Karma, Universal Justice and the Misadventures of an Egomaniac

Folks, I love attention. All attention. There is no such thing as too much attention. There is no such thing as bad attention. Just look at me. Shower me with praise. Love me, damn you!! LOVE ME!

My unhealthy affair with attention started when I was young, and has guided me throughout my life. It has gotten me in and out of trouble. It has allowed me to narrowly escape the very beatings that it threatened to cause. It has made people both love and hate me in the same heartbeat. Most importantly, it has deluded me into thinking that: A. the above is actually true, and B. I am much, much cooler than I really am.

All attention is good, but one particular kind is better than the rest. That kind, dear friends, is attention from women.

Now, you'd think that years and years of practiced rejection at the hands of women would have taken its toll on my ego. Nope. Oddly enough, it seems to have had the opposite effect. The way I see it, rejection is just another clever guise of attention.

More importantly, I realized that women do not reject me because of my own overwhelming ineptitude as a man. No sir. They reject me because they are, in actuality, afraid of their love for me

Just yesterday at lunch, for example, I was shopping at Anthony's Per l'Homme (the fancy ass men's clothing store). There, I met quite possibly the cutest (and firmest) little sweetheart I've met in a long, long time. As I mulled around, with one hand suavely tucked away in a pocket and the other systematically caressing the smooth fabric of clothes that would soon be mine, she bashfully approached. "Can I help you … find something?" she offered in a voice so soft I was unsure whether or not I had heard it or merely wished it. My heart accelerated ever so slightly as I gratefully accepted. Silently, I thanked the gods for granting me the pleasure of the company of this angel for however brief a moment.

What was likely intended as a brief encounter was gradually turning into an all out event. Her thick brown hair danced on her shoulders as she swung her head this way and that, looking for more and more expensive things for me to buy. Her dark brown eyes sparkled like polished oak in the overhead fluorescent lights. And every now and then I was treated to a slightly apprehensive, but genuine, laugh, which reminded me of wind chimes on a brisk autumn afternoon.

As we continued our Quest For The Size 42 Jacket and 34 Pant, the conversation took a most welcomed turn towards more personal and informal topics. We discussed music, bars, mosh pits and where the best place to chow down at 3am was. It was the stuff Gen-X'ers dream of.

Sadly, our time together came to an abrupt close. I ran out of money.