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From our reader "The Dude" keep posted for what the "Area Code" system is. Ahhh, men.
I push frantically towards the back of my closet; pushing aside all the Marshall’s dress shirts and thrift store leisure suits I don’t throw out for God knows why. Somewhere I have to have something.
Didn’t I used to own some black, too tight, Ben Sherman shirt? The one that looks almost a little shiny, the gift of some fashion-degenerate ex-girlfriend. I remember her making me wear it out in NYC some New Years in the distant past. Where the fuck is that thing, it’d be perfect. I throw the guayaberas and rugby shirts that I keep at the back of my closet in the delusional hope that maybe they’ll be cool again someday onto the floor.
There it is! Last hanger on the rack; not the one I was thinking of but it will do. Another shimmery button-down, more appropriately fitted to a 12yo girl than a 29yo man. Another gift of that same ANTM-wanna-be ex. Shudder.
I throw it on with my most expensive jeans and shiniest dress shoes. Success. I look queer as a three-dollar bill and douche-y as a Harvard Business School graduate. I’m ready just in time.
I’m ready to go to Paul Oakenfold at Royale!
As I gave myself a last glance in the mirror I had a moment of reflection. I looked deep into my eyes and felt a shadow of shame cross my mind. Did I really just put on that horrible shirt to go fit in with the jersey-shore-wannabes at Royale? Did I actually feel a moment of happiness when I found that shirt in the closet? Was I really about to spend 4 hours pretending to like house, techno, whatever-you-call-but-its-NOT-rock-n-roll-to-me just to impress some 7-1-8? All in the interest of getting laid?
My mind raced, reviewing all of the things and people that mean something to me, the women I’ve actually cared about. What have I become?
I shrugged in the mirror, gave myself a smirk, and bounced down the stairs and out the door. For the record: Yes I did pretend to like Paul Oakenfold. Yes I did get laid. And yes she was a 7-1-8.
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