An Embarrassment Throwback.

I don't deal well with social gatherings. I feel like a bad comedian must on stage. I want to make an immediate impression, dazzle these attractive, much cooler than I strangers with the wit and beauty of me. Consequently, I try too hard. Yesterday, I tried really hard and bombed harder.

I've learned how to imitate the behavior of the better liked humans. I can fake the social butterfly trait, to presume that I'm likable. I can make conversation, and when a question about me is thrust, I can deftly pivot the answer to divert the conversation point about someone else. The great thing about the universal human self obsession, once someone gets rolling talking about themselves, the question asked about you that went unanswered is always forgotten. There's a reason research has shown the word in any language which gives the most pleasure is one's own name, a photo of oneself the image that's most fascinating, and why flattery is so damn effective.

Those who love parties also love attention. They love having photos taken and when compliment is offered, it feels nice. For a fatty (or ex-fatty), those very normal reactions are re-wired to the opposite. Fat people generally abhor attention, hide from photo-ops, and compliments are all sarcasm.

Yes, I fake it good now. I smile like I mean it, look girls in their mascara circled eyes, allow myself to laugh when someone actually says something funny. But the performance has it's strains. Like a computer running too many programs at once, my CPU and RAM get overloaded, my OS is more likely to freeze. I was speaking to a girl, late twenties, black with a Oprah late 1990s affro -- not so attractive she was intimidating, not so ugly I was completely comfortable. My lifeline mate -- the guy in the group I know I'm sit near, hang onto or I'll drown -- he's urinating, leaving me with this girl. The obligatory, what do you do for a living question comes up. I pivot neatly, and within 30 seconds of asking me, she's talking about herself.

The problem occurs here. She works in a property management department of a large corporation. She helps coordinate and lower costs of the buildings they rent. I want to ask her what idiot, sheltered Mormon-types ask prostitutes: "That's so boring I want to cry on your behalf. Here, take some of my mental disease. Go forth and lose your job, make yourself an interesting life -- for God's sake!!!" When she finished telling me about her daily routine, (which I've prompted by a series of lame, generic prompts), I'm at a complete dead end. I can't find a single, redeeming, complimentary thing to say about her job. It's an awkwardness the food poisoning curdling the belly. I feel bad for the girl. My empathy for the pointlessness of her existence kills me. I want not to believe that. I want something about her to be interesting. So I ask her, if you weren't working, what would you do. She wants to travel. Work on films. Open a restaurant. Something.. anything. "Nothing," she says. I don't get what she means at first. "I mean nothing. I would do absolutely nothing."

Now, when I'm more advanced with my social performance art, I'll remember to re-pivot. Make a completely non-related comment to push the conversation away from the socially awkward rocks. But I freeze. My programming fails. I'm five beers down, too.

My brain resets to truth. I say I wish that jobs didn't define us. I wish we could defined others by the indefinable qualities by which we define ourselves. I wish we could talk without fear.

If I'd actually said that, I would have been granted a black belt in total wankery. But what I actually said was a far greater disgrace.

Have you met that guy in a bar who tries so say something profound? He's slurring and fumbling for words to express a bad poetry pronouncement, actually uses the word existential, and when the words trip over completely -- he stares into empty space with abject imbecility. A beat later, he realises the grave of embarrassment he's dug himself into. The girl he's talking to knows. If he's been loud enough, the polite ones are pretending not to notice.

And of course, the only way out is to keep digging. There's a nugget of truth down there somewhere. There's a intelligent point here!

No there isn't. You're social version of a Darwin Awards winner. You are a complete fucking retard.

That was me last night.