No, I don’t want to talk about it.
I don’t mind blogging about it, but no, I definitely do not want to talk about it.
I hate that question, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Do you know what type of people ask me that question? Hot chicks who realize I’m into them but they’ll never want to sleep with me, not if I’m the last man on earth, but they know they’ll still have to run into me, so they turn away my advances and then say, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Why would I want to talk about it? To talk about it would be to discuss why I feel like a loser. Less than. A zero. A wanker. Defeated. Ashamed. Humiliated. I desire you but you don’t like me in that way. I can’t bear to sit in this shame and to talk about it. I hate this place of infamy. It’s just so low and humiliating. I know you’re going to tell all your friends that I hit on you and how you refused me and then none of them will want to sleep with me.
I measure my self-worth by the hotness of the women who sleep with me (or at least I did until I came to understand the profundity of the Torah and the need for adherence to God’s immutable — God I love that word — moral law).
