Epic Fails

Every failure hardens you, like a soldier, so failure becomes a norm and no longer affects you emotionally. You become like a rock in the river, immovable, real.

I stood on the pavement, outside the shitty club, and every critical rejection hit me, chopped a piece out, and knocked me down. But this was a good experience—the worst of it. Every fighter needs to have his ass kicked a few times to toughen up.

“Get away from us, hairy chest man!” The drunk nineteen year old girl yelled.

“Yeah!” Hairy chest man!” Her friend frothed.

“Button your shirt, hairy chest man! You’re ugly!” The third chimed in.

And all this hate, simply because I made a joke about Jessica Alba having sex with dolphins. It was an article I’d read that day in the paper. I merely suggested that animals might make better lovers than men under certain circumstances, and perhaps she had enjoyed it. It wasn’t meant as a provocation, but some bitches be lookin for a fight. Sometimes they just freak out because they’re either a. stupid, b. drunk, c. crazy, or any combination thereof. Throw in the occasional lesbian, feminist studies major, or misandrist man hater—it’s dangerous out there.

“Go away, why are you still here? Button your shirt.”

“He doesn’t get it. I don’t think he’s listening.”

“Why does he just stand there? Go away.”

“He’s stupid. Why doesn’t he leave?”

“Maybe he’s retarded.”

“He’s dumb.”

“Get away from us. We don’t like you.”

“Go away… please!”

I stood there and stared at them, smiling politely, occasionally shifting my weight from the right to left foot, arms crossed behind my back to expose my vulnerable heart. Stab away you cunts! (Btw, I rarely say the word, ‘cunt,” but on occasion I think it. People think all kinds of things we don’t plan on saying. So don’t be all cunty about it).

Eventually they sighed and walked off into the bar asking each other what had just happened, and what’s wrong with him? I looked down at my chest. I considered buttoning the top button… and decided against it. It wasn’t so bad. At least they didn’t call me Hairy Tit-Man.

I walked outside the bar into a French pizzeria and found a short girl wearing a tight, sky-blue dress. I told her that she reminded me of a Smurf, so she puffed her chest and squealed, “You better up yo game buddy! You better up yo game!”

Her friends had to hold her back while she tried to claw at me, all beastly.

“I just thought she was cute! Smurfs are cute!”

“Then why didn’t you say that, oh my gawd? It was so rude!” They pulled her away and made their escape.

Eric and I laughed, and ate our pizza.

I went into a different bar and ordered a shot of whiskey and a beer. Ten minutes later I regained my stamina, walked past the dance floor to the high tables and tried to grab a girl from a group of four tall, handsome types. I pushed myself onto her, and she seemed into it. “You should come for a walk. Adventure time,” I said. “Do it. Do it. Do it.”

“Well, I, umm…”

“Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it.”

“Hee hee!”

“Do it. Do it. Do it.”

“I can’t, my friends are here,” she said, motioning at the four men standing beside us at the counter, clutching their beers. As my charms faltered, one of the baboons hip checked me. I landed four feet to the right, and deflected off a table, sending an empty beer mug onto the floor, shattering it. I stood there as they formed a protective shell around her, from which to mock me.

Believe, be present, remain positive, take action, ignore consequence, learn from experience.

I walked straight back, tapped her on the shoulder and when she looked, I grabbed her hand and pulled. Submission and doe-eyes.

Wow, she liked it. You… are rad.

Full intent, full belief. It was a tactic I’d read about, like grabbing a kitten by the scruff, they go limp. Caveman style domination… I’m awesome, a beast lord.

“Look,” I said, holding her waist as she pressed her ear against my cheek, “despite your incredibly rude friends, I’m still willing to take you out next week. So, what’s your number?”

There was no upwards inflection in my voice. I just said, “What’s your number,” like a hypnotic command. Balls of diamond. It was they, (her man-friends) who were keeping us apart. Delusional confidence, almost verging on the absurd. Lies become reality, an Airbender of the highest order.

The bravado paid off and she gave it to me, one hand on my neck as she typed it in. The orchish men relented. Maybe they respected my persistence in the face of adversity. I released her, strolled out of the bar and rode my bike in a princely state, inhaling the crisp night air. I had to work in the morning, but there were still two parties left. I could stay out late tonight, I figured.

Take tomorrow off, stay home for a change. You deserve a rest. Maybe you could invite her to that party tomorrow, maybe you could continue your aggressive style, maybe I could finally get laid.

It was genius, a full frontal assault. I stopped and checked her number.

What was that? A one or a two? A four or an eight?

Fuck.

Laaaaaame.

Whatever dude. People suck.

I looked up at Mount Royal, proudly silhouetted by the moonlight. It must have seen some shit, I thought.

I’d been practicing for ninety-three days.

***The above is an excerpt from my memoir, A Thousand Tiny Failures – Memoirs of a Pickup Artist. Available now. (If you don’t have a kindle, there are many apps for Iphone, Android, Pc and tablets. Grab a copy today.***

***I’m in America. If you’ve been considering hiring a pickup coach, no matter your age, race, or level of skill, contact me now before I go home to Canada. I hate crossing the border. I’m currently in the LA, San Diego, Las Vegas area. But I’m heading towards New Orleans and Miami. Hit me up.***