Fear
Anatomy is Destiny
- Joined
- Oct 13, 2019
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No doubt it's a lifetime of events or cruel things people said that pushed you to begin soft looksmaxing.
But would like to know what experience or moment led you to pull the trigger on finally getting surgeries.
For me, it was an absolutely brutal mogging I experienced in my early twenties.
A buddy invited me out to a dive bar for a double date. He'd matched with a girl on Tinder and her friend.
Bars aren't really my scene but it sounded like fun enough, so I agreed to meet up with them.
I went into it without expectations. Back then, I was OK-looking, had had a few relationships and some hookups, but I cared about looks no more than the average guy. I grew up very poor, so money was more my focus. I had been out of college and working in finance for a few years and was making insane money for any age; based on that, I felt quite good about myself. So really I was looking forward to wasting some time that night and meeting someone new.
We got there before the girls and waited at the bar.
When they showed up, I panicked a little. My friend's match turned out to be a ginger, and something about gingers always seems... undercooked to me.
But then I saw her friend — dirty blonde, lightly tanned, ~5'5" with big tits in a low-cut top — and relief passed over me in an awesome wave.
Now in retrospect, of course, this girl wasn't higher than a 4 PSL.
Really all she had going for her was that she was white, not fat, and had a real pair of warlocks.
At the time though, that was enough, and I was totally down to fuck her lights out if it came to that.
We all sit down at the bar. My friend and his match actually hit it off, and remain engrossed in conversation the rest of the night.
My date, meanwhile, orders a beer and begins watching baseball up on the TV.
She hasn't even introduced herself to me yet, and I'm trying to figure out if she's autistic or just rude.
I make a few attempts at casual conversation, but all efforts are met with "uh-huhs" and dead-end answers.
I'm not terribly upset about this — actually, I found it funny at first, since I didn't really like people too much myself.
I also wasn't desperate to get laid, so I didn't really give a fuck about her one way or another.
But something about her attitude starts to irritate me.
I try asking her a few different kinds of questions. It doesn't go anywhere.
Eventually, she just stops responding entirely.
Out of boredom, I start grabbing massive fistfuls of peanuts and shelling them open on the bar.
I flick them around and some hit her arm and her drink.
She doesn't even react and continues watching the game. I laugh to myself in disbelief.
I didn't really care what this chick's deal was at first, but now I'm getting pissed off.
I try to gauge the vibe she's giving off.
It wasn't that she was offended that someone like me was trying to engage her, like how some snooty girls can be.
Actually, that would have been better, because then I would have at least commanded a sliver of her attention.
But there was clearly none of that.
No... it was that I had been disqualified and rendered invisible from the moment she set eyes on me.
For her, I didn't even deserve to have my existence acknowledged — not even as a potential sexual partner, but just as a human being.
She was, in other words, absolutely, palpably indifferent to me.
I didn't conclude this in such explicit terms in my head when it was happening, but I had an intuitive sense of it.
With that, I decide to write her off and try to find something to do.
I call over the bartender from down the bar so I can at least have someone to talk to.
As he comes over and into view, I see he's a decent-looking guy. 6'1" or so, tan Hispanic, dark hair in an undercut before it was popular, and a few tattoos.
Basically what girls with average tastes might consider "hot."
He starts talking to me. He's a likable and interesting guy, as bartenders are wont to be, and he's cool to talk to.
As soon as he comes over, my date speaks up. She becomes a completely different person.
She's suddenly very talkative, bubbly — I can't believe the change in her demeanor.
He's a solid bro and tries to keep me included in the flow of conversation, but she's essentially talking to just him.
She flirts like mad the entire time and he reciprocates to some degree, but I suspect he's being polite/doing the whole bartender shtick to get a good tip.
I'm stunned by her blatant disregard for the glaring disparity in how she's treating each of us.
He leaves and comes back multiples to check on us. Each time my date keeps flirting and asking him very personal questions. At some point I give up trying to work my way into the conversation. I have realized I am powerless to do anything, and before this man behind the bar, I am NOT EVEN HUMAN to her. In between him stopping by, she adjusts her bra right in front of me to make sure her boobs are pushed up and mashed together to the max. Again, I am floored: he makes her a bitch in heat with a smile and a wink; I cannot even obtain eye contact. We are on completely different planes of reality.
This goes on for about an hour. Over the course of it, I gradually internalize what's unfolding before me. By the end, I am sitting at the bar defeated, a pathetic heap playing quietly with peanuts. She finally gets up to talk to her friend, my buddy's Tinder match. It looks like they're planning to head out at last. My friend and his match hug, while my date walks right past me toward the exit; I do not exist. Right before leaving, she leans over the bar and writes something down on a napkin. She hands it with a big grin to the bartender and runs out.
I shuffle over to the bartender, mouth agape. I am still processing the events of the past hour and a half. He hands me the napkin; she's given him her number. He laughs and says "You can keep it man, I'm not interested." This guy... he had so many options, he wouldn't even bother fucking her. Not only that, but I am not jealous of him, and this enrages me. It would have been easier to bear if he were a douchebag and went for it. Realizing this, I am on the verge of furious collapse.
That's when I looked at the napkin. When I saw it, my entire being was condensed to a single point of dumbfounded, helpless, seething frustration.
I have kept it to this day:
It was then that I realized that my genetics and my upbringing had failed me.
That without a course correction, I was destined for the wastebin of society.
That as I was, I was not enough.
