A Motivational Speech
This is for all you guys out there, all you boys who wallow in your defeat and hurt inside every time you see her. This is for you guys who have the perfect date planned but can never find the girl to take. This is for you, you sad gentlemen clinging to hope, praying for your day in the sun. For you, emo-guys, I offer you this, this motivational speech. I offer you this, this piece of advice:
Cut that god-damned bullshit out.
Stop moping. Stop crying. Stop writing in your journal about how much you love her or want someone to love or someone to love you. Stop whining about being lonely and stop hating the world because you couldn’t man up and do something about your own self-defeat.
Take a second and look down, look right into your lap. Unzip your shorts, stick your hand inside and feel around. What do you feel? If your answer is a dick and some pathetic balls, slap yourself with that same hand. You’ve just been slapped in the face with your own dick-and-balls, and you’ve been slapped by them because they’re pissed you haven’t let them grow. They’re what make you a man, so man up and own your life. Moping and crying and writing and whining aren’t going to save you; they aren’t the key to your happiness. Owning your fate; that’s what gets you to your goal. Choosing to try; that’s what earns you your victory. Hunting your prey; that’s what gets you fed.
Don’t look at me with your red, swollen, tear-soaked eyes and pretend like I haven’t been there. Don’t look at me and pout and tell me I don’t know what it’s like. Some of you have known the pain longer than I did, some of you less, but either way, I was there, and I’m telling you out of trial and error and trial and error and trial and victory that being a bitch gets you nothing. You’ve got to get up and take what it is that you want. Own up, grab what belongs to you and not them.
You know why she’s with him and not you? He had the balls to try; he had the audacity to claim her for his own. It’s not because he’s a jerk and nice guys finish last—it’s because you think being a nice guy puts you at a disadvantage. Do yourself a favor and throw that pussy way of thinking right out the window, because we’ve already established that you’ve got something that, at the very least, resembles balls. Get out there and show her you mean business. Don’t complain about how she always whines that she can never find a decent guy when you know you’re the right one for her, because she can’t see what you don’t put in her face. Attraction isn’t about subtle innuendo, it’s about showing your worth. Flirt with her, dance with her, and for God’s sake, kiss her. She’s not going to come to you—you’re not a celebrity, a male model, or the heir to a throne; you’re an emo-guy, and you have something that the enemy doesn’t—staying power.
You think about her enough to visualize your perfect date. You know her favorite color, her favorite food, her favorite flower, and you might even be infatuated enough to know her favorite brand of toiler paper, so use that information, use that intelligence, use that sense of romance and that heart of yours to show the world you mean business, and that you weren’t put on this earth to sulk.
I don’t know, maybe all of this is falling on deaf ears. Maybe you like sulking. Maybe you like to feel the hurt of seeing her with some guy you know is just going to cheat on her. Maybe you like keeping your feelings bottled inside just so you can spill them to someone other than her or all over the pages of your little black journal. Then again, maybe I’m not doing it for all of you “maybe” boys out there; maybe I’m doing it for all you guys out there who want a change. I know you’re somewhere out there reading this, seething in your distaste for your previous ineptness, ready to do battle. I know you’re planning your attack, plotting your failproof tactics so that when the time is right, you’ll strike, and she’ll be yours. Do it, and when you’ve won, after you’ve taken her on that perfect date, after you’ve fallen in love, stick your hand back in your pants. You know what you’ll feel?
Big, brass balls.
(By Joseph Manibusan)
