The Way of the Jackal

So we've reached the final day of our weeklong mini-series, "Nobody Loves Us: The Sad Bastards Social Club's Misadventures in Online Dating", but I've decided to end things not with another mildly humorous tale of woe, but on a hopeful note. No, I want to send you away from here today with more than the knowledge that I am a complete fuck-up, or that SBCP has shit luck when it comes to meeting men online. I want to send you guys (sorry, ladies, but if you need my assistance then, frankly, you are beyond assistance.) away from here with something that might actually help get you laid.

And for that, I must turn to a man known as, "The Jackal."

Now, I'm hard-pressed to call him a "pick-up artist", for even when that term was en vogue it just didn't suit him. It doesn't accurately reflect the unyielding resolve that he puts into getting laid. Nor does it encapsulate the way he'll spring into action anywhere, and at any time, should an opportunity present itself. Finally, it can't begin to capture the improbable, man-alone-in-the-wilderness way that he developed his technique over the years without the aid of wingmen, lairs, bootcamps, seminars, books, or even blogs and online forums.

I'd call him a pick-up survivalist.

You see, the Jackal doesn't drink, smoke, do drugs, or gamble. He works almost non-stop, seemingly every day of the week. For him, getting laid is not simply a pastime or even a regular vice. No, it is a need, not far below food, water, and shelter. As I once remarked to a shared acquaintaince, "I sometimes believe that it's pussy that keeps him alive...and damn if he doesn't go after it like a man who wants to live forever!"

But enough about The Jackal, it's now time to take a lesson from his ways. So, allow me if you will, to present what hopefully will be the first in an ongoing series of posts based on the collected wisdom of The Jackal.

It was a Thursday or Friday evening and the Jackal had found himself at the home of a girl he'd picked up in his usual blitzkrieg manner (i.e. a brazen daylight holler in some mundane place like, say, the teller's line at the bank.) Engaged in a full-on make-out session on her sofa, he moved to escalate the situation but found that he was facing mild (but not insurmountable) resistance. As he pulled back to take a breath and plot his countermove, she asked, "Are you thirsty? Would you like a drink?"

"Sure," he replied, "I'll take a soda if you've got one."

As she got up to leave the room, he quickly scanned his surroundings and considered what to do next. By the time she called from the kitchen, "I've got Pepsi, is that alright?" He'd already sprang into action.

When she walked back around the corner, their drinks in hand, she was startled to find the sofa empty.

Lesson: When In Doubt, Take It Out

"Over here," he beckoned from the opposite side of the room. As her eyes turned to follow his voice, they were met with the sight of The Jackal, reclined on the loveseat with his dick out. Undaunted by the look of shock on her face, he stayed the course and didn't miss a beat. "I thought this seat was more comfortable; come sit next to me," he said, patting the spot beside him.

She complied, walking over to where he was and setting the drinks on the coffee table before taking a seat by his side. He smiled and calmly took a sip of his drink, then placed his hand on hers, guiding it to his crotch. Making sure that their surprise guest received a proper introduction.

The resistance promptly evaporated.

When asked to explain why he thought this maneuver (since dubbed, "The Gambler") was successful, The Jackal reckons it's about keeping up appearances. "Women may want sex as much as we do -- sometimes even more -- but a lot of them don't want you to think that they're sluts. So, you've got to take the lead and guide them to where they want to go." 

He's quick to caution, however, "That move doesn't work all the time! Probably only 25-30 percent of the time, if I had to guess." Even if you're not playing a speed game like The Jackal, it's not a bad weapon to have in your arsenal. I've heard more than my fair share of stories of guys playing it safe (read: tentative) and then griping when, after a few dates, they find themselves well short of the goal and with the girl precariously close to fading them out.

It's a bold move for sure, but then, how does that old saying go again? Ahhh, yes, "Fortune favors the bold."

Disasterdate.com, or The Time I Almost Jumped Out of a Moving Vehicle: A Working Title

Author's note: A big "thank you" to our fearless leader for allowing me to post tonight. I don't think he believed me when I first told him the whole story. He asked me to post this as a warning to online daters out there. While this is a story about me, a woman, meeting a man, I think this can be relatable to both men and women, gay and straight. When I tell this story to others, I get mixed reactions ranging from "eh, it happens" to "should we call the police?" Enjoy.

I don't date a lot. I'm not sure why; I'm pretty good at it. I think it comes down to the fear of meeting someone and knowing they won't be whom I expect them to be.

