/lit/ - Literature

There once was a boy, who made a courageous decision. A decision that, especially in his position, demanded an amount of heroism he had before only dreamed of having, but which, through imagining he could, winked to him as a credible possibility. He would ask out girl, and face whatever came with that decision.

Oh but how? How would he ask her out? The goal was, after all, to get her to go out with him, so he knew he couldn't half-ass it. He knew too however, that overthinking the whole ordeal, especially when it was game-time, would only make him spill his spaghetti and mortally embarass himself. Luckily he was content with the risk of embarassment in the face of such opportunity, and so he pondered his options. He wanted his best side to shine, naturally. Would he write her a poem? Perhaps a letter? Risky, since he didn't know whether she was into literature like he was. The only thing he did know about her was that she tended to ask really smart questions in class, and that she was the coolest of the popular college girls. Not the most popular by a long shot (she would regularly shoot down any dumb question with quick wit, regardless of topic), but it was as if she was so... so transcendentally cool that she was popular with the popular girls. Real king of kings yet unknown to the masses type stuff. And he, comfybro, would go for it, ask her out, shoot his arrow and aim for her soul. That much was settled, and it was precisely in this moment that he understood. Letters of love would not do, it wasn't his style. Neither would poems, paintings, love songs, or the long con of trying to orbit her work out in his favour. No, like a hunter walking into an anthill he would have to work his way forward with true aim and no hesitation. Comfybro would simply walk up to her when he first laid eyes on her that day (he feared he would lose heart if he bothered with questions such as 'perhaps now' and the like that only distract), get her attention by tapping her on the shoulder, and then without any fuss speak the words "would you like to go out with me". He would then look at her, neither absent-mindedly as if to convey how cool and detached he was, nor too intently as if to convey what a passionate and focused man he was. Relax, smile, tap shoulder, say line. Whatever came after he would deal with or face rejection, but his mind was singular in that he knew it had to be done. If he was to ever achieve anything in those areas he valued, then he had to have balls and he had to have the record to back said balls up. It wouldn't be too bad, the rejection. The prospect of shitting his pants completely and abandoning this endeavor would inevitably lead him deeper into isolation and depression and shame, he was certain. Better to atleast make an attempt at bleeding these demons, rather than to believe their words and bitch out altogether.

cont

the part where he gets the girl

There once was a boy, who made a courageous decision. A decision that, especially in his position, demanded an amount of heroism he had before only dreamed of having, but which, through imagining he could, winked to him as a credible possibility. He would ask out girl, and face whatever came with that decision.

Oh but how? How would he ask her out? The goal was, after all, to get her to go out with him, so he knew he couldn't half-ass it. He knew too however, that overthinking the whole ordeal, especially when it was game-time, would only make him spill his spaghetti and mortally embarass himself. Luckily he was content with the risk of embarassment in the face of such opportunity, and so he pondered his options. He wanted his best side to shine, naturally. Would he write her a poem? Perhaps a letter? Risky, since he didn't know whether she was into literature like he was. The only thing he did know about her was that she tended to ask really smart questions in class, and that she was the coolest of the popular college girls. Not the most popular by a long shot (she would regularly shoot down any dumb question with quick wit, regardless of topic), but it was as if she was so... so transcendentally cool that she was popular with the popular girls. Real king of kings yet unknown to the masses type stuff. And he, comfybro, would go for it, ask her out, shoot his arrow and aim for her soul. That much was settled, and it was precisely in this moment that he understood. Letters of love would not do, it wasn't his style. Neither would poems, paintings, love songs, or the long con of trying to orbit her work out in his favour. No, like a hunter walking into an anthill he would have to work his way forward with true aim and no hesitation. Comfybro would simply walk up to her when he first laid eyes on her that day (he feared he would lose heart if he bothered with questions such as 'perhaps now' and the like that only distract), get her attention by tapping her on the shoulder, and then without any fuss speak the words "would you like to go out with me". He would then look at her, neither absent-mindedly as if to convey how cool and detached he was, nor too intently as if to convey what a passionate and focused man he was. Relax, smile, tap shoulder, say line. Whatever came after he would deal with or face rejection, but his mind was singular in that he knew it had to be done. If he was to ever achieve anything in those areas he valued, then he had to have balls and he had to have the record to back said balls up. It wouldn't be too bad, the rejection. The prospect of shitting his pants completely and abandoning this endeavor would inevitably lead him deeper into isolation and depression and shame, he was certain. Better to atleast make an attempt at bleeding these demons, rather than to believe their words and bitch out altogether.

cont

the part where he gets the girl

There once was a boy, who made a courageous decision. A decision that, especially in his position, demanded an amount of heroism he had before only dreamed of having, but which, through imagining he could, winked to him as a credible possibility. He would ask out girl, and face whatever came with that decision.

Oh but how? How would he ask her out? The goal was, after all, to get her to go out with him, so he knew he couldn't half-ass it. He knew too however, that overthinking the whole ordeal, especially when it was game-time, would only make him spill his spaghetti and mortally embarass himself. Luckily he was content with the risk of embarassment in the face of such opportunity, and so he pondered his options. He wanted his best side to shine, naturally. Would he write her a poem? Perhaps a letter? Risky, since he didn't know whether she was into literature like he was. The only thing he did know about her was that she tended to ask really smart questions in class, and that she was the coolest of the popular college girls. Not the most popular by a long shot (she would regularly shoot down any dumb question withquick wit, regardless of topic), but it was as if she was so... so transcendentally cool that she was popular with the popular girls. Real king of kings yet unknown to the masses type stuff. And he, comfybro, would go for it, ask her out, shoot his arrow and aim for her soul. That much was settled, and it was precisely in this moment that he understood. Letters of love would not do, it wasn't his style. Neither would poems, paintings, love songs, or the long con of trying to orbit her work out in his favour. No, like a hunter walking into an anthill he would have to work his way forward with true aim and no hesitation. Comfybro would simply walk up to her when he first laid eyes on her that day (he feared he would lose heart if he bothered with questions such as 'perhaps now' and the like that only distract), get her attention by tapping her on the shoulder, and then without any fuss speak the words "would you like to go out with me". He would then look at her, neither absent-mindedly as if to convey how cool and detached he was, nor too intently as if to convey what a passionate and focused man he was. Relax, smile, tap shoulder, say line. Whatever came after he would deal with or face rejection, but his mind was singular in that he knew it had to be done. If he was to ever achieve anything in those areas he valued, then he had to have balls and he had to have the record to back said balls up. It wouldn't be too bad, the rejection. The prospect of shitting his pants completely and abandoning this endeavor would inevitably lead him deeper into isolation and depression and shame, he was certain. Better to atleast make an attempt at bleeding these demons, rather than to believe their words and bitch out altogether.

cont