There’s not tooooo much left to wrap up prior to the Italy send. K-dawg did hook me up with a ticket to an electronic music show right smack in the middle of Skanderberg Square… rolled out in force with him and all his homies, Bobo, Iris, etc…
Actually there is a funny anecdote from that. We’ll have to push Italy to the next one. The show was absolutely bumping, I rolled in after a light pregame streaming, and K-dawg + Bobo managed to fast-track me through the line with their magic VIP wand. Honestly, these two have been killing it for me out here.
We pop in through, meet up with the whole group, including an openly gay friend of theirs (which is really fucking rare out here), who happens to be smoking some pot. Now, I’m not really a pot guy, it tends to make me tired / hungry / sleepy. But K-dawg is the ultimate peer pressure lad when it comes to drug consumption amongst the friend group, he hits it a few times, and tells me to hack a few puffs. I take one decent pull and say I’m good, but he twists my arm into taking a second one, and I go from zero to zonked pretty damn fast. Fuckin’ K-dawg.
Anyways, we are a crew of about 8 or 9. Some of us want to go more central, some people want to go up front. The music is great, the crowd is body to body, there are probably at least 5 or 10k people in the square easily. I end up rolling up front with another one of K-dawg’s friends, so we can get right up next to the speaker, and we jam out a little bit.
We’re dancing doing our thing, and at some point I make eye contact with a super cute lass, who looks like some sort of Eastern European. Petite, insane blue eyes, curves in all the right places, in full festival getup, def a good lookin’ lady. I mean scorching hot really. No real ambitions, C is still on the fence for Italy, and I’m fucking baked at this point barely clinging to consciousness. I’m somehow chatting her up a bit despite the music right in our ears, vibes seem alright. K-dawg’s buddy pulls me back at some point and says something about how she likes me and I should go for it. And in my head, that sort of pushes me to… ask her for her number??? In the middle of the concert??? Drink or a dance make a lot more sense, but I’m fucking zonked.
Ok. It’s a little awkward. Zero game while stoned out of my mind. But what stands out to me is the reaction. Her response is to ask “are you serious?”, and then burst out laughing. What a god damn savage. She starts laughing, grabs her friend, says something to her about it, who also starts laughing. And then K-dawg’s buddy leans in and they are talking in Albanian for a second, and he starts laughing. Fuckkkk haha. “The worst she can say is no”. We’ve now learned this ain’t true boys.
I mean shit, she’s really attractive, but I don’t think its like I’m the fuckin’ Hunchback of Notre Dame. If she’s playing in the Chel, I gotta at least be in major juniors, might be swinging above my league in the pure physical, but you gotta believe we’re at least playing the same sport. Tbh probably more related to my botched delivery / their own mental state / the fact I’m a weed zombie at this point, don’t think there was any malice there, but who knows. Who the fuck brings an Indica to a festival? Indica, in da couchhhhh.
Anyways, I’m probably tweaking a bit on the weed, it’s really not my going out drug of choice / puts me in my head a lot. Fuckin K-dawg. Funnily enough, this would not be the last we’d see of “Laughina”, but for the night, it was enough for me… I politely excuse myself, and slink off with what remains of my dignity.
I ended up making my way back through the crowd. Main crew is deep center in the mob, jamming out, and I consider re-linking with them. But the whole world is spinning and I’m feeling super tired / nauseous. End up leaving the concert venue to sit down on a bench for a few minutes to see if I can rally back. But I end up just feeling more sick, and after a few more minutes, I say fuck it. Funnily enough, I don’t go straight home… my ingenious plan is to hit the poker room, while I’m just absolutely cooked and obviously going to play the worst poker of my life.
I head down into Teddy KGB’s metal basement doorway, sip on a free water in the lounge area, and ask if there are any seats open. There are not. End up waiting thirty minutes, where by the grace of god, seats continue to remain at full capacity, which gives me time to sober up enough to realize what a terrible idea playing in this state would be. It’s Friday night, and only about midnight, but I’m still absolutely cooked… I chalk it all up in the L column, flag a taxi outside, rip home, eat a gigantic bowl of leftover Carbonara I cooked up the night before, and watch an episode of Rick and Morty, before conking the fuck out for the night.
Wake up the next morning and reflect on it all a bit. Sort of realize the whole thing is pretty funny. I’ve taken plenty of runs at women before, which of course, like for most men, involves a fair amount of rejection. But never in my whole life, has a woman just straight up laughed in my face at the idea of me taking her number. Especially with prior groundwork laid. You’d think it would be the stuff of nightmares.
But realistically. What were my intentions anyways? I was fried (Fuck you, K-Dawg!), I’m still figuring out last minute if C is actually coming with me to Italy as my plus 1 and our tentative rekindle arc might continue, my approach was terrible, and… awful rejection, sure, but it’s absolutely meaningless against the backdrop of all the bigger shit that I’m trying to figure out in my life.
Genuine heartbreak, death of a loved one, losing an important job, having a startup going under, letting down people you care about, not being able to feed your kids… holy shit, there’s so many more things that can happen in life that are actually worth getting bent out of shape for. Casual rejection doesn’t register anymore, it’s not even a blip on the radar. I’m not going to come out of this experience an entirely different person or anything dramatic like that, but I think what this whole trip about is that you need to be out there shooting your shot, every chance that you get. Not just with women obviously, but with every dream and opportunity, every goal and ambition, or else you’re going to be lying there on your deathbed in forty years wondering how you were such a pussy that you let the things you wanted in life just pass you by without even trying.
There’s nothing unique or novel about this realization. It’s been realized by billions before me, and it’ll be realized by billions afterwards. No one is bulletproof, and of course the slap of a rejection can sting a little, but in the grand scheme of things, it’s just a reminder to refine your efforts and try again. Fuckin’ get out there and get it boys! We aren’t getting any younger.
Brando's Rambles 