The Courage of a Kiosk Salesman

I wish I had the courage of a Kiosk Salesman.   I know they’re the bane of the holiday shopper, lacking any storefront or the confines of four walls, so anyone who passes within their vicinity is a potential customer.  Like a small dog on a short leash in an open yard, they go after anything– fearlessly.   And it’s not the salesmanship or the bravado I envy, no it’s being impervious to rejection that rolls like whiskey off a duck’s back.  (that imagery doe) They continue undaunted, hawking their wares.  And if they can sell cheap lotions and strips of clothing with such dedication, why can’t I sell me?

Because it seems like every shut door is a tally on some invisible scorecard in the back of my mind that says “Maybe you’re not as special as you thought” It’s one more stolen jelly bean from a swiftly dwindling jar of my self esteem, and The Universe is getting diabetes from eating me up.

I log in to a stonewall of smiling faces, of heights and ages, and this information that’s supposed to lead me to ‘the one’.  And I’ve been letting loose arrows by the quiver, and they all get delivered and met with:
Read By

While the Kiosk salesman gets a shake of the head or a wave of disinterest, I get a tiny notification that my carefully crafted message was seen but not reciprocated.   And the sting of that is potent.  Because this is the best of me on display, carefully crafted and showcased in my avenue of strength– writing.  With the chosen photo out of thousands that makes my chin look chiseled and my arms look like they can carry more than disappointment.

This isn’t me disheveled at the supermarket in my wine-stained-work-clothes chatting up some girl in front of the frozen pizzas, where she can laugh and walk away and I can tell myself her boyfriend was just more interesting today.  No, this is the best of me rejected constantly in a place dedicated to people searching for love.  And It’s not Okay Cupid, to turn me into your pin-cush-‘in of what could-have-been.

Because you were supposed to make this easier.  But lately, I’ve get the feeling like you’re just one more door for me to look through and see the rest of the world dancing by.  And I promise to behave myself and not to step on toes this time, if I could just have one more dance partner who leaves me in awe, mouth-agape with nothing to say.

And maybe I should stop talking.

I should stop talking.

I should.

Bump it with:

“…sometimes a blowjobs not enough.”   haha best lyric ever.

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