Valentine's Desperation/Grinding

Food for thought about being "realistic"
This is the biggest self-jerk-off/validation/I'm the smartest motherfucker on earth truth/self-delusion there is.

My buddy and I leave the gym.
There's a fucking car accident outside the major mall we pass so many motherfuckers are last minute shopping for Valentine's Day.
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My buddy and I are at dinner.
The women on dates, even clearly with boyfriends and/or husbands are considerably more heavily rouged up than normal. I guess this is the day that even the boring relationship people decide to really get it in with some gusto.
Good for them, I guess.
We also overhear some supremely awkward dates and we're both grateful we're not on a total mission fail date with some girl stuck paying for dinner.
We hunt and seek and after we run across a girl he ******, we also cross paths with a girl I briefly ****** quite awhile back. Such is the city in which we reside.

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I'm laying with my head back on the armrest of a couch.
I briefly wonder how many people have made out on this piece of furniture...sticky, sweaty, desperate fumblings and such.
Lights flash and blacklight glows all around.
It's like some shitty Busta Rhymes video from when I was a kid.
It's so predictable I should be irritated but I'm happy for my buddy.

I'm staring at the ceiling of this gauche-ly "decorated" club but that's not what I see in my mind's eye.
My buddy is nearby making out with a chick who is to put it mildly way more into him than he is into her.
The night's been largely a bust but again, I'm happy for my buddy and we're out there grinding because dicks don't suck themselves and sometimes you gotta eat some gristle to get to the filet mignon.
Lunch doesn't run up and deliver itself to your door free of charge, at least not usually.
The music pounds and people make out en masse. Or they're just drunkenly dancing. I can't really tell and from where I'm leaned back I'm comfortable so I briefly close my eyes and recall her face.

It's like the silent agreement went out that everyone can just approach nonstop for I see people talk 5-10 min's at a stretch then rotate wordlessly and no one gets hurt or bitchy or resentful.
It's like speed dating spent shouting over Top 40 but without the petty expectations and trifling bullshit.
A lot of the normal dating socially accepted norms and rigidly enforced expectations have relaxed and it's pleasant to see people cut the fucking bullshit and get right down to the fucking business.

The storm spins around me but I'm thinking back to a date I had recently.
I see her face float before my mind's eye again and I'm surprised.
I realize if I'm not careful I may just be sprung on this chick.
She's exceedingly pretty and very much my type.

I've just finished making the rounds and talking to the girl's friends as my buddy makes out with this girl.
I should be continuing to seek and search, after all it's valentine's day and the desperation pervades everything.
I've met a few girls recently and I should be pleased but I am not.
It's the hallmark of my personality.
The reality of dating and getting close to one looms up in front of me and I find myself recoiling.

Though, I've been overcoming the approach anxiety and the reality of being sober in the dating scene, it's getting easier and I'm letting go of expectation and just getting back into the groove of simply practicing. Opening sets and girls just to make it a habit and not being concerned with where it goes.
It's tough. Alcohol was a huge crutch for me in the past (as it is for a lot of guys).
I'm not opening as much as I'd like, but I've always been an incremental learner.
I've also never been one for the shotgun/approach anything that walks and wait for it to stick method, but to each his own.

It's like the wordless signal went out on some wavelength to which women are attuned, and once one girl asked me to give her a call, others have followed suit.
As it is though, I'm happy for my buddy, I relax and content myself to make talk and practice my conversation over the club music pounding skills.
   
    - Yrs. in Christ