TLDR: Slut with big tits ignores me on date, throws herself at bartender; I get mogged to Alpha Centauri and resolve to get surgery.
But would like to know what experience or moment led you to pull the trigger on finally getting surgeries.
For me, it was an absolutely brutal mogging I experienced in my early twenties.
A buddy invited me out to a dive bar for a double date. He'd matched with a girl on Tinder and her friend.
Bars aren't really my scene but it sounded like fun enough, so I agreed to meet up with them.
I went into it without expectations. Back then, I was OK-looking, had had a few relationships and some hookups, but I cared about looks no more than the average guy. I grew up very poor, so money was more my focus. I had been out of college and working in finance for a few years and was making insane money for any age; based on that, I felt quite good about myself. So really I was looking forward to wasting some time that night and meeting someone new.
We got there before the girls and waited at the bar.
When they showed up, I panicked a little. My friend's match turned out to be a ginger, and something about gingers always seems... undercooked to me.
But then I saw her friend — dirty blonde, lightly tanned, ~5'5" with big tits in a low-cut top — and relief passed over me in an awesome wave.
Now in retrospect, of course, this girl wasn't higher than a 4 PSL.
Really all she had going for her was that she was white, not fat, and had a real pair of warlocks.
At the time though, that was enough, and I was totally down to fuck her lights out if it came to that.
We all sit down at the bar. My friend and his match actually hit it off, and remain engrossed in conversation the rest of the night.
My date, meanwhile, orders a beer and begins watching baseball up on the TV.
She hasn't even introduced herself to me yet, and I'm trying to figure out if she's autistic or just rude.
I make a few attempts at casual conversation, but all efforts are met with "uh-huhs" and dead-end answers.
I'm not terribly upset about this — actually, I found it funny at first, since I didn't really like people too much myself.
I also wasn't desperate to get laid, so I didn't really give a fuck about her one way or another.
But something about her attitude starts to irritate me.
I try asking her a few different kinds of questions. It doesn't go anywhere.
Eventually, she just stops responding entirely.
Out of boredom, I start grabbing massive fistfuls of peanuts and shelling them open on the bar.
I flick them around and some hit her arm and her drink.
She doesn't even react and continues watching the game. I laugh to myself in disbelief.
I didn't really care what this chick's deal was at first, but now I'm getting pissed off.
I try to gauge the vibe she's giving off.
It wasn't that she was offended that someone like me was trying to engage her, like how some snooty girls can be.
Actually, that would have been better, because then I would have at least commanded a sliver of her attention.
But there was clearly none of that.
No... it was that I had been disqualified and rendered invisible from the moment she set eyes on me.
For her, I didn't even deserve to have my existence acknowledged — not even as a potential sexual partner, but just as a human being.
She was, in other words, absolutely, palpably indifferent to me.
I didn't conclude this in such explicit terms in my head when it was happening, but I had an intuitive sense of it.
With that, I decide to write her off and try to find something to do.
I call over the bartender from down the bar so I can at least have someone to talk to.
As he comes over and into view, I see he's a decent-looking guy. 6'1" or so, tan Hispanic, dark hair in an undercut before it was popular, and a few tattoos.
Basically what girls with average tastes might consider "hot."
He starts talking to me. He's a likable and interesting guy, as bartenders are wont to be, and he's cool to talk to.
As soon as he comes over, my date speaks up. She becomes a completely different person.
She's suddenly very talkative, bubbly — I can't believe the change in her demeanor.
He's a solid bro and tries to keep me included in the flow of conversation, but she's essentially talking to just him.
She flirts like mad the entire time and he reciprocates to some degree, but I suspect he's being polite/doing the whole bartender shtick to get a good tip.
I'm stunned by her blatant disregard for the glaring disparity in how she's treating each of us.
He leaves and comes back multiples to check on us. Each time my date keeps flirting and asking him very personal questions. At some point I give up trying to work my way into the conversation. I have realized I am powerless to do anything, and before this man behind the bar, I am NOT EVEN HUMAN to her. In between him stopping by, she adjusts her bra right in front of me to make sure her boobs are pushed up and mashed together to the max. Again, I am floored: he makes her a bitch in heat with a smile and a wink; I cannot even obtain eye contact. We are on completely different planes of reality.
This goes on for about an hour. Over the course of it, I gradually internalize what's unfolding before me. By the end, I am sitting at the bar defeated, a pathetic heap playing quietly with peanuts. She finally gets up to talk to her friend, my buddy's Tinder match. It looks like they're planning to head out at last. My friend and his match hug, while my date walks right past me toward the exit; I do not exist. Right before leaving, she leans over the bar and writes something down on a napkin. She hands it with a big grin to the bartender and runs out.
I shuffle over to the bartender, mouth agape. I am still processing the events of the past hour and a half. He hands me the napkin; she's given him her number. He laughs and says "You can keep it man, I'm not interested." This guy... he had so many options, he wouldn't even bother fucking her. Not only that, but I am not jealous of him, and this enrages me. It would have been easier to bear if he were a douchebag and went for it. Realizing this, I am on the verge of furious collapse.
That's when I looked at the napkin. When I saw it, my entire being was condensed to a single point of dumbfounded, helpless, seething frustration.
I have kept it to this day:
It was then that I realized that my genetics and my upbringing had failed me.
That without a course correction, I was destined for the wastebin of society.
That as I was, I was not enough.
TLDR: Slut with big tits ignores me on date, throws herself at bartender; I get mogged to Alpha Centauri and resolve to get surgery.