I've never had much (read: any) luck meeting men while out at a bar, grocery store, library, gym, all the other places people tell you where they met someone. Many times I've had to resort to the online dating phenomenon.

It starts with such promise! First you start the profile, and then the excitement of finding pictures of hot men that you think will have so much to say! But then you start seeing the patterns of the profiles:

"IDK what to say! I'll finish this later...."

or

"I'm really into travel, sports, and working out. I don't have time to stop and watch TV"

or

"I am a lawyer"

So they are either too self-absorbed or rely too much on their photos to attract wmen, they don't have any time for anything other than themselves (read: NO time for you), or they are too intelligent for the likes of women. (Note: not every profile is like this; I've seen some decent profiles out there and men who have turned out to be nice guys).

The few times I let my guard down, I was lowering my expectations. But, that's the beauty of it in the end: lowered expectations helps you realize how much better of a person you are. But this story isn’t about me finding the perfect match after I gave a guy a chance. This is more of a “Maybe I Should Have Ran: A Choose Your Own Adventure” story.

I’ve tried the main three sites: eHarmony, Match.com(twice), and then finally OKCupid. I don’t know why I had to try it again. I did my normal routine; found some recent photos (one of the few good things left about Facebook) and watched all of the emails come in waited. 

Nothing happened for a while. Occasionally I would get an email, most of which would say “Hey, your cute” or “ur hot”. I wouldn’t respond. I just gave up and stopped checking. But alas, a magical email using proper grammar, capitalization, and punctuation came in. Doth my eyes deceive me? It was like the heavens opened up and a ray of sunlight hit my cubical!

Before I begin the rest of this tale, I have to tell you that there are levels of a scale of escalating intensity of danger, sort of like Airport Threat Levels. Level 1 is minimal; Level 5 is “get the fuck out of here”. 

So, I was impressed with his profile. He looked attractive and his profile had matched my requirements. We wrote back and forth a lot. I found out some interesting things about him, he seemed to enjoy my wit. Then we got into the details of our past and present lives. 

One thing about me is I used to work in the motorcycle racing industry for 10-years. I use this as an icebreaker with men. It is effective 99% of the time. What peaks the interest varies between men; some men love to talk about racing with me, some just picture me posing in a thong next to a motorcycle like on some poster, and the rest just pretend to be interested so they can get laid.  

Level 1: He was not interested in the least about my background in motorsports.

He didn’t even ask a single thing about it. Actually, he didn’t ask about any other details about my life.  Instead he told me that he used to work on the hill, was in the armed services, and he likes jazz music. I know a lot about the music he likes and which senator he worked for. I know all of these things because due to our similar end goals. Pretending to be interested or not, I asked the follow up questions. 

I did not run though. The threat level wasn’t that high. Instead I agreed on the first date. He allowed me to pick somewhere near me, but I opted for a different neighborhood. A rule I have (which I broke) is to not share my location with someone I haven’t known for at least two-weeks.

I’m going to skip the first date details. It wasn’t bad, it wasn’t good. It was a first date that was good enough to lead to a second date.

He asked me out for an afternoon date; I had plans in the evening with a couple of friends. But first he had asked me something very strange: he asked me if I had received my flu shot yet. I hadn't. He insisted that we went to an Urgent Care to get one. 

Level 3: That's weird, right?

At first I found it weird. But when he said he didn't want me to get sick because the flu was so bad this year, it was almost sweet. A gentleman thing to do. I called my mother, who always has witty and great advice, and she said that it was a nice gesture. She was impressed with him being so caring. 

The date went well. But again, the details of my life did not entertain him. There were no follow up questions to my life story. He seemed to insist that his life was much more interesting than mine. He made it a point to ask me about my relationship with my father.

Level 3: I’m not really sure if this needs an explanation.

I had to go to the movies with my friends, which had been planned about two weeks in advance. He wanted to come along and being the appeasing, Midwestern girl that I tend to be, I said “Sure!”. Why? Because I lowered my expectations! And I was a little tipsy.

Level 3: Never try to meet the friends until at least date five.  Why go out with people who are going to be quick to judge?

On the date before the movie started, he told me a few years ago he was shot, and had a bullet fragment in his chest and he would have to have surgery soon.  Complete shock on my face by the bluntness of the statement, I asked “Are you going to be ok?” And right then, the theater went dark and the movie started. He whispered that he was “fine” and it wasn’t serious.

Level 4: I should have army crawled out of there in the darkness. Not because he has part of a bullet in his chest; I would never be so rude. But, the inappropriate time to share this piece of information made me react in a way I wouldn’t react if we were in a more private setting. I would have been able to ask more follow up questions, have a better reaction than just shock.

