homo_faber
i thought this was a looksmaxing forum
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good read. might be even better then the movie but im only at the page 147 so it might be to early to judge
MansNotHot
Kratos cucks everyone, including you
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Books are a good cope tbh
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idk how to read books tbh
Wallenberg
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The book is better than the movie, although the movie was good too.
D
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Emerald
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Wallenberg
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A true low IQ cel.
Deleted member 6723
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no its that the words are too close together, like I forget what column (its words but just like I forget what line I am on, u know) I am on.
Plus its so boring.
homo_faber
i thought this was a looksmaxing forum
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- #8
i havent read for 5 years outside school. couldnt concentrate more then 3 minutes. however i stopped looking at my phone for 1 week and all of a sudden i started reading again. if you think you have adhd stop reducing your phone and media consumption first. right now i only look at my phone in the evening and at the weekends.
but you really need to take it seriously. i tried it a few times but more half hearted and often checked my phone every 1h or 2h but there is no point in that.
Last edited:
homo_faber
i thought this was a looksmaxing forum
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ok i just read through with it
to be honest the vivid discription of violence and brutal murder towards the end and middle of the book wasnt really my cup of tea at the end (what they show in the movie is nothing) but everything in between is total gold. had a good laugh
to be honest the vivid discription of violence and brutal murder towards the end and middle of the book wasnt really my cup of tea at the end (what they show in the movie is nothing) but everything in between is total gold. had a good laugh
homo_faber
i thought this was a looksmaxing forum
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- #10
Today I’m meeting Bethany for lunch at Vanities, the new Evan Kiley bistro in Tribeca, and though I worked out for nearly two hours this morning and even lifted weights in my office before noon, I’m still extremely nervous. The cause is hard to locate but I’ve narrowed it down to one of two reasons. It’s either that I’m afraid of rejection (though I can’t understand why: she called me, she wants to see me, she wants to have lunch with me,she wants to fuck me again) or, on the other hand, it could have something to do with this new Italian mousse I’m wearing, which, though it makes my hair look fuller and smells good, feels very sticky and uncomfortable, and it’s something I could easily blame my nervousness on. So we wouldn’t run out of things to talk about over lunch, I tried to read a trendy new short-story collection called Wok that I bought at Barnes & Noble last night and whose young author was recently profiled in the Fast Track section of New York magazine, but every story started off with the line “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie” and I had to put this slim volume back into my bookshelf and drink a J&B on the rocks, followed by two Xanax, to recover from the effort. To make up for this, before I fell asleep I wrote Bethany a poem and it took a long time, which surprised me, since I used to write her poems, long dark ones, quite often when we were both at Harvard, before we broke up. God, I’m thinking to myself as I walk into Vanities, only fifteen minutes late, I hope she hasn’t ended up with Robert Hall, that dumb asshole. I pass by a mirror hung over the bar as I’m led to our table and check out my reflection—the mousse looks good. The topic on The Patty Winters Show this morning was Has Patrick Swayze Become Cynical or Not?
I have to stop moving as I near the table, following the maître d’ (this is all happening in slow motion). She isn’t facing me and I can only catch the back of her neck, her brown hair pinned up into a bun, and when she turns to gaze out the window I see only part of her profile, briefly; she looks just like a model. Bethany’s wearing a silk gazar blouse and a sills satin start with crinoline. A Paloma Picasso hunter green suede and wrought-iron handbag sits in front of her on the table, next to a bottle of San Pellegrino water. She checks her watch. The couple next to our table is smoking and after I lean in behind Bethany, surprising her, kissing her cheek, I coolly ask the maître d’ to reseat us in the nonsmoking section. I’m suave but loud enough for the nicotine addicts to hear me and hopefully feel a slight twinge of embarrassment about their filthy habit.
“Well?” I ask, standing there, arms crossed, tapping my foot impatiently.
‘I’m afraid there is no nonsmoking section, sir,” the maître d’ informs me.
I stop tapping my foot and slowly scan the restaurant, the bistro, wondering how my hair really looks, and suddenly I wish I had switched mousses because since I last saw my hair, seconds ago, it feels different, as if its shape was somehow altered on the walls from bar to table. A pang of nausea that I’m unable to stifle washes warmly over me, but since I’m really dreaming all this I’m able to ask, “So you say there’s no nonsmoking section? Is this correct?”
