19
Jun
One of the main reasons I decided to blog was to publicly highlight all of the things I do to ensure I’ll remain single forever. There are many of these and they vary wildly in their degree of ridiculousness. But combined, these quirks have done a fair job in alerting pretty girls that I am, in fact, a total idiot.
Here’s a really stupid one. I have a physical inability to dance with attractive women.
In what may seem like an odd admission from a 30-year-old awkward mess of a non-drinking male, one of my favorite places to be is on the dance floor. My obsession with going out dancing is a tough one for me to rationalize, especially considering my crippling shyness, the increasing likelihood that I am the Creepy Old Guy at the Club, and my inability to perform much more than your standard side-step-touch side-step-touch. But I suppose there’s a strange power in the combination of my love of music and my tendency to relax amongst people who are becoming too drunk to even notice me. Even more curious, however, is that my time on the dance floor is far from passive. In fact, I’m a totally obnoxious ass. If I know the words to a song, you will know that I know them. If there’s a chance for me to loudly clap along to a complicated time signature, I will be doing that. If I can do some stupid dance move that will illicit even a smirk from a random on-looker, I am not above breaking out the running man. And any number of these things should be enough to warn women to look elsewhere for help in creating children who won’t eventually wind up on an episode of “Cops.”
But should a daring young lady experience any combination of sympathy, morbid curiosity, blinding drunkenness, or low self-esteem and decide that she’d like to dance with me, the following internal conversation is invariably triggered:
Oh, hey… that girl is cute. Whoa, wait… was that eye contact? Okay, she definitely smiled. WHOA, is she coming over here? Is she gonna dance with me? SHE WANTS TO DANCE. Okay… stay calm. Focus. You want this. She’s hot. Here she comes. Whoa, wait, STOP! What’s happening? TURN AROUND. WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS? I HATE YOU! GO BACK! MORON, SHE’S BEHIND YOU NOW. SHE WANTS TO DANCE. GO BACK. YOU ARE AN IDIOT. I HAAAATEEEE YOOOOUUUUU!
And by this point, I have TURNED MY BACK ON HER AND PHYSICALLY BLOCKED HER FROM DANCING WITH ME. This happens involuntarily, like the result of some INCREDIBLY STUPID gag reflex that doesn’t involve puking but rather the PUBLIC SHUNNING OF PRETTY WOMEN. It’s the unspoken, physical re-enactment of the following conversation:
Pretty girl: “Hey, I think you’re cute and you seem fun. Wanna dance?”
Me: “Fuck off. Can’t you see I’m not finished rapping both the male AND female parts of ‘I Got a Man’ over here? Talk to my back.”
My brain is totally right. I am a MORON. But here is some advice for you sympthetic, attractive ladies: PLEASE try moving beyond my peripheral vision and sneaking up on me. It may be my only hope.
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