Tag Archives: self-confidence

Quiet homebody seeks LTR

About Me:

ASL?  23, male, my apartment (indefinitely)

I find myself wishing I had the nerve to pursue the dating game again.  I’ve been randomly browsing dating websites and finding myself yearning to reach through my screen to pull the geekiest, kindest looking boys right into my living room.  (Which makes me realize how much my idea of an ideal boyfriend has changed over the years)

Of course I still like a bad boy with a bod as much as anyone else, but I think I’ve come to realize that I would never be able to feel totally at ease with someone who’s going to put in the effort it takes to look like the douche that everybody envies when I’m purely running on youthful metabolism at this time (and hopefully for a long time!)

I get told time and time again that I’m “literally beautiful” “one of the best looking people [I] know” “like model pretty”.  I’ve been approached to do modeling 4 or 5 times (once was local alternative, once was a small artsy/modern kinda business, once by a Holt Renfrew rep., and a couple times online by people wanting me to do a few local runways for their aspiring fashion lines).  And I’m humble enough about this that I either reject or ignore every offer.

Beauty is honestly, truly, skin deep.  I don’t feel beautiful at all.  I don’t feel worthwhile at all.

I have a very long, slender, thin frame.  One of the things I love most about my body is my tiny waist and beautiful bone structure.  I have broad shoulders, my limbs are long, my cheekbones out of this world, but slathered all over it is this skin that I writhe under.  And that’s not to say I have bad skin, I just… I sometimes feel like I am a fat skinny person.  Like everyone who sees me sees all the things I would love about myself, but underneath my clothes I see the things that deter me (am I being literal or metaphorical?).  My chest for starters–inherited via my father, and his father before him.  The largest point of contention in my life.  I have never stood proud, shoulders back.  I have never taken my shirt off since beginning puberty.

Especially now that I live alone, this affects my life daily.  Trying to find clothes to wear that make me feel comfortable enough to brave going outside can be an hour long process.  Sometimes longer.  Sometimes I decide not to go out at all.  Even buying groceries is hard for me.  I have a lot of anxiety about people seeing me.  I’ve spent so much of my life stocking up on carbs and snack foods, frozen foods, foods with artificial ingredients and a longer shelf life.  Why?  Because it allows me to stay home for longer.  My skin feels like elastic and I’ve never had a lean tight body.  I feed myself garbage, how could I expect to have that body?  I am the skinny fat person, for as long as my metabolism allows.

I pick apart every little thing about myself and use it as fuel for being alone.  My breath reeks–cryptic tonsils.  I have awful sebaceous dermatitis–my hair gets so waxy if I’m not diligent and I shed skin cells from my scalp like my cats shed in the spring.  My teeth could be whiter, my nose could be more elegant (and it runs a lot because I broke it in kindergarten, which also makes me a mouth breather, yuck), my eyebrows never quite look like they belong.

Even non-physical things.

My mom still does my banking–I’m not frivolous I just don’t know anything about finances.  I’m pretty lazy when it comes to doing laundry.  My cats are welcome to walk, sit, or lay wherever they please (counter tops and dining tables included).  I am incredibly habitual and follow a daily routine, anything out of the ordinary is indelibly stressful.  If you’re with me for the long haul you better be prepared to re-watch my favourite movies and replay my favourite video games on a yearly (or so) basis.  I’m pretty ambitionless and am rarely motivated to do anything other than sit on my ass (my version of “homebody” for all you online dating folks).  I like to think I’d be into adventures and cute dates of laser tag or skating or going to the movies or walking through the park, but I’ll probably wind up passing because it’s too hot to wear a sweater to blanket my insecurities within.

Oh yea, and if we eat too close to bed time or I haven’t had a number 2 in a while (also thanks to my dad’s genetics), you can forget about cuddling with me much less doing ANYTHING ELSE.

So if any of this makes me your idea of a perfect partner, hit me up!


I failed you and what could have been ours

Romance doesn’t exist in the moment.  It’s something that is perceived later on.  Looking back on memories and times shared together that have long since passed, you reflect on your interactions; the smiles, the surroundings, the way the light bounces off of someone and draws your vision to the lines of their body and their soul.  Romance is looking back at these moments and remembering fondly that your heart was somewhere other than your chest.  It was in the air, breathing in the hope and the possibility, only to ever exhale when you find yourself looking back; respiring life into your memories and surrounding them in a fog of adoration.

I’m sorry that I failed you.  I’m sorry that my romance has been your complacency.  I’m sorry that time has passed you by and the memories have forgone your heart.

I wish that I had been someone more for you.  Someone who had laid with you and contemplated, swam with you and discovered, walked with you and remembered.  I wish that your memories of me echoed the romance that mine do of you.  I wish that our time spent together hadn’t been spent so in vain.

I’m sorry that it made you feel bad seeing me so tense.  No more confidence.  What that must have done to your vision of us as one.  Me; your responsibility and your sadness.  And I was weak in mind and spirit.  Never trusting myself to be capable of maintaining your brilliance.  I see how the light of my romance was dusk unto your sense of hope and possibility.

I’m sorry that I failed you and what could have been ours.  My worth–a song of broken harmony to bide the luster of our memory–not forgotten, but denied exaltation in a lost fantasy that I could never fashion into your being.


It was 12 o’clock in the morning.  I didn’t have to get up early for work today, so I felt like staying up a little later and watching a movie.  I’ve yet to set up Netflix on my Wii U, and my computer is a piece of garbage when it comes to loading Netflix videos, so I settled for youtube to see what I could find.  I ended up coming across a one hour documentary on Social Anxiety Disorder.

It wasn’t a life changing affair, by any means.  I’ve heard of it before, and was more or less aware of the inhibitions surrounding the disorder.  But I’d never really considered whether or not I have it.

In all honesty, I really don’t believe I do.  I am an extraordinarily adaptable person in social settings, and I’m kicking ass at Starbucks right now with positive customer service feedback, not to mention the feedback from my boss.  And, lets face it, to work at Starbucks you have to be a bit of a social butterfly!

But where I’m adaptable under social situations, I also seem to be adaptable in my ability to actually be social.  When I leave that store, and approach my apartment, something changes in me.  Plans I’d considered with friends and co-workers become obsolete.  Confidence dissolves.  Smile fades.

I hide.

Every day I sit in my apartment and ignore texts and phone calls.  I blow off friends and I stress about my life and everything that is wrong with it right now.  I know that I am sad, but do I have SAD?

My mother thinks I need to talk to a therapist.  She thinks I’m depressed.  She offers to pay for anything that would need to be paid for, but I just don’t want to.  I don’t want to rely on pills to be happy.  And even more so, I don’t want to leave the comfort of my apartment to navigate out into the city and try and find where I need to go–something I’ve found to be extremely stressful for me.  And no, I don’t have agoraphobia either.  Once someone finally manages to dissuade me from my dwelling, I happen to love going out and seeing new places… with someone.

Maybe this just extends from my fear of being alone.  Maybe I don’t want people to see that I am all alone.  Or maybe not.  I honestly don’t know.  All I know is that I really have a problem with who I am, and as much as I want a man to accept me for me, I even more so want to accept myself.