A Thousand Tiny Failures : Memoirs of a Pickup Artist (2 page)

Status is power. My self-esteem increased with every chick that would have me, which wasn’t many—maybe two a year. Still, they weren’t the kind of girls I really wanted. They were low hanging fruit, opportunities of chance, not choice. But the more I got on stage and expressed myself, the more popular I became.

At night, I would do push-ups and stare at myself in the mirror, squeezing and punching my chest. I hated having tits. I wasn’t fat. Why me? And here I was all-sad, and in some third world country kids are shooting each other over diamonds. Every year a million people drink and drug themselves to mask their depression. Most of this pain is created by self-image. You have a vision of who you think you are. It’s like a
tv
channel in your head. For many, it’s a horror movie, for others it’s a loving romance full of adventure. You can’t change your past, but you can change how you look and feel. You can write a new script for that movie in your skull.

When I was twenty-one I found a girlfriend; a hot little polish thing. She was crazy, as many hot girls are. We dated for two years and, still, this was my longest relationship. If I knew about game back then, I never would have stayed that long. I was depressed about my man-boobs; the only reason she stayed was because her dad beat the shit out of her and she had worse self-esteem than I did. Also, she used to read my poems and told me I was, “sort of a genius.” I didn’t think so, but it’s nice to be appreciated.

That same year, I quit installing furnaces for my dad. No more being yelled at about missing screwdrivers and traveling from job to job in awkward silences. He was a cocaine addict. You wouldn’t know it though. The guy was charming—but there was a monkey riding a demon riding a gorilla on his back. He would rage over stupid shit, like if people drove too slow, he’d chase them down on the freeway and yell out the window, “Where did you learn to drive asshole!” And then he’d go back to normal, smiling and smoking his cigarettes, all peaceful like, as if nothing abnormal had transpired. Maybe he should have been a soldier.

If we ate at a restaurant, and the service was disappointing, he’d demand the manager and bitch him out. “Dad, it’s
Dennys
,” I’d say. He’d just grunt and chew, happy that he’d illuminated another imbecile’s mediocrity. It’s weird that men pay me for the same service.

He was incredibly intelligent, very ambitious—noble hearted and all—but broken. Mom said he read self-help books like How to Win Friends and Influence People, but I couldn’t tell. He needed something like Yoga, or Scientology, or anything that would quiet the eternal chatter in his angry head. It’s amazing I’m not more messed up than I am.

Sometimes he’d get high at work, and sometimes I liked him better that way, because he’d talk about interesting things—like good movies and pussy. When he was straight, he bored me.

You’re better than him, that’s why.

I was to carry on the family business. Woo-fucking-
hoo
. A lifetime of
spidering
through dusky basements, repairing heaters and hot-water tanks for captive suburbanites; a perpetual-monotony machine. I’m in a first world country, why subject myself to servitude? I could be a rock star, a poet, a big game hunter, a pot dealer. Anything else.

All the drugs and anti-social behavior ruined his business. He missed sales meetings, skipped work, and fell into heavy debt. One night he got too fucked up and wandered around the backyard without pants or underwear on,
swingin
it—free and oblivious—lost in his Nirvana. The neighbor caught him, and of course they pressed charges, so he was labeled a sex offender and forced into rehab. He wasn’t a pervert, just pissed off, like most of us. Drugs always start as a great idea.

He went and got better—for a while. He fixed the business, but crack is a powerful drug and he started using again. My stepmother was ready to bail, and would take my two half-brothers with her. I was twenty-one, dying for independence, and hated living around all this bullshit; fighting with my dad, fighting with my stepmother. They all thought I was a lazy daydreamer, which I was. So one day after a scrap over something petty I walked off the job. I just said, “Fuck you Dad,” and walked away. He asked me to come back but I told him I was never coming back. I wasn’t mean about it, it just wasn’t for me. I didn’t want that life of suburban furnace repair. I didn’t want to be stuck to anybody or anything. I guess I still don’t.

