I’m A Hot Guy And Life Is A Constant Struggle

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Nice Move

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I know, I know — bust out the world’s smallest violin. “Life must be so rough for you, Dan, with that steel herculean jawline chiseled to such pristine symmetry that it could only be the artistry of a divine being’s hands. Those radiant sapphire gemstones you call eyes seems like a genuine burden. How do you continue to overcome the daunting hurdles of being so ridiculously good-looking?”

One day at a time, my friends.

Yes, it’s a struggle I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Walking a mile in my shoes would shake even the strongest men down to their very core, but I’m no hero. I’m just a regular guy dealing with the unfortunate cards he was dealt. This is my cross to bear, and I’ll keep pushing forward whether you shed tears for me or not.

My morning starts like any other. I’ll roll over in my bed and some girl will be there to break my fall. She uses my piece — which is essentially just a slab of sashimi at that point — and body with the same regard an average Asian tourist has for a “NO PHOTOGRAPHY” sign. Again, she gets herself off, stopping well before I’m remotely close to climax.

Some excuse will be forged on how she has to go and “can’t finish me off” and false promises of seeing each other another time are halfheartedly uttered on her way out the door, never to be heard from again. But the damage has already been done. No, seriously. My place is flooded from the levees of her vaginal canal breaking, and I’m left to the disaster relief cleanup to myself — picking up the pieces of my storm torn apartment one form fitting henley at a time. There goes another security deposit.

I then get ready for my job, where I’m given bonuses and promotions not based on the merit of my work, but solely to be the office eye candy and tolerate constant sexual harassment from superiors. The cat calling is infinitely worse in the outside world. Groups of hairdressers, nurses, and dental assistants shamelessly shout “Hey, stiff dick!” or “What’s up, biceps?” whenever I pass by. Some will even follow behind and continue to berate. “Looking good, sugarballs. You circumcised? I’d wax those testes real nice.”

I’m never left alone, and the amount of rejection I have to dish out on a weekly basis is exhausting. Even doing something as simple as going to the gym, I feel like a unicycle riding, fire juggling, Moscow circus bear. It’s as if these women never saw a guy on an elliptical before. It’s easier on the knees, ladies. Yes, your depraved thoughts are crystal clear with your bone-chilling stares. I’m a human being, not some piece of meat for your dark twisted fantasies. “My eyes are up here!” I say all too often.

Hitting the bars is just asking for trouble. The women I actually want to converse with are too intimidated to approach me, and when I initiate discussion, four of her friends are already fighting over who called “dibs” first. For whatever reason, they always want to talk about me, but I’m tired of talking about me. I can never tell if I’m actually funny or not, either. I could literally just recite lines from Mein Kampf and the girls will be slapping their knees from laughter.

Throughout the night, uglier chicks — who are always the more abrasive and vile of the bunch — will grope my hog or slip an undesired finger up my crack at least a half dozen times. They just think I’m a pant full of bone, packing heat, but those that do take me back to their place are never not severely disappointed with the down hang. Not that it would stop them. They’re out kicking their coverage.

Doors are pulled wide open for me, I’ve never paid for a single speeding ticket, and I have no grasp on how much my free drinks cost. This is only hindering my growth — my development as man. What happens when that day finally comes and I have to deal with rejection of my own? Ah…who am I kidding? That day will never come.

Image via Shutterstock

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