So…There’s this girl.

Rarely, do I indulge the notion of “love at first sight”–all men do at some point. The simple concept that any woman can ensnare our imagination based on simple physical features, is the cliche in the “mating game” or “rules of attractions”.(for you James Vanderbeek fans) Heaven forbid any man, too preoccupied with drowning in this sea of pointless pussy; finally meets his Cleopatra–his detached opposite, yet their union completes one another.

We I see an attractive female I immediately study her–really I just fan of women, in general. I collect all the “kiss the cook” merchandise, I listen to all their albums; wear the “I’m with stupid ” novelty apparel and keep all the sappy valentines day candy and cards until it is not longer cute, anymore.

I hate the feeling  of the “missed opportunity” moment when I’m stricken with the impression; there could have been something but the feeling passes like a Snapchat story. She meet someone, else. And the romanticized carnival ride of us together in Venice Beach: fades into the self-loathing highlight reel.

I recently met and she is like a female version of me. Witty, funny, not of trace of narcissistic tendency, neither a obsession with making her plumper by hovering one ass-cheek  over the bathroom sink, while taking a selfie. The fours words that best describe her: the girl next door. She makes me excited and afraid at the same time. Normally, people gravitate to me and I decide if they are cool enough to be on the V.I.P list; but, with her it’s different. Maybe, it is because I met anyone from such a rich ethnic background; maybe it’s because she has the same type of  humor; hell, maybe it’s because she from New York–the city I always spray paint my own insignia on subway train.

A vacuum in time and space opens up and sucks me in, closer and closer in her direction and I don’t even know if I’m just another random dude, friend, business association, colleague etc…

For the first time, I have someone to talk to without dumbing-down my lingo; and all I want to do is put my car in park and watch the stars. I know I don’t own her–never been my style, anyway. I just want remember what it is like to talk to a female that has more on the brain Mascara and Twitter followers.

What’s her name you ask?

See…there’s this Girl.

Advertisements

Confession chronicles

Interlude

With the upcoming release of my little bundle of joy, which would be my first book; my first attempt showing the world glimpse of my vision and possibly crash and burn into a drunken stooper while swearing off writing again. Only to redo the cycle of: excitement, discovery, and finally disappointment. Thus, the tangerine-colored light bulb went off in my publisher’s head and she came up with the brilliant idea of creating blog. To not only keep me writing frequently but in addition to that, establishing a platform that would help future ventures—couldn’t hurt. Not to mention, the emphasis on the human aspect of my work. So…here goes.

I’m an Outsider. And not by choice, to me, interacting with people is by far more difficult then “finding a needle in a haystack”. If I had to come up with a more plausible analogy; the closest reference would be finding Carmen San Diego…in San Diego. I’ve probably devoured over fifteen psychology textbooks, over twenty thousand in man hours—devoted to learning micro-expressions and body language from Youtube videos, even more on seduction and hypnosis. Despite, My efforts whatever success I have or did achieve has completely washed over any preconception going into my findings almost to the point where I wonder why started in the first place. However, I learned more about myself than anything.

People say I’m judgmental. Maybe they are right, especially when it comes women. It’s not that I think I’m more important than a woman, quite the opposite in fact. It’s more like, I want to know everything about everyone but in a generation that swipes left, right clicks; leaves comments unread, curves more bodies than a licensed chiropractor, and last but not least people and their filters on everything.

Misunderstood maniac

I don’t know what is real anymore. Are they really a friend or a saboteur? We always talk for hours in person, yet she never replies when I ask her to come skating. Am I a good listener or someone’s emotional tampon? Navigating through people’s dirty laundry, seems to be all I’m good for. I don’t think I’ve ever had a meaningful relationship. How can I? No one has ever understood me, even the people that are supposed to be my friends have never understood me. Not even my parents. The politically correct thing to do would be to simply blame my parents, hell, at least, Freud would agree with me. But I can’t. Once you get a taste of that sweet hot fudge of free will and critical thinking, something truly life changing happens: you can’t blame others. That’s right, I found a way through the back to the dinner party, in spite of the “no blacks or Jews” sign without an invitation. Excuse the colorful metaphor, but I want you to understand how rare a quality it is to take ownership over everything that happens to you or for you.

Broken link in the chain

I probably have the shortest contact list out of any single male my age. Not that I don’t enjoy the elegant banter every now and again. A little chat among consenting adults but rarely do I find anyone I talk to for hours, as if anyone does that anymore. Unfortunately I suffer from another ailment of not wanting to be bothered, yet dying on the inside for someone to call. Passing up social gathers, only to ultimately regretting no ceasing the moment to increase my circle. A walking contradiction of charisma and indifference. I have a natural magnetism to people that’s very much underused.

So what’s my deal? I care about nothing, yet I love everything and everyone all at the same time. Did I say I was a contradiction? Noble in theory, ambivalent in practice. I want to be rich and ground in humility at the same time. I enjoy anonymity as I’m hand you my business. A wall flower rooted in a stone garden.

First to be last

First, I’m first in everything in my family. The first to go to college and dropout in less than a year. Only go back six years later, and realize I was right: degrees are bullshit. I am the first to start my own business only to go the first, second, third, and fourth month without a sale. Ironically, after a complete overhaul of the structure of my website and made more money in two weeks than I make in a year: selling dildos. Consequently, two more weeks later a receive legal documents to cease all distribution of all adult toys products or stare down a six-figure law suit. I close up shop and go back to being a complimentary artist. I am first to spend 67 hours in a holding cell…in Beijing. I’m also first to celebrate a twenty-seventh with children or a wedding ring. I am first to write his own book, blog, and sell his artwork via amazon.

At best, I’m a poor man’s Michelangelo. Still, I’m first to march to the beat of  a different drummer. Maybe, what I think is wrong with me are the things not so right with the world. Where does a man with hardly any role-models and male influences go when your hero’s fiction characters and your father cares more about maintain a vehicle than connecting with his own son. To later for a heart to heart now, dad. The veil has been lifted and Moses’ trail ride to the land of milk is just another; one, I can’t afford to believe in anymore.