“Yes sir.” The maître d’, younger than myself, faggy, innocent, an actor no doubt, adds, “I’m sorry.”
“Well, this is… very interesting. I can accept this.” I reach into my back pocket for my gazelleskin wallet and press a twenty into the maître d’s uncertain fist. He looks at the bill, confused, then murmurs “Thank you” and walks away as if in a daze.
“No. Thank you,” I call out and take my seat across from Bethany, nodding courteously to the couple next to us, and though I try to ignore her for as long as etiquette allows, I can’t. Bethany looks absolutely stunning, just like a model. Everything’s murky. I’m on edge. Feverish, romantic notions—
“Didn’t you smoke at Harvard?” is the first thing she says.
“Cigars,” I say. “Only cigars.”
“Oh,” she says.
“But I quit that,” I lie, breathing in hard, squeezing my hands together.
“That’s good.” She nods.
“Listen, did you have any trouble getting reservations?” I ask, and I am fucking shaking. I put my hands on the table like a fool, hoping that under her watchful gaze they will stop trembling.
“You don’t need reservations here, Patrick,” she says soothingly, reaching out a hand, covering one of mine with hers. “Calm down. You look like a wild man.”
“I’m clam, I mean calm,” I say, breathing in hard, trying to smile, and then, involuntarily, unable to stop myself, ask, “How’s my hair?”
“Your hair is fine,” she says. “Shhh. It’s okay.”
“All right. I am all right.” I try to smile again but I’m sure it looks just like a grimace.
After a short pause she comments, “That’s a nice suit. Henry Stuart?”
“No,” I say, insulted, touching its lapel. “Garrick Anderson.”
.’It’s very nice,” she says and then, genuinely concerned, “Are you okay, Patrick? You just… twitched.”
“Listen. I’m frazzled. I just got back from Washington. I took the Trump shuttle this morning,” I tell her, unable to make eye contact, all in a rush. “It was delightful. The service—really fabulous. I need a drink.”
She smiles, amused, studying me in a shrewd way. “Was it?” she asks, not totally, I sense, without smugness.
“Yes.” I can’t really look at her and it takes immense effort to unfold the napkin, lay it across my lap, reposition it correctly, busy myself with the wineglass, praying for a waiter, the ensuing silence causing the loudest possible sound. “So did you watch The Patty Winters Show this morning?”
“No, I was out jogging,” she says, leaning in. “It was about Michael J. Fox, right?”
“No,” I correct her. “It was about Patrick Swayze.”
“Oh really?” she asks, then, “It’s hard to keep.track. You’re sure?”
“Yes. Patrick Swayze. I’m positive.”
“How was it?”
“Well, it was very interesting,” I tell her, breathing in air. “It was almost like a debate, about whether he’s gotten cynical or not.”
“Do you think he has?” she asks, still smiling.
“Well, no, I’m not sure,” I start nervously. “It”s an interesting question. It wasn’t explored fully enough. I mean after Dirty Dancing I wouldn’t think so, but withTiger Warsaw I don’t know. I might be crazy, but I thought I detected some bitterness. I’m not sure.”
She stares at me, her expression unchanged.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” I say, reaching into my pocket. “I wrote you a poem.” I hand her the slip of paper. “Here.” I feel sick and broken, tortured, really on the brink.
“Oh Patrick.” She smiles. “How sweet.”
“Well, you know,” I say, looking down shyly.
Bethany takes the slip of paper and unfolds it.
“Read it,” I urge enthusiastically.
She looks it over quizzically, puzzled, squinting, then she turns the page over to see if there’s anything on the back. Something in her understands it’s short and she looks back at the words written, scrawled in red, on the front of the page.
“It’s like haiku, you know?” I say. “Read it. Go on.”
She clears her throat and hesitantly begins reading, slowly, stopping often. “ ’The poor nigger on the wall. Look at him.’” She pauses and squints again at the paper, then hesitantly resumes. “ ’Look at the poor nigger. Look at the poor nigger… on… the… wall.’” She stops again, faltering, looks at me, confused, then back at the paper.
