When I leaned over the bar and asked if anyone has ever told her she looks like Miranda Kerr, she told me, “Yes, and that’s a good thing!”
Absofuckinglutely, I thought to myself.
I loved her in that second. I did my best to make eye contact with her again, but she would never look at me. She’s Miranda Kerr and I’m nobody. The thought of this pissed me off so I disappeared to the urinal. As I stood there holding my dick, I imagined myself going back out there and being swarmed by people. They all want my autograph and I’m nice enough to give it to them. I’m famous from something, but I didn’t come up with that part of the story. The important thing was for Miranda to notice me. I’d give her a look like, “Ugh, I hate being famous” and she’d only smile in return while trying to put the pieces together. Why do all of these people want to take a picture with me? Why am I famous? Was I in a band, a professional athlete, or a reality-TV star? Not knowing is enough to make her pussy tingle. She can only think to herself, “Who is that guy?”
I didn’t care enough to come up with that part of the story, but one thing was for certain: The next time I ordered a beer, she would be all ears. Women love fame because women love attention and she would be giving me all of hers. Every other man in the bar is wearing black leather shoes with dark blue denim jeans and an untucked white button-up dress shirt. They’re so fucking full of douche that it’s practically coming out of their ears, but not me, dude. I’m famous and not wearing a single article of clothing found at Express for Men or Macy’s. Eventually everyone gets their picture taken and leaves me alone to watch from a distance. Now if I can only ditch the one drunken moron whose entire life is being made by my presence, maybe Miranda will give me her phone number.
Maybe my ass.
She’d be mine and I’d have the hottest girlfriend ever. When I finished shaking my dick off and zipping my pants, I returned to my seat at the bar with a smile. Confidence is about believing in yourself, and believing in yourself is ultimately about lying to yourself and I had just finished convincing myself that I’m famous with a Miranda Kerr girlfriend. Now I had a little swagger about me, but would Miranda notice? Only one way to find out! I watched her mix drinks while listening to my buddy talk about school and was totally fucking convinced she would look up and smile at me any second.
She never did. Not once.
Devastation. I had to leave that bar. I would have gladly stayed there and watched her looking like Miranda Kerr, but that’s fucking creepy and if she wouldn’t go for the fictional famous me than she definitely wouldn’t go for the real-life nobody me. I only wanted her to fall in love with me—is that too much to ask? The reality of the situation is the fact I paid five dollars to step foot in a stupid bar and immediately paid another twenty for a cold Heineken and whatever disgusting martini my buddy was drinking (this is the kind of place where a dude can order a martini and there isn’t a line of people waiting to kick his ass), and all I got out of it was the thought of being famous for a brief second and Miranda Kerr’s rejection. I could always go back next weekend, but it would be too embarrassing when having to explain myself.
“Jesse, what did you do this weekend?” nobody would ask.
“I went to an overpriced bar full of douchey dudes filling slutty girl’s ears with douchey things about how fat they don’t look because one of the bartenders looks like Miranda Kerr and that’s all I need to fall in love with her,” I’d reply.
That’s normal, right? But the real problem is the fact you can never hit on female bartenders, ever. I used to be a bartender myself and know two things for certain: They only want your money and someone else is most definitely fucking them. I’m insanely jealous of whomever that man is when it comes to the bartending Miranda Kerr so fuck it; I’m going back next weekend.
And look, I know half of you reading think Miranda Kerr looks like an Ewok and I’m an idiot for writing this, but a man has no control over what his dick wants (if so, a million homosexuals would stop getting boners over the idea of fucking another man in the ass because life would just be easier). So you see this is out of my hands. I’m only here to announce my plan of wooing this woman and share with you the success (or failure) of what my imagination wants most.
(to be continued)