Wednesday night proved that my advances on Catrina have been officially stalled to a sudden halt. Not sure if employing the Better Deal Theory seems feasible, since my gut instinct says faltering is more of a possibility than success. She hasn’t left my thoughts.
“All the good girls are taken” seems to be a running theme this year, a grand theme of annoyance in my world now, truly unfair, worth squabbling over in disgust, most certainly appalling in truth.
I understand that I was being a bit forward with her, a flaw in character rarely detrimental to the overall cause. Doesn’t mean the dream is over, where as some throw in the towel of defeat, my insatiable hunger cannot be stopped from fulfillment. I’ve always believed that stealing a girl from another guy is OK as long as you don’t know the guy. Getting the girl is an art form, where a highly steady performance is rewarded with kisses, hugs and much more.
Ironically I was also dispatched from poker early, not a regular incident considering my immaculate stature in playing skill respect, but I think it was a reflection of my mixed thoughts unable to bear fruit from supposedly wise decisions.
With critical depression around the corner, looming ominously, looking to take over my unusually fragile psyche, I decided to blow some cash on cocktails with Raj at Little Joy. It’s the ugliest dive bar I’ve ever seen, the kind that looks unfinished and torn up, unmatched in its below poverty line low-class décor, yet one that supplies stiff drinks on the cheap.
“Some girls are out of your league, you shouldn’t take it so harsh,” he said sincerely.
The problem is I’ve had girls out of my league and continue to pursue those with the alleged tag. My delusions are reasonable because of track record. This weekend I’ll have my revenge, and I will take what’s mine.