My friends wanted to go out after the movie, which was the original plan, but I wanted to go home. We got into his car and I let him know that it was time to end the date. He started to drive, and I said that wanted to go home alone. Then he proceeded to yell at me.

Level 5: I should have tuck and rolled. I actually thought “Could I make it out of the car alive at this speed?”

He tells me that I’m “terrible” for not being more concerned with his wound, that I wasn’t even concerned for him at all. I am “critical” and “judgmental” and needed to grow up. I can’t remember what else he yelled at me about. I was in such shock I couldn’t even speak. I started to cry instead, hoping the womanly tears and emotional lash out would be enough for him to apologize and pull over so I could flee the scene.

We got to my house and then he called me “crazy”.  He stopped suddenly and was quiet. He said he wanted to come inside. I declined. I got out of the car and ran as fast as I could to my house. I regret allowing him to know where I lived.

As I opened the door to my place, I thought about him wanting to come in. Because that's exactly what a woman wants:  an emotional roller coaster of confusion, to get yelled at while being called "crazy", then invite the man to come in and have sex. Sounds like a movie I saw once with Jodie Foster.

Not too long after I got inside, I received an email. I read things about myself I didn’t know were real. I questioned every relationship, romantic and friendship, I ever had. I wrote back with my first instinct to apologize to him. Then I cried really hard for a long time until I fell asleep.

I called my mother the next day to tell her what the “gentleman” did. I cried while I told her. I’ll spare the details, but it was pretty pathetic.

I received an email from him that day, outlining everything I did wrong on the two dates. This time I started to get scared. I shut the blinds and kept below window level to avoid getting shot. I kept the lights off. I put together the travel alarm I was gifted for Christmas and put it on the door.

The following day I went in to work and was happily distracted by a job I love to go to when I received another email: he wanted to talk. Then he proceeded to almost apologize. But he never did. Said I deserved a chance to make up for what happened. I wrote back that I would decline, that I wished him luck on finding someone. There was no sarcasm or childish remarks in my email. I really meant everything I said to him since I know how hard it is to find someone who is compatible. I received in return a hateful message, calling me a psychopath. 

“You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

What bothered me so much about everything that happened was the ending. It would have been just another bad date story had we just parted with him driving away  and me running to my house, never to hear from each other again. But towards the end of the whole ordeal, he insisted on writing me. At first he was trying to make a point that I was in the wrong. Then it turned into almost a "let's work it out/I want to win you back" scenario. In the end it turned into a name calling, immature response to a woman who just wanted to be left alone. 

This didn’t happen very long ago and it’s really messed me up in the head. It’s made me question a lot of relationships that I have had, or could have had. But fuck him. I’m a really nice person who will some day make a man happy. And if not, I'm happy by myself anyway, something I've learned 'just in case' it never really happens. And I’m a person you won’t ever find online dating ever again.

Epilogue

Fuck the flu shot. I ended up with a scar from that stupid date. Literally, it's on my arm! Plus, I'm at home with what is symptomatically showing up as the Norovirus strain. 

Fundamentally Undateable...(Conclusion)

I'd be lying if I told you that my mind hadn't already began spinning into "ego damage control mode" by the time I logged onto eHarmony the next morning. Having endured their touted compatibility test, I found myself with a grand total of zero matches. "Just let me have five or six," I told myself, convinced that if I'd garnered just one-third to one-half of El Capitan's initial total it would be enough to stave off an emotional mutiny.

Then I saw it; You have one match.

Below deck, the mutineers began to stir.

"One? Just one?! This can't be right!" I thought, clicking the link to find out more. She was a year or two younger than me, a nurse, and lived...in Richmond.

"The fuck?! Richmond?! Are you shitting me?" I fumed. Allow me to explain, I have no ill will towards the city of Richmond. In fact, I rather like its many avenues and its slower pace of life. No, my problem lay in the fact that it is a good 100 miles from where I sat, and some 50 miles beyond what I'd specified in my search parameters.

In a stroke of good luck, the ensuing mutiny was quelled by a quick-thinking 1st mate, "Let's just everyone calm down. You know what? The system, the supercomputer, or whatever it is, it's probably working its way into our geographic range. Yes, that's the most sensible explanation. If we just give it more time, we'll start to see matches from nearby!" Unfortunately for that level-headed 1st mate, "the supercomputer" would do no such thing.