One cool evening he parked his van in a dark alley, drank a liter of vodka and shot up a needle full of cocaine into his vein. He didn’t wake up. They found him there like that, on the wheel, vomit on his lap, maybe smiling, I don’t know.

We weren’t hysterical or anything. We sort of expected it, like waiting for toast to pop. The sadness comes later when you’re organizing your sock drawer, or doing the dishes, or watching
South
Park
. Crying is best when you think you’re alone, and someone catches you and asks, “What’s wrong?” That’s how it happened, trying to be quiet in the back of a car with a girl that didn’t want to fuck me.

Funerals just suck. There’s no mystery. Either you cry or you don’t, and everyone wonders if they should, or if they could. But it’s easy; just give yourself permission and let biology drive. Crying is like an orgasm; it feels great and leaves a mess—it clears your mind and calms your soul.

There was a note for my stepmother. She asked me if I wanted to read it, and if I wanted to see his body.

“No. That’s okay, thanks.”

Depressed yet? Don’t be. There’ll be heaps of dick jokes and debauchery ahead. My view is this: People die. Wax on wax off. By the way, I’m gonna die, you’re gonna die, your grandpa is probably dead, that housefly you swatted and left it’s guts on the wall had feelings, an elephant in China lost its tusks, a midget wants to be tall, a Korean girl bleached her skin white. It’s all gonna end, and I’m fine with that. I just hope it doesn’t hurt too much.

Most of us are searching for a certainty that if we follow the rules, it will all work out. But it won’t. I’m prepared for failure. Maybe a plane crash or zombie apocalypse. I’ve thought about doing myself in a few times, maybe with a big explosion, or gummed to death by a whale shark—but who hasn’t? We’re alive, and we’ll expire. It’s all around you, heaps of death: snake bites and boating accidents and teary, family destroying cancers. When I’m gone, I’ll pimp the astral plane. I’m not afraid of dying. I’m afraid of not living.

The years ticked on and I played in a few punk bands, started and dropped out of video game college, whored myself in warehouses and convenience stores and dated a few girls that cheated, or dumped me. Depression arrived and I made love to weed, booze, and video games. I’ve
slayed
ogres, wizards, and Russians. I’ve lived immortal inside virtual worlds. Yes, I’m a nerd.

At twenty-four, I found a job installing home theater systems for rich jerks. I didn’t like it. I was on construction sites all day and there were no women. I needed women. I needed to see swinging asses and
titties
and pretty smiles. Because of this I knew I could never be a monk. I’m not that Zen. There was a hole needed
fillin
.

It wasn’t an artistic job. It was cold hard labor only slightly superior to installing furnaces. But the pay kept me self-sustained: stoned, drunk, sheltered, entertained and fed. Just, not laid. One day I was asked to train a few newbies on some software. Instead, out of laziness, I wrote a manual and emailed it. I fucked around and made it funny. Some comments about Syphilis and the Sphinx or something. It was all right. The next day my boss took me aside.

“Sebastian. What are you doing here? At this job? It’s not for you.”

“Why? I’m not bad at it,” I said, offended.

“Sebastian, this manual is fantastic. It’s funny and well written. You should be a writer, or a philosopher. You’re not a laborer.”

“Yeah, but, well…”

“Sebastian,” he said, placing both his hands on the desk. “You’re not right for this. You’re a writer.”

I didn’t know whether to slap or hug him. Was he masturbating my ego so I’d quit and he could hire a real laborer? All it takes is one person to believe in you, and off you go down the rainbow to your dreams or whatever.

I wrote articles for music rags. I wasn’t destined for journalism, but I learned to write. It was cool. I got into shows free and met a bunch of rock stars. Arty chicks were interested in my job and wanted to hang out with me, so that I’d write about them. But even with my hip, music journalist status, I was still a sad, man-
boobed
man who couldn’t pull ass.

One night at a party one of my friends slapped me on the back and said, “
Y’know
what? I like drunk Sebastian the best!”

