Overcome Fear

“Most people are paralyzed by fear. Overcome it and you take charge of your life and your world.” – Mark Victor Hansen

“Isn’t that woman pretty? I bet she used to be a model. You should write your number on a napkin and pass it down to her.”

“I’d need to check ESPN for the official stats on that, but I’d bet for a man passing a number, the pass to penetration ratio is horrible.”

“Nothing ventured …”

“Nothing lost.”

“You’re such a pessimist. What’s the worse she could do?”

“Let me see. How about show it to her friends, crumble it up, and laugh at me while she tosses it?”

“She’ll be flattered.”

“I’ll give you another reason this won’t end well: She probably assumes you and I are together. Hence, sliding my number to you will be seen as a grave act against womanity.”

“Nah, women can tell when two people are just friends.”

“Then, she’d assume I was your gay friend.”

“But, by passing her your number, she’d realize you’re not.”

“Why don’t you start up a conversation with her, and casually bring up the fact that I’m tall, rich, famous, and hung like a rhino?”

“That would be a lie, which would set her up for disappointment, and you for failure.”

“But … hey, wait a minute … which part is a lie?”

“Never mind. Just write your number on this napkin.”

“No.”

“Pussy.”

“You are what you eat.”

“Ew.”

“See? I’m juvenile. She’d never want to go out with me. Besides, nobody uses phone numbers any more. I might as well pass her my Facebook page.”

“There ya go. Why don’t you slide her a book?”

“Have you read my books?”

“Good point. You do realize that this woman could be the one, and you’re letting her slip through your fingers.”

“She could also be married, gay, or a murderous psychopath.”

“You’re insane.”

“She could have three toddlers, a Harley, and a good friend in Jesus.”

“Still unlikely.”

“She’s probably attracted to young hipsters who have the stamina to drink till two, and still do morning yoga.”

“Take a pill then.”

“I’m fine in that area, thank you very little.”

“Sure, you are.”

“Actually, I tried a blue pill for the first time with the most recent ex.”

“And?”

“The friend who gave me the pill forgot to disclose the side effects. I was having precoital conversation when, suddenly, the lights in my house changed. They turned from a yellowish glow to bluish. Totally fucked with my head. I got up and started flipping switches. She thought I was losing it.”

“Even I know that’s a side effect, and I don’t have a penis. So, how was the sex?”

“I’d say somewhat impressive, but not monumental.”

“Wonder what she would say.”

“Probably something to the tune of, ‘I can’t believe I let that asshole have sex with me.'”

“I’m going to start calling you Eeyore.”

“Oh, shit. Look. There she goes. Oh, well. Her loss.”

“Really? You’re just going to let her fade away?”

“If she were interested in me, she would have slid me her number.”

“There she goes–your soul mate, your baby mama, your everything.”

“My next ex, at best.”

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.
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