes. Not all of what impresses you is bullshit, but most of it is. Same thing goes for men. A lot of what we like is bullshit too. The human race is primed for liking bullshit things. But at least we can paint them and dress them up in elegant, sartorial trappings.
That’s what I feel like the list represents. Confidence? Trapping. Perfect looks? Trappings for an imperfect personality. Everything we put on is a trapping for a flaw. Because we have to. We just HAVE to. When the flaws finally come out, you get breakups. Or, in the case of a genuine link, some who doesn’t care: someone who can see through the bullshit and still smell roses.
But the bullshit still remains. If you’re good at the game, it means women can’t see through your bullshit. That’s all it means, really. At least, not yet. If they still stay with you once they can, you done got yerself a keeper. But then again, that’s all contingent on getting past the initial stage, which I’m about as competent at as a blind man up to bat. But hey, they can still hear sounds pretty well, so maybe there’s a silver lining.
The way I see it is, every man has a deck of cards. You’ve got to learn to play YOURS, rather than someone else’s. It may not make sense what the cards read, but oh well. As long as you know what yours are. I still don’t know what the hell mine are. Figuring out might provide some semblance of light at the end of my tunnel. Or at least partly pay the electricity bill.
I wonder often what it is that other guys have managed to master, or at least pretend to. Sometimes I don’t wonder, and just act. That’s probably the way to go: don’t think. Or second-guess yourself. Usually it takes a few drinks for me to get to THAT level of “fuck it” mode. Sometimes I’m the biggest pretender in the room. Because, let’s be honest: “Just be yourself” is some dumbass advice for first impressions. Like Chris Rock said, when women meet you for the first time, they’re not actually meeting YOU. They’re meeting your representative. For first impressions, “Just be yourself” is bullshit second to none. “Yourself” is trembling with the drink in your hand, pondering the nearest escape or convenient exit door.
So, if you’re like me, practice your mask. That’s the only “rule” I think of. And learn your cards: to play them accordingly. Cards, like the rules, don’t make sense. They’re randomized selection. Chance. Like drawing needles from a haystack as large as the Empire State Building. Or that giant-ass tower they have in the UAE.
There’s a song called “Band-aid Covers the Bullet Hole”. It’s also the name of a Grey’s Anatomy episode, back when Grey’s Anatomy was actually good (circa 2006). That’s the way I see attraction right now. A band-aid covering some ghastly, festering wound. If it fits, wear it. I’m still searching for my first aid kit.