The idea is, you're screwed.

To elaborate further, you're screwed despite doing everything to get yourself out of that situation. Whatever you do, you'll always do something wrong, and someone will always tell you that you fucked up the situation.

It all revolves around chances, anyway. We do things to get chances, or opportunities, or windows, whatever euphemism you have for it. There's a reason why we dress sharply, spray the right amount of perfume, say just the right words, read about the same things, laugh politely at every occasion, you get the drill. It's all supposed to improve your life, or at least make you happy. Get along with your bosses. Get that promotion. Get that toned abdomen. Get that car you've always hoped for. Get the girl, or get very satisfying sex without the strings. Or, at least, that's what those magazines want you to know.

Come to think of it. Back when we were kids, the one thing we wanted was to do things ourselves. Not exactly independence, but more of doing scary things and feeling confident about it, regardless of whether it stumbles spectacularly. There's a sense of satisfaction that you get after you, say, organize a party, or chat up with that girl at the corner of the bar. It's those small things. Soon we'll realize that those small things build up into bigger ones, the sort that makes us feel more accomplished than than smugness we initially set out on doing. It just ups the ante, but everything stays pretty much the same.

But there is no such thing as your own way. There's no way that what you're doing now will get you to those bigger things. Somewhere along the way, you're getting something wrong. Your tie doesn't match your entire outfit. You eat too much fatty foods. You shave the wrong way. You listen to Lito Camo's compositions rather than Ben Gibbard's. You complain too much about your colleagues. You drink too much beer. You stare at the breasts of the woman you're talking to.

Then again, your outfit is too monotonous. You freak the ladies out by eating solely carrot sticks and cucumber slices. You shave too much. You're being too much of a poser. You're not assertive. You're a killjoy during nights out with friends. You're too interested in other things.

Everywhere you go, there's always a hole. There's always a profile that fits you, and at the same time, there's always another profile that fits you: desirable, undesirable, not at all. There's always something that will subtract a point off you, and when you try to remedy that, there'll always be something that will subtract another point off you. It's the perfect image: a man who dresses sharply, who knows his way around the ladies and his bosses, who eats right, can fix cars, can bluff his way through anything, cares about sports rather than poetry, and perhaps is well-hung.

Again, the idea is, you're screwed. Whatever you do to give yourself that chance again, well, you'll never get it unless you become just like them. Have friends that own a restaurant. Go to the gym. Buy the perfect collared shirt. Say the right lines. Be quiet. Be quiet. Be quiet. Be quiet. Be quiet. Be quiet. Be quiet. Be quiet and follow everything we say.

I don't know how this is supposed to relate to my situation. I'm supposed to incense myself with anger and frustration over my inability to talk to women and look good while at it, for one, or just be plain desirable. But where has all the substance in the world gone? Maybe that's what they want. Let go of it altogether.

And, because of that, I'm fucking screwed.

And your responses...

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