Diary Entry: Mr Perfect

By my standards, I’m the most average fucking guy I know.

I’m 6”2, a fair enough height averaged by a paunch and an average looking face. I’m not here to shame myself or solicit. This is soliloquy on loudspeakers, warranted by a strip club.

I went to a strip club in Atlanta.

It was fun, but in the end I didn’t accept a private dance. Three good looking ladies walked up to me, and I shrugged them off politely. Then, I proceeded to set my sights on the hottest one dancing with the guys that looked like mafia heads. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to ask her to dance. I also knew I subconsciously decided she was the one for me because I would be obsessed with her and everyone else would just not suffice.

While lamenting about my cowardice and lack of game on Twitter in a Uber back home, I realized I was the same with every fucking thing.

I’m never good at meeting people at bars. I shrug off the ones that come on to me cos they’re never good enough. Then, I set my sights for the ones that seem better than average — and don’t talk to them.

I never walk up to talk to strangers because I overthink everything and just average myself down.

Nothing special about how I look

Nothing special about what I have to say

Nothing special about how I say what I have to

How many languages do I know ehn?

Are my experiences enough to talk about?

Do I really have to be that guy?

With work, I’m average. At best, I’m a one-eyed king in the land of the blind. A lot of people cheer me on, but it doesn’t change that I hold myself to greater standards — by which I’m fucking average.

A number of girls like me, and would consider dating me if I put body and soul into it. Unfortunately, no one cuts it. No one is perfect, or makes me feel like I don’t need anything else. Everyone is just…. average. They’re amazing people, no doubt. And some of them get tons of Instagram likes from guys that would do anything to just be in the same photo with them. Except for fucking Ope.

Sports — average.

Intelligence — average.

Build — average.

Charisma — average.

Money — lmao, averagely poor.

I don’t know where I’m heading with this. It’s a new concern — early life crisis. Why do I reduce everything — including myself — to average, and insufficient. Tomorrow, I’ll go to another strip club. Maybe I’ll pay someone to dance this time and you guys won’t have to read another ridiculous post.