The definition of rejection...

Trip Start Sep 28, 2011
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Flag of Nicaragua  ,
Tuesday, December 6, 2011

I long to get out of San Juan Del Sur; purely for the good of my health and sanity.  I feel like a tattoo artist at a Sunday School.  My card was due in today, and typically as luck would have it, it hasn't arrived.  I'm left to languish in my hostel and cry over spilt milk.  It's one big party and I'm not invited.

Incidentally that's not to say tattoo artists don't go to Sunday School.  I'm sure there are many Christian tattoo artists out there who help teach kids about baby Jesus.

Anyway in the meantime this staggering work of genius unfolding before you...cough, cough...has turned into something of a Mills and Boon.  For better or for worse, I feel I should continue in this vein, with the hopes that one day the adventures of a man in pursuit of life and love will prove somewhat entertaining.  To someone even more of a loser than I.  Of late.  I think I just alienated my target readership. 

Therefore my few followers, whereas I previously mentioned I wouldn't talk about the fairer sex, I feel I wouldn't be doing my experiences justice, or staying true to myself, if I didn't give at least a passing nod to, well, everything.  Several years ago, I once had about eight or nine text messages on my phone, all from different girls, all signifying their disinterest in different ways.  One used the words "Not tonight, I'm washing my hair."  Another actually said "I want to concentrate on myself just now; it's not you, it's me."  A further simply wrote; "f**k you, I never want to see you again."  And so on and so forth.  This wasn't all at the same time; I had decided to leave these messages on my phone because of how humourous they were (in hindsight); a testament to my own failure and a woman's mastery of the varying degrees of rejection.  A friend approached me with the idea to use them as an instillation, projecting each message on a huge empty wall in a gallery.  I literally would have been displaying my ineptness for all to see; albeit for the sake of art.  This has got me thinking.

At the risk of making myself look like a complete wanker/arsehole/loser/man-whore/god (delete as appropriate) I will endeavour to document my experiments with life, love and happiness.  'Experiments' is perhaps the wrong word; I'm not trying to create the human centipede.  Experiences.  Let us settle for that.

I digress.  To continue; open mike was a surprising success.  My rum and coke version of 'wonderwall' actually went down pretty well.  A nice German girl makes a bee line for me after my short set.  My first ever groupie!  She's 36, flirty and appears very interested.  She hints that she "really wants to kiss a boy".  It's a nice change for once.  We walk arm in arm away from the bar at the end of the night.  This is unprecedented!  It's all going to plan!  I can barely contain my astonishment! 

"Actually...errrrm...I have a boyfriend", she giggles.  "Two and a half years", she chuckles.  "I can't do this I'm sorry." 

There she leaves me, standing alone on the corner, with a large question mark hanging over my head.  If you're going to reel me in and not knock me out, fillet me and fry me in butter, at least put me back in the water!  Yet the moment is gone.  My small percentage of 'fans' have all found their homes for the night.  Once again yours truly is left, egg on face, shuffling the short walk back to an empty room.  There I'm allowed to feel sorry for myself, and grumble that the world owes me a favour.  Boo, hoo, hoo; wah, wah, wah; woe is me. 

"Not tonight dude; I'm tired." 

Even my right hand isn't interested.




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