If I've lost you with any of this talk of mutineers, let me take a moment to quickly explain before I go back into the story. Instead of trying to break down the psychology of what's happening my mind, I simply use the metaphor of a ship. Admirals, 1st mates, and mutineers represent the logic, reason, and raw emotion, respectively, that make up my inner dialogue. 

Knowing I'd only grow more anxious if I continued to sit at the computer, I got up and carried on with my day. "A watched pot never boils," I said to myself, taking comfort in a bit of colloquial wisdom often repeated by my mother (and, no doubt, everyone else's.) I don't rightly recall everything that transpired in the ensuing hours, but I'm sure it was, to quote Jarvis Cocker, "just the same events shuffled in a slightly different order." 

When I returned home late that night I was drunk again. As I stood in the kitchen eating a bowl of Froot Loops, I contemplated logging on again. The ship's admiral spoke up, "No, leave it alone. Suppose it's no better than before? Drunk and angry is no recipe for sleep." It was, however, a time-tested recipe for masturbation; I cranked off twice and promptly passed out on the couch.

I woke up the next morning, hungover and naked from the waist down. As my senses focused, I recognized the sounds of sex. I looked down to see porn still playing on my laptop. I went to close the window and paused momentarily to watch the action on the screen, seriously considering cranking one out. You know? Really quickly, just to take the edge off. That idea dissipated, however, as one physical need supplanted another; my thirst had trumped my horniness. 

Clutching the gallon jug of orange juice with both hands, I gulped down its contents like a man who'd been lost in the desert for days. Spying my distorted reflection in the toaster I thought, "You should pull yourself together, go put some pants on." The mutineers, now above deck and poised to take control of the vessel, thought otherwise, "Fuck that, man! Pants are for winners. Losers with no matches drink Sunny D in front of the fridge with their dicks out." Frankly, given the circumstances, that logic seemed sound.

With my expectations circling the drain, I logged onto eHarmony to find that my match total had now swelled to a whopping four. While it was by no means great, it stood to reason that I was making some progress. After all, it was three times as many matches as I'd pulled in the day before. "Now we're getting somewhere," I said to myself, clicking the link to find out more.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me!" I erupted, as I read the information on the screen. My latest matches were from such nearby locales as Michigan, Florida, and Maine. "No, no, no," I argued, "there's got to be some sort of mistake here." 

I refreshed the screen; Michigan, Florida, and Maine. 

I tried it again; Michigan, Florida, and Maine. 

I logged off and logged back on;

Michigan,

Florida,

and Maine.

Demoralized and utterly defeated, I slumped back in my chair, a wearied sigh falling from my lips. Sure, I had some matches, but what does it say about me that the system had to override my parameters and scour the entire country in order to come back with results? Until that point I could just write off my failures on any number of random and superficial factors, from my looks to the weather (I don't show well on hot days.) But this, this was a (pseudo-) scientific rejection not of how I was but who I was! I took this as an indictment that meant only one thing; that I was, for all intents and purposes, fundamentally undateable.

EPILOGUE

With the demons of insecurity and self-doubt loosed from their cages, the "mutineers" did indeed go on to take over my ship. Desperate to oust the bad feelings brought on by the whole ordeal, I dove headfirst into a days-long orgy of consumerism (I'm pretty sure I bought a snake at some point), internet pornography (crank, crank, crank), and alcohol (chug-a-lug!) All the while, rubbing salt in my own wounds by going back online to see if anything had changed. 

It hadn't. 

By the time I pulled the plug at the end of the week, I had accumulated about thirteen matches. Aside from the nurse in Richmond, none would be within 500 miles.

DISCLAIMER

Don't let this story of mine put you off of trying eHarmony or any other dating site. Sure, it didn't work for me, but that doesn't mean that it won't work for you. No, I like to think that my experience was one of those, "Results Not Typical" moments.

Also, I am kind of a fuck-up. So, I really shouldn't have been surprised.

Fundamentally Undateable...(Part Two)

Having whipped myself into a frenzy of positivity, I quickly remedied my pantsless state and was set do battle with eHarmony and its fabled compatibility test. With a fresh beer in hand, and a hearty dose of irrational confidence surging through my body, I sat down at the computer and began.

It didn’t take long before my confidence began to wane, quietly slipping away like supporters at the election night headquarters of a candidate who’s losing by a landslide.  As I worked my way through each question, it was as if I could see two answers highlighted on the screen. There was the “right answer” for normal, well-adjusted people, and then there my answer. Answering these questions honestly, as El Capitan had recommended, was like being forced to look into a mirror and point out all of our imperfections. All of the things we try to conceal from others, and sometimes even ourselves.