“Go on,” I say, looking around for a waiter. “Finish it.”
She clears her throat and staring steadily at the paper tries to read the rest of it in a voice below a whisper. “ ’Fuck him… Fuck the nigger on the wall…’” She falters again, then reads the last sentence, sighing. “ ’Black man… is… de… debil?’”
The couple at the next table have slowly turned to gaze over at us. The man looks aghast, the woman has an equally horrified expression on her face. I stare her down, glaring, until she looks back at her fucking salad.
“Well, Patrick,” Bethany says, clearing her throat, trying to smile, handing the paper back to me.
“Yes?” I ask. “Well?”
“I can see that”—she stops, thinking—“that your sense of… social injustice is”—she clears her throat again and looks down—“still intact.”
I take the paper back from her and slip it in my pocket and smile, still trying to keep a straight face, holding my body upright so she won’t suspect me of cringing. Our waiter comes over to the table and I ask him what kinds of beer they serve.
“Heineken, Budweiser, Amstel light,” he recites.
“Yes?” I ask, staring at Bethany, gesturing for him to continue.
“That’s, um, all, sir,” he says.
“No Corona? No Kirin? No Grolsch? No Morretti?” I ask, confused, irate.
“I’m sorry, sir, but no,” he says cautiously. “Only Heineken, Budweiser, Amstel Light.”
“That’s crazy,” I sigh. “I’ll have a J&B on the rocks. No, an Absolut martini. No, a J&B straight up.”
I have to stop moving as I near the table, following the maître d’ (this is all happening in slow motion). She isn’t facing me and I can only catch the back of her neck, her brown hair pinned up into a bun, and when she turns to gaze out the window I see only part of her profile, briefly; she looks just like a model. Bethany’s wearing a silk gazar blouse and a sills satin start with crinoline. A Paloma Picasso hunter green suede and wrought-iron handbag sits in front of her on the table, next to a bottle of San Pellegrino water. She checks her watch. The couple next to our table is smoking and after I lean in behind Bethany, surprising her, kissing her cheek, I coolly ask the maître d’ to reseat us in the nonsmoking section. I’m suave but loud enough for the nicotine addicts to hear me and hopefully feel a slight twinge of embarrassment about their filthy habit.
“Well?” I ask, standing there, arms crossed, tapping my foot impatiently.
‘I’m afraid there is no nonsmoking section, sir,” the maître d’ informs me.
I stop tapping my foot and slowly scan the restaurant, the bistro, wondering how my hair really looks, and suddenly I wish I had switched mousses because since I last saw my hair, seconds ago, it feels different, as if its shape was somehow altered on the walls from bar to table. A pang of nausea that I’m unable to stifle washes warmly over me, but since I’m really dreaming all this I’m able to ask, “So you say there’s no nonsmoking section? Is this correct?”
“Yes sir.” The maître d’, younger than myself, faggy, innocent, an actor no doubt, adds, “I’m sorry.”
“Well, this is… very interesting. I can accept this.” I reach into my back pocket for my gazelleskin wallet and press a twenty into the maître d’s uncertain fist. He looks at the bill, confused, then murmurs “Thank you” and walks away as if in a daze.
“No. Thank you,” I call out and take my seat across from Bethany, nodding courteously to the couple next to us, and though I try to ignore her for as long as etiquette allows, I can’t. Bethany looks absolutely stunning, just like a model. Everything’s murky. I’m on edge. Feverish, romantic notions—
“Didn’t you smoke at Harvard?” is the first thing she says.
“Cigars,” I say. “Only cigars.”
“Oh,” she says.
“But I quit that,” I lie, breathing in hard, squeezing my hands together.
“That’s good.” She nods.
“Listen, did you have any trouble getting reservations?” I ask, and I am fucking shaking. I put my hands on the table like a fool, hoping that under her watchful gaze they will stop trembling.
“You don’t need reservations here, Patrick,” she says soothingly, reaching out a hand, covering one of mine with hers. “Calm down. You look like a wild man.”
“I’m clam, I mean calm,” I say, breathing in hard, trying to smile, and then, involuntarily, unable to stop myself, ask, “How’s my hair?”
