so the other day, I went with one of my best friend's to Jumbo's. The plan was just Wednesday afternoon bicycle bar-hopping, and that just so happened to be the first stop. I really didn't want to go. I don't like strip bars. It's too personal for me. I just think about their lives, about their families, about school, about what toys they liked playing with as little kids, about their first boyfriends. All this shit. It's not fun. It's not cohesive to the whole experience. And yeah, sometimes, it's overstimulating, and I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to do with myself. It makes me feel awkward and pathetic. It makes me feel like I'm being toyed with. I don't like it. I just thought I would reiterate that point. On the way riding our bikes down Hollywood Blvd, I explained it so simply, "I don't like Jumbo's. The strippers always try to talk to me." "But, that's part of the whole experience." "Maybe that's why I don't like it." So, we were talking over some drinks discussing an acquaintance of our's who had recently commited suicide and about how happy I was for him. I wish I could give him a congratulatory pat on the back, and a friendly, "Nice Job" with a rare Tomatoes smile, but it's too late. So, anyway, I finished my beer and the bartender suddenly vanished realizing we were only there for the semi-decent beer prices. I couldn't get another beer. So, I'm just sitting there. A black-haired white girl got on stage and started dancing too "She's So Heavy", easily one of my favorite songs on the face of the planet. I felt like my brain was about to explode, and not in the good way. I was trying to look away, and I couldn't. I began to feel confused and hot. Hot, not in the good way. Like, I felt like I was burning up with the autonomic body on fire responses that I get so frequently. Like, my body, was literally coated in perspiration, and yet they still wouldn't serve me a beer So, this "woman" with a French accent walks up to me, grabs my arm, starts fondling it with gloved hands, and trying to get in a conversation with me about my tattoos. I had a strong suspicion that the accent was fake. I couldn't tell if I wanted it to be or not. Because on one hand, if it's fake, that's really cheesy talking in a fake accent, but on the other hand, if it's not fake, then it's a real French accent. I don't know which is worse. Either way, I was repulsed, and I didn't understand why she was touching me. "Oooh, those are tailor scissors. I used to be a tailor." I strong suspicions that this was a man too. Not that that offended me or anything. It just makes the story slightly more interesting. Its boobs were too perfect. And the whole act of being a french ex-tailor. Right then and there, my mind went to its safe place. Daydreaming, sitting on my park bench in my apartment with four different fans blowing on me drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, and watching Doctor Who. Unfortunately, when I snapped out of it, "it" was still there, and she still had my arm, and was still talking in that dumb accent. She asked me my name. My name is Tomatoes. It's not a nick name. That's just my name. And, yeah, I've gotten in literally five billion small talk bullshit conversations about it in my life time. I'm tired. I'm really really really tired. I'm worn out. I'm not an unaffected badass. I was that until about three years ago. I've had it. I'm done. I would've already finished it all if it wasn't for the fact that I don't believe in an afterlife. This is all you got. Might as well, just live it out. I didn't say anything. "Well, I will name you Andy." I don't fucking care. I just wish you would leave me alone. It suddenly occured to me, I'm an adult. If I don't like being here, I can get up and leave. I just walk right out, and go home and sit on my park bench under fans and drink beer and smoke cigarettes and watch Doctor Who. So, that's what I did. I left. I left my friend. I would mention his name, but he doesn't want me to.  I went outside and unlocked my bike. I instantly felt liberated, riding riding riding. One of the best feelings in the world. And then, I felt guilt for abandoning my buddy, so I went back. I tried to order a beer. They wouldn't serve me. There was nobody there with a fake accent to serve me. The "French lady" was still talking to my friend. I could overhear her. "So, are you two a couple?" "No, we're just good friends." "Are you two in a band?" She was searching for reasons why he would be associating with such an unpleasant person such as myself. I got news for you lady. I have a job, and I have to stand around having conversations with people all day, and I don't like it, but that's what I do to pay for the apartment, and the park bench, and the fans, and the beer, and the cigarettes, and the Netflix subscription to Doctor Who. I don't understand why I need to sit around in here on my day off, and listen to you making the same fucking comments that I've heard a million times about my scissors tattoo and my name, and insinuating that I'm gay because I don't want to talk to you. So, I left once again. And you better believe it, I drank the fuck out of a lot beers, and smoked the fuck out of a lot of cigarettes. Doctor Who was extra charming that afternoon, cold sores and all. And the fans were blowing cold as fuck. It was an arctic breeze. But, the sad part is that I felt sad. I felt defeated. It's that thing. You know, in case you haven't noticed, us penis people, our success as human beings is gauged on whether or not we are able to get attractive sexual mates, and that usually includes sitting around and having conversations. And you know what? I don't care how good looking you are. If it includes me having to talk into a telephone or being sober enough to drive a car or being monogamous, than just consider me a socially retarded nerd. And oh yeah, I feel like a loser, but that's something I'm just going to have to live with. I like what the mind produces with written word. The shit that comes out of your mouth doesn't interest me. The shit that comes out of my own mouth doesn't interest me. "Getting to know each other" doesn't result in good sex. Eat your desert first, you mindless diarreah-mouthed nincompoop. earthquakes are god's way of telling us to eat your fucking desert first. There's no time. I already know you. I know you more than you know yourself. That's why I don't smoke pot. It makes me insanely intuitive. Every banal little thought that crosses your mind invades my own in agonizingly painful detail. But, you know, a year from now, I'm going to be beating myself up about all the lost inopportunities due to my social gimpness or even more probable I'll still be writing self-defeating blogs. I'm a pussy. And I'm gay. I'm not made of the right materials to be a real man and talk on telephones.