Matt Forney
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Girl, You Are One in a Million

This is a guest post by Kid Strangelove. Kid originally published this article at his own blog, but he deleted the site a while ago so he could focus on other projects. He asked me if I’d be willing to re-post some of his articles on my blog and I said yes.

This past Sunday had the making of one of those “perfect” Sundays. Heck, if there had been a WWE pay-per-view event later that day, it might just have been the World Series of Sunday perfection.

It started beautifully enough, with a gorgeous girl cuddling up next to me in the morning. We chatted and playfully reminisced about the last two days: me coming over to her place where she cooked a delicious dinner and we watched movies till we fell asleep, and her coming over to my place, where we experienced our first smoke-out together. I’d barely stopped smiling since Friday evening. Everything was good.

Things got even better when she asked me “what would you like me to do to you, baby?” It was one of the best blowjobs I have ever gotten in my life, accentuated by the fact that she was on her period and didn’t want me to reciprocate. I don’t play for the Detroit Red Wings, so I was cool with that. Aah, the “out of the blue, no reciprocation necessary” blowjob: few things in life are better.

She left around eleven in the morning. I was relaxed and realized that the best possible thing to do is to light up, ease into the day, and chill the fuck out, because life is great. And that’s what I did.

It was in the middle of watching Machete Kills when I got a text that I was not expecting:

Can we get together later for a quick talk over coffee or something?

Yep. It was done.

A woman “wants to talk” for one of three reasons: she is sick/ill/dying, she is pregnant, or she wants to break up with you. She was the picture of health—and we were the picture of safe sex—so the reason became instantly obvious.

What came next was unexpected. Here I am, in the middle of a perfect Sunday, sitting in stunned silence.

Naturally, one of my first instincts after years of learning game is to find out what I did wrong. Did I fail a shit test? Did I fail 45 of them? Was there a painfully obvious problem lurking underneath the bliss that I was just not noticing, even though it was blatant?

Nope, everything seemed cool, even with my newly sharpened “hindsight is 20/20” vision.

But then reality hit me. I was looking for something to analyze, to draw a conclusion from, but I could not deny that for the past few weeks, I have been extremely happy. And you know what? I ain’t even mad.

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I was genuinely not upset withmy predicament, and I couldn’t understand why. Maybe I was still a little baked. That was a distinct possibility. But why was I unfazed at a great relationship ending?

It’s not just because of game. It’s not because I had the experience and ability to meet new women. It’s because I know that game is not the end all be all.

Yeah, I can get laid with greater regularity than the average guy, whoever he is. Big whoop. I still go through the same stuff as I always have: dealing with feelings of exclusion, people’s inability to see outside themselves, worshipping materialism, seeing the effects of America’s obesity problem every time I go to a bar, the list goes on.

Before game, I thought the world had a problem because I couldn’t find a quality partner.

While studying and practicing game, I shifted the blame of my lack of quality sex life to me.

But now that I have these options, my disillusionment with the world is greater than ever. 99 percent of the time when I go out, I am reminded of this classic image from Seinfeld:

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Yep, just the penis and the brain battling each other in a game of chess.

But with this girl, things were different. I was relaxed, I was never on edge, I felt confident in sharing new experiences, and I was fully attracted. But if she was that great, why wasn’t I upset about her leaving me?

Because I remembered the last time I felt this. It was with my ex of about a year and a half. The one who caused me so much trouble and heartache, but more than made up for it in the happiness she gave me… for a time. The bad times started outnumbering the good times, but for some reason we were still together. I was already in my full-on player phase, but latched onto her because she seemed to lack those dangerous qualities that poison Wstern women. To me, she was one in a million. I even remember having a conversation with a friend, saying. “I’m afraid she’s the best that I can do. I don’t think ‘better’ exists for me.”

Yep, that was me, the big smooth player saying these things. Embarrassing, but true. It took a long time to get over this girl, and as some of my older Twitter followers can attest to, I sometimes like to reminisce, or send an errant text, or do anything else stupid concerning her. Embarrassing, but true.

But then this new girl shows up, and we just absolutely hit it off. It took my friends to point out the obvious: she was like a new and improved version of my ex. She was tall, nerdy, loved to cook, slim, very smart, open to all sorts of intellectual and political discussion, not materialistic, didn’t indulge in vices (for a girl who’s six feet, it was weird to see her wobbly on her second glass of wine). She was also way more cheerful and positive than my ex… and with much bigger boobs. Apparently, I have a type.

All of a sudden, one in a million became two. 

It was this exact realization, hidden in the back of my brain till I logic-ed it out, that was the source of my calm, and it felt good to finally know this.

The meeting itself went exactly as expected. She told me that she didn’t see a future between us, and I said I was glad for the time we did spend together and that only good things come to her in the future.

I genuinely meant it. For the first time in a long time, I could really relax around a girl, not worry about the power games, and just enjoy myself. Maybe that lack of power games is what led to our downfall, maybe not. Maybe this carefree, honest approach will bring me nothing but pain and suffering while I try to find a modern physically attractive girl who gasp is actually a good person, maybe it won’t.

But one thing is for certain: girl, you are one in a million. Which means New York City has seven more of you.

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