By the time I clicked the mouse to submit my results and see if I’d made the cut, the damage was done. My gleaming veneer of self-confidence had been stripped clean to expose the rotten, insecure fuck-up that I lay underneath. Defeated, I couldn’t even wait for the page to load; I left the room to get another beer from the fridge. Yes, I’d given up. And why not? In my mind, based off the answers I’d just given, I was probably the worst person in America who wasn’t currently incarcerated for child murder. 

Then a funny thing happened; I passed.

And while I wasn’t over the moon, I’ll admit that the knowledge that I hadn’t been sent packing did raise my flagging spirits. In hindsight, it’s probably a very good thing that I didn’t get hyped up again after I’d passed the compatibility test, as I don’t think my already frail ego could take what it was about to endure next.

Now, when El Capitan and I first spoke of this he’d mentioned that the system had generated “a lot” of matches for him. While the exact number is hard to recall now, I can tell you it was in the dozens. That is to say, dozens upon dozens.

After an hour or so of checking my non-existent matches whilst tinkering with setting up a profile, I decided to give El Capitan a call. “Hey man, how many matches did you have when you first started out?” I inquired.

“When I first started? Like after I finished the test?” He paused momentarily, then answered, “Shit, not very many at all. Say, fifteen, maybe twenty. It picks up as it cycles through, I suppose.”

“Oh word? That’s cool.” I said, not quite ready to reveal that my initial results had not even come close to mirroring his. “I’ll let it be and check again tomorrow.”

So I did just that; I let it be.

I went out, had some drinks with friends. Later, when I came home, I watched SportsCenter, rubbed one out to some internet porn, and then called it a night. I effectively forgot about eHarmony and my dearth of matches so far.

Of course, upon logging in the next morning, I would receive a painful reminder.

Fundamentally Undateable: The Time I Fought eHarmony's Supercomputer and Lost (Part One)

It was a sad bastard Saturday like any other, I was tinkering about the house in my boxer shorts, beer in hand, when the phone rang. It was El Capitan. He was back home in Colorado after another one of his extended "vacations" in some Middle Eastern hellhole. His mind, the perpetual motion machine that it is, had been at work.

"I just signed up for Eharmony; I think you should give it a try as well." He said without so much as a salutation.

Having tried (and, for the most part, failed) at online dating before, I was naturally apprehensive. But, having known El Capitan since I was 18 and having reached a point in our friendship where I accept his suggestions without question, I refrained from responding with the, "What in the fuck are you on about?" that such a statement normally would have elicited from me. Instead, I simply replied wth a measured and sensible, "Oh, word?"

"Yeah, man, it's a little bit different from the other sites, but I'm seeing good results so far. A lot of matches are coming through. Way more than I would've thought."

I set my beer down, "Wait, what do you mean matches?"

"Like I said, it's not like the other sites where you basically hit the ground running," he explained. "You can't just set your search parameters, skim through a bunch of profiles, and then fire off shitty, cut & paste messages to the chicks with the biggest boobs."

 I took a long swallow of my beer, and quietly marveled at how succinctly he'd managed to describe what was essentially my go-to strategy for online dating.

"So, you start out by taking this personality test, and I'll warn you right now; it's long. But the test will determine your matches, so once that's done you can make a profile and begin contacting people."

 I was silent for a moment, my attention now focused on removing the pull tab from the beer can, then spoke, "I've heard about this test. Don't something like half of the people who take it fail?"

"I think you've inflated those numbers but, yeah, not everyone passes. Don't think about that, though; I passed and so will you. They're letting folks try it out for free this weekend, so stop dragging your feet and get on it."

"Alright, alright, I feel you," I acquiesced, "I'll give it a whirl, okay?"

"Good! Oh, and one thing before I go; when you take the test, be honest."

"Be honest?!" I asked incredulously.

"Yeah, man! The whole point is see how your personality type fares, to see what type of women would be into you according to this test. So don't try to juke the system; just answer honesty and be yourself."

"Okay, dude, I'll be honest," I relented, "I'll call you later to let you know how things went."

I hung up the phone and sat silently for a moment. Be honest? Well, I honestly don't think women are out there just clamoring for a guy who's three beers deep at noon, watching "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" (and some porn on his laptop. Remember, we're being honest.) in his boxer shorts. In fact, most of my experiences thus far had confirmed this to be pretty much true.

