It shall hereby be known that I am, officially, the worst.
The worst at what? You may ask.
Well, dear readers, I am officially the worst at the end game. I can cast a lure, I can get the guy interested, but I can never seem to figure out an end game. This always leaves the boy confused, me frustrated, and both of us disappointed.
The fact is that most of the time I know my end game is ultimately going to be different from his.
Let’s take Jesse, for example. Jesse was dancing at the Box when I rolled up last Wednesday looking to dance and drink. So my friends and I joined Jesse in a few moments of awkward 80’s style dancing (which is the best any of this group could accomplish). At one point, I walked up and just started to flirt with him, luring him in to the situation. We danced. We flirted. We laughed. We generally had a good time.
Then the Box lights came up and it was time to go home and Jesse looked at me expectantly.
“Want to come check out my room?” He asked.
“I can’t. I have to be up early.”
“Me too but I can go all night if you’re up for it.” He moved in closer for the kill.
And that’s when it usually hits me. It’s like a giant, red-flashing sign in my head that reads ABORT telling me to run and run fast. I mean, I flirted and initiated the entire situation but, when it came down to it, I was afraid to reach that end game.
So instead of jumping in a cab and following Jesse home I simply said, “Maybe next time,” and then left so quickly that there is probably a trail of regret and poor life choices burned into the floor of the Box. I know how unfair that is to poor Jesse. He put all his chips in, hoping for the best, and I unceremoniously just swiped them off the table and walked away.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Readers, I’m just worried that if I keep this up that this blog will become a barren wasteland of frustration and angst. I’ve got to get out of this defunct end game.
Any suggestions for me, Kids?