Dating Race

i often think that i am too far behind in the dat­ing game to ever make a good play of it. res­ig­na­tion fills the air like stale gym socks fill the lock­er room with that stale gym sock smell. (hor­rid sim­i­le inten­tion­al). i’ve still no idea what i’m doing. pret­ty much ever. every­thing gets recy­cled, mas­ti­cat­ed over and over until this gru­el that is bewil­der­ment serves up anoth­er help­ing of ‘what­ev­er­ness.’ i’m at least com­pe­tent with every oth­er aspect of my life, and since my life is already one-third fin­ished and set­tling down for the long haul, why rock the dream-boat by attempt­ing to force my nerdi­li­cious pre-ado­les­cent knowl­edge of rela­tion­ships into a sem­blance of matu­ri­ty? i’m already too far behind the pack to catch up to the strag­glers. how many peo­ple do i know who are get­ting mar­ried? a lot. how much con­fi­dence do i have? { }. The Null Set. what would con­fi­dence get me? per­haps a date in which i would have the chance to parade my igno­rance in front of some­one rel­a­tive­ly close to my age with a quite healthy sex life and a work­ing knowl­edge of ‘how this thing is done.’ its like that dream when you are naked at school and its real­ly cold out so ‘your boys’ are all shriv­eled and every­one laughs at you because you are naked at school and have a minis­cule penis. except its not real­ly like that. because that is a dream. and this is real.

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