I Was A Fat Drunk Fuck.

Screen Shot 2015-11-02 at 11.33.42 PMIt’s all true. And if you’ve known me for more than two years, you can attest to that. You would also know that throughout all of those years, I never had a problem meeting women. Hell, they threw themselves at me sometimes, whether I was taken or not. I’ve not met a woman while I was sober, since I was 17 years old. Now I’m clean and sober for two years, the most physically fit, financially stable, health-conscious, independent, motivated and creative I’ve ever been in my life- and there’s crickets chirping in my heart.

And pants. I know. Boo fucking hoo.

So how the fuck did drunk, disheveled, barely employed, broke-ass, fat, hot-dog eating, sweaty, drooling, mumbly, asshole me get so impossibly laid?

My hypotheses:

• Danger- Girls are attracted to danger. They love that shit. But I wasn’t the most adventurous drunk. Actually, I’d be fine on the couch watching SVU. Wait. This is preposterous. I wasn’t fucking dangerous. I mean, I was a hazard to myself. Occasionally, I fell down. That can’t be it. Maybe it was in a way. Hmm.

• The Florence Nightingale Effect– Women want a man who they can change, am I right ladies? “A danger to himself.” A “unique fixer-upper opportunity.” Oh what great potential I had, if only you could cure me. Well, that never worked (albeit some tried) and I managed to remain inebriated and stumbled from relationship to relationship, almost seamlessly. Actually a great deal of them were total enablers including the last one, who had to leave cuz she didn’t want to quit partying. (Ironically, it was I attempting to mend that broken bird.) And now that I’m all ‘fixed’, no one’s interested. So fuck Florence. In Berkeley Square. With a Nightingale.

• Pity– Now here’s a grim route to go. Surely, no woman dates a man out of pity. Pity fuck? Sure you do. Pity date? Waste of time. Not even a thing. Moving on.

• Zero Pressure– There is zero pressure being with someone who does not give a fuck about life. You can pretty much get away with anything. I’ve been cheated on and said, “Well at least it was with your ex-boyfriend, I guess that’s okay…”. But still, a couple of ladies I was with were pretty solid, career types with futures (they live to tell about it even if you don’t want them to) and they couldn’t have enjoyed that. Oh right. They’re the ones who tried to get me to quit. I digress.

• I Was Fearless– Being drunk afforded me the lack of intelligence necessary to firmly believe that I knew exactly what I was doing, or at least convey that was the case, to some effect. It quieted all the voices in my head that even now tell me that what I’m saying is stupid, nobody cares, you’re making an ass out of yourself, and so on. Without this stronghold of acute self-awareness around my brain and mouth, I was a hose without a kink; gushing all sorts of whimsical witticisms and silly wordplay without a second thought, channelling Oscar Wilde and/or an Oscar Meyer weiner, depending on the combination of spirits available in that particular basement that night and/or day. Sometimes I would dance like around like an idiot but I still do that. Hmm.

My conclusion: If-

A. I am no longer a danger to myself

B. I am living up to my potential

C. I give a fuck about life

D. I have rational fears and think before I speak


Nobody’s interested. I know. Boo fucking hoo.

Now I can hear the voices saying, “Yeah. And a sure fire way to meet a nice, single lady who is incredibly smart, talented and motivated is to compose an essay with bulletpoints whining about why you can’t get laid and then posting it on the largest social media network in the world. This is so fucking stupid. You’re an idiot. The only way to meet someone is to go out drinking.”

Oh, I wish I was an Oscar Meyer weiner again. Then maybe I’d meat someone nice. I know. Wurst joke ever.

Okay. I’m done.


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