I hadn't even done so much as type in the URL, yet negativity and pessimism had already begun to well up inside of me. In a rare moment of self-awareness and mental self-discipline, I stopped those feelings dead in their tracks. Of course, in a not-so-rare moment of self-delusion and hyperbolic fervor, I pep-talked myself into a positive state of mind that bordered on outright mania.

"El Capitan's got your best interests in mind and he wouldn't steer you wrong. If he thinks that this is a good idea, then, goddamnit, it's a good idea! You're totally gonna pass that personality test! YES! In fact, it will probably weed out chicks that are into stupid shit that you don't care about, leaving only chicks that are into the same cool shit as you! YES! You know what else? It will probably turn up a match for you who is totally into getting drunk and watching Ferris Bueller in her underwear! HELL YES! Oh, and she'll be hot as all get out! Like a swimsuit model (because, you know, they have boobs) FUCK YES, LET'S DO THIS!"

 And like that, I'd convinced myself that this was not just a good idea, but a great idea! One that was incapable of turning out any other way than what I'd just imagined. I'd also, apparently, convinced myself that personality testing and computer algorithms were magic.

I chugged the rest of my beer, hurled the crumpled can in the general vicinity of the garbage, and darted off to my room to find a pair of pants. Why? Because I was a positive guy and positive guys wear pants when they take -- nay, when they ace -- personality tests for online dating services.

Someone to Watch Over Me: My Half-Assed Idea to Get An Au Pair

If you know me or have been following this blog for a while, then you know that I can barely take care of myself. When I say that, it's only with a small dose of my typical hyperbole; my place is a wreck, I can hardly dress myself, and I'm pretty sure I'm borderline malnourished. It's like I'm living a solo version of Lord of the Flies in here. The only difference is that I'm not killing any pigs.

Hell, I might be the pig.

In any case, I could use some help.

My co-worker and I cruise the shopping mall near our office almost every day around lunch time, so we see au pairs out with their young charges all the time. Somewhere along the way, a lightbulb went off in my head and I thought, "I should get an au pair...for myself!"

Before you write it off as another one of my hare-brained scheme (which it is), hear me out on this. From the looks of things, au pairs spend all day looking after little kids. Probably dressing them, getting them bathed, fed, driving them around, and all that stuff that kids can't do or can't do worth a damn and require supervision. Guess what? I'm a grown ass man! I can do ALL of that shit all by myself. All I'm asking is that they do my laundry, drop off my dry cleaning, walk the dog while I'm at work, tidy up a bit around the condo, and make me the occasional meal that isn't doritos, Count Chocula, and PBR.

That's it!

What au pair wouldn't want that gig? All of your other au pair buddies are stuck dealing with asshole kids, screaming, eating crayons, shitting their pants, and whatever else kids do. Meanwhile, you're kicking back, Skyping with your girlfriends back in Europe, drinking some Starbucks that you picked up whilst taking the dog for a mid-morning stroll. They're asking you if you've got the day off, and you're like, "bitch, I'm working AS WE SPEAK!" 

Of course, I'm thinking most young chicks wouldn't have the right mindset. They'd roll up, realize my whole application was sham that my "child" is actually a 6 year-old Labrador mix, and go running back to the agency to rat me out as a fraud. Precious few would have the presence of mind to recognize it as a cake job and a brilliant opportunity to get over on the system. 

It's a shame, really, because I'm pretty sure they'd go back home at the end of their assignment and think, "Wow, I got over like a motherfucker; God bless America." Can you get a better endorsement than that?

The Rushfit Diaries: Day 44 - Can't Stop Breaking Down

I had been progressing nicely with the Rushfit workouts, only missing a day or two here and there due to schedule conflicts or the random unexpected turn of events (read: hangover.) That is until last Thursday when I pulled a muscle in my upper back. It's not a surprise, given my history of bodily fuck-ups, but it is disappointing. Especially, since (1) this one came out of nowhere; I simply woke up and felt it and (2) I'd been very good about warming up, cooling down, stretching, and not over exerting myself.

Anyhow, since I'm no stranger to this bullshit, I figured I'd pump the brakes and give myself a few days to let it work itself out. So far, no dice. In fact, a sneezing fit (yeah, you read that correctly) yesterday afternoon only served to set things back further. So I'm sitting here now, with a sore back and tightness in one side of my neck.

From fucking sneezing.

Goddamn it.

I think I may have to get over lifelong dislike of people touching me and go see a massage therapist. This recurring tightness/stiffness is getting fucking old.