Think about this.
You're at a student bar and everyone else is in their late teens 20s. Chads and Stacies everywhere. You sit in the corner of yourfriend acquaintance group and stare off into the corner in silence. You notice a foid you'd love to talk to, but you don't, because you know for a fact that she's just going to laugh in your face at best, or have her friends beat the shit out of you at worst. You wish you could act like a normie your age...you wish you were living their life...but you're not. You look at the towering, blonde Chad and the way that the foids dance around him; the ample bosoms and supple, graceful curves of the Stacies around you. But you are doomed to misery and loneliness. You look subhuman. You are subhuman.
You're at a bar at some business-friendly 5-star hotel. It's quiet. You get your own table and a nice, comfy couch. Half the people around you are gray-haired suits. They're talking about mergers or class-action lawsuits or Janine the fat HR bitch. You don't relate to them at all. This is why I prefer upscale places. You don't relate to the other clientele. If I'm drinking somewhere and I'm not the youngest person there by 15 years, I'm doing something wrong.
I was grabbing lunch at this Michelin-starred place the other day and two-thirds of the clientele were practically ancient. I love how well-dressed Chads and Stacies are my servers. How they pour my wine and talk me through every course. How they immediately turn around and ask me if everything is OK the moment I make eye contact with them. I love the way they smile and ask how I'm doing because I'm so unused to being treated like a normal fucking human being. Usually, people sneer or laugh or glare at me because I look like shit. But when I'm paying for good service, oh boy...it does feel good.
Oh, and I smelled one of the hot waitresses when she leaned over to unfold and place the napkin on my lap, and when she scraped the breadcrumbs off the tablecloth. Oh yeaaaaah. I had more wine than I should've. I didn't do anything weird because I didn't want to end up blacklisted, but oh, man. It smelt so nice. Delicate and rosy. It's suifuel because I got a hint of what I'm missing out on...but at the time it felt like an escape.
You're at a student bar and everyone else is in their late teens 20s. Chads and Stacies everywhere. You sit in the corner of your
You're at a bar at some business-friendly 5-star hotel. It's quiet. You get your own table and a nice, comfy couch. Half the people around you are gray-haired suits. They're talking about mergers or class-action lawsuits or Janine the fat HR bitch. You don't relate to them at all. This is why I prefer upscale places. You don't relate to the other clientele. If I'm drinking somewhere and I'm not the youngest person there by 15 years, I'm doing something wrong.
I was grabbing lunch at this Michelin-starred place the other day and two-thirds of the clientele were practically ancient. I love how well-dressed Chads and Stacies are my servers. How they pour my wine and talk me through every course. How they immediately turn around and ask me if everything is OK the moment I make eye contact with them. I love the way they smile and ask how I'm doing because I'm so unused to being treated like a normal fucking human being. Usually, people sneer or laugh or glare at me because I look like shit. But when I'm paying for good service, oh boy...it does feel good.
Oh, and I smelled one of the hot waitresses when she leaned over to unfold and place the napkin on my lap, and when she scraped the breadcrumbs off the tablecloth. Oh yeaaaaah. I had more wine than I should've. I didn't do anything weird because I didn't want to end up blacklisted, but oh, man. It smelt so nice. Delicate and rosy. It's suifuel because I got a hint of what I'm missing out on...but at the time it felt like an escape.
