Imagine, if you will, this little scenario…
“I’m going to the bar tonight and I’m gonna get laid!” you say merrily to yourself as you head out the door and make your way to your local watering hole. A short trip later and there you are. The Bar.
You get to the front door, walk in, and look around. Hot women everywhere. “This is gonna be great!”
You sing a little song in your head as you walk over to the bar to grab a drink. “L-A-I-D. That is for me!” Your song makes no sense, but you don’t care. It’s wall-to-wall ladies in there.
“Alright, alright, alright. Time to get laid. All I have to do now is—” **scraaatch** (that’s a record scratch, by the way).
Much blinking and awkward wall leaning takes place over the course of the next four hours because you actually have no fucking clue what to do next.
Closing time. You go home. Alone. Again.
And scene.
Sound familiar?
I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that your answer is, “Fuck yeah, it sounds familiar!”
Of course it does. Some variation of it anyway. It’s always the same story. Good intention. No execution.
But guess what? It’s not your fault. And sheeeit, you’re sure as hell not alone.