“Your hair is fine,” she says. “Shhh. It’s okay.”
“All right. I am all right.” I try to smile again but I’m sure it looks just like a grimace.
After a short pause she comments, “That’s a nice suit. Henry Stuart?”
“No,” I say, insulted, touching its lapel. “Garrick Anderson.”
.’It’s very nice,” she says and then, genuinely concerned, “Are you okay, Patrick? You just… twitched.”
“Listen. I’m frazzled. I just got back from Washington. I took the Trump shuttle this morning,” I tell her, unable to make eye contact, all in a rush. “It was delightful. The service—really fabulous. I need a drink.”
She smiles, amused, studying me in a shrewd way. “Was it?” she asks, not totally, I sense, without smugness.
“Yes.” I can’t really look at her and it takes immense effort to unfold the napkin, lay it across my lap, reposition it correctly, busy myself with the wineglass, praying for a waiter, the ensuing silence causing the loudest possible sound. “So did you watch The Patty Winters Show this morning?”
“No, I was out jogging,” she says, leaning in. “It was about Michael J. Fox, right?”
“No,” I correct her. “It was about Patrick Swayze.”
“Oh really?” she asks, then, “It’s hard to keep.track. You’re sure?”
“Yes. Patrick Swayze. I’m positive.”
“How was it?”
“Well, it was very interesting,” I tell her, breathing in air. “It was almost like a debate, about whether he’s gotten cynical or not.”
“Do you think he has?” she asks, still smiling.
“Well, no, I’m not sure,” I start nervously. “It”s an interesting question. It wasn’t explored fully enough. I mean after Dirty Dancing I wouldn’t think so, but withTiger Warsaw I don’t know. I might be crazy, but I thought I detected some bitterness. I’m not sure.”
She stares at me, her expression unchanged.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” I say, reaching into my pocket. “I wrote you a poem.” I hand her the slip of paper. “Here.” I feel sick and broken, tortured, really on the brink.
“Oh Patrick.” She smiles. “How sweet.”
“Well, you know,” I say, looking down shyly.
Bethany takes the slip of paper and unfolds it.
“Read it,” I urge enthusiastically.
She looks it over quizzically, puzzled, squinting, then she turns the page over to see if there’s anything on the back. Something in her understands it’s short and she looks back at the words written, scrawled in red, on the front of the page.
“It’s like haiku, you know?” I say. “Read it. Go on.”
She clears her throat and hesitantly begins reading, slowly, stopping often. “ ’The poor nigger on the wall. Look at him.’” She pauses and squints again at the paper, then hesitantly resumes. “ ’Look at the poor nigger. Look at the poor nigger… on… the… wall.’” She stops again, faltering, looks at me, confused, then back at the paper.
“Go on,” I say, looking around for a waiter. “Finish it.”
She clears her throat and staring steadily at the paper tries to read the rest of it in a voice below a whisper. “ ’Fuck him… Fuck the nigger on the wall…’” She falters again, then reads the last sentence, sighing. “ ’Black man… is… de… debil?’”
The couple at the next table have slowly turned to gaze over at us. The man looks aghast, the woman has an equally horrified expression on her face. I stare her down, glaring, until she looks back at her fucking salad.
“Well, Patrick,” Bethany says, clearing her throat, trying to smile, handing the paper back to me.
“Yes?” I ask. “Well?”
“I can see that”—she stops, thinking—“that your sense of… social injustice is”—she clears her throat again and looks down—“still intact.”
I take the paper back from her and slip it in my pocket and smile, still trying to keep a straight face, holding my body upright so she won’t suspect me of cringing. Our waiter comes over to the table and I ask him what kinds of beer they serve.
“Heineken, Budweiser, Amstel light,” he recites.
“Yes?” I ask, staring at Bethany, gesturing for him to continue.
“That’s, um, all, sir,” he says.
“No Corona? No Kirin? No Grolsch? No Morretti?” I ask, confused, irate.
“I’m sorry, sir, but no,” he says cautiously. “Only Heineken, Budweiser, Amstel Light.”
“That’s crazy,” I sigh. “I’ll have a J&B on the rocks. No, an Absolut martini. No, a J&B straight up.”
