On Knuckle draggers.

I see this quite often, it is, as they say, a thing: Some immaculately dressed, attractive woman, apparently normal in all respects, and then her boyfriend. A man whose vocabulary, such as it is, is blurted out, yelled across the room in the commonest of accents. His jaw permanently a little open, his arms hanging free as he walks with a gaze both devoid of life and focused on some far distant object as he bimbles down the street in his Armani t-shirt, scruffy shorts and dirty trainers. Invariably everything he says is prefixed with “Oi mate” and suffixed with “know what I mean?”.

This man is far more attractive than me.

Truth.

I think I’m at this stage where I’m really getting comfortable with looking in the mirror and saying, “Look, you’re just the least attractive guy on the planet. No woman could ever seriously want you, give up”. I take here as my measure of attractiveness the guys that manage to get into relationships, get married, have kids, all that.

I don’t want to hear that I’m attractive anymore; I don’t want to be told that I, in some way no matter how small, resemble that guy. What I want is honesty, I want women to say “Yes, that guy is far more attractive to me than you will ever be. You are nothing like that sex god of a man”. That’s it. I’ll be happy with that. Tell me whatever you like about me, be as harsh as you want, but don’t bullshit me, don’t try and make me feel better, don’t try and explain things. All I want to hear is what I know: Life is absurd.

Don’t tell me that in some way life actually makes sense.

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