Really? So I drank more. When I drank, I became something better. I forgot about my tits and insecurities and anger and loneliness. When I went to parties, I’d be social, funny and charming. Women noticed this. I’d catch them flirting with me, winking coyly, poking my soft belly, or pointing at my dimples. Unfortunately, I had no idea how to get them to fuck me… not the ones I wanted anyway. I didn’t see the method; just that alcohol for me was like spinach to Popeye:
Eyyy
,
kkyye
,
kyye
. Sluts!

I had a pellet gun, and at night I would hold it to my head and pretend it was real. I’d stare in the mirror at my
titties
and punch the walls. At twenty-six years old, I hadn’t been laid in two years, and it was fucking me up. For a young man to feel content, he needs to be able to attract women. We will lie and say things like, I don’t care about chicks—they don’t matter. Bullshit man. It’s genetic. We need you. Most of us aren’t Buddhist and we haven’t renounced the pleasures of the flesh, or the experience of emotion. We need your skin, your smell, your love and attention. To have no choice, no ability, is to be denied the human experience and be a slave to genetic and societal circumstance.

I felt like a pathetic runt of the litter, as many men do. I had all this talent and couldn’t attract a girlfriend. What would I need to do? Sell a million records? Write a best seller? Take steroids? I’ve always been fascinated by women and felt I deserved the best of them.

When I was six years old, I had a vivid dream of lying in a bed and holding hands with a redheaded classmate I’d been crushing on. I didn’t even understand what crushing was. It wasn’t even sexual. It was just an exchange of energy, a deep feeling, like a psychic understanding or massive unresolved gastric anomaly. My most romantic moments have always been in my dreams. Reality is much harsher. Reality is a punch to the nut sack; it’s hurts long and slow, the peaceful painless moments are taken for granted, and the rest is spent avoiding more pain.

One day in 2006, I sat drunk at my computer and searched, ‘man tits.’ There were pages and pages of information on something called,
Gynecomastia
. I even found a whole forum with over ten thousand members, all men, asking each other whether or not they should just suck it up and get liposuction on their pathetic little man-
boobie
chests. The resounding voice was for surgery (because money can buy happiness). It wasn’t that expensive either; just a thousand dollars—which any ambitious first-world asshole can manifest.

I bought a ticket to see a surgeon in
Toronto
, waited an agonizing month, flew there, and got my tits removed. That was it. The doctor anesthetized me and in twenty minutes had sliced out the swollen glands. He kept them in a mason jar and asked me if I wanted them.

“
Uhhh
, no, thanks,” I said.

I was wrapped in bandages, loaded with morphine, and sent back to my hotel to spend a few days in
Toronto
while I healed.

One night I was walking around the city feeling awesome, and a very pretty drunk girl charged across a busy street, nearly killing herself, grabbed my arm and yelped, “You’re hot!” Then before I could reply, she was dragged away by her fat friend into the manic city night. I had no idea what to do, but I liked being hit on. It really felt good. Validation is powerful. She approached me because of my energy; my positive glow was contagious. The way she came at me, her vibe, it’s the same way I try to attract women now, with a force-like radiance of awesome. You can pull women by emanating love. I mean, you should also be a badass, but be a happy badass that farts joy from every pore. It’s hard to love people, because they suck. But fake it. Do it for the pussy and love. If you fake it enough you’ll become what you pretend to be.

I needed to figure out this girl problem, and fast. Just because I had a normal chest meant nothing to anyone but me. Insecurity is funny like that. I took the flight back to
Vancouver
, where my roommates joked that I went to
Toronto
for the gay pride festival. They couldn’t see a difference because they never noticed my chest—only I did—because the human mind is constantly grinding and comparing equations that mean nothing. I didn’t tell anyone about my surgery because I was embarrassed. So yeah, they thought I was a fag.

No, they were teasing, I think.

Maybe we’re all capable of being gay but choose not to. Think about it, bro. Smiley face.

I felt like a ten-thousand pound weight had been lifted. I had a second chance at life. I’d never been happier. To this day whenever I feel down, I remember how I used to be. Nothing seems as bad… such is the power of vanity.