The creative process and the story of failing four times before getting laid
Don Draper or Peggy Olsen, they all get fucked. Fucked in the most unexpected position, but fucked nonetheless. Yet, in the alleys of unknown failures, unbeknownst to all lies the magic potion. And once in a while, we stumble upon it and drink it. Then we make love and not get fucked.
This is a story of all those times.
Example 1: You get rejections when you least expect it.
Made the best-damned sandwich in the whole wild west? ‘Tastes meh’, came the flying response from your date’s 5-year old niece. Niece not happy, date not happy. You sleep alone.
Example 2: You get up with the resolution to win. Every. Single. Morning.
Find the niece, grill her with what she would like to eat, and how it should be cooked. Follow the instructions by heart. Present the best-damned sandwich there is. ‘I don’t like it. I want to have pizza’, comes the matter-of-fact reply. Niece is a biatch, it seems. Your date went to buy pizza, you ate broccoli. You sleep alone.
Example 3: You try out variations to show you are the best suitable match.
Forget the food. Shake it up with smoothies, shakes, and ice-creams. Presenting the best-of-the-best sundae mankind has ever put their tongue on. ‘Too many flavors’, she looks at you without even licking it. The niece and her aunt leave. They have a thing to do. You sleep alone.
Example 4: You compromise and do what they like but in a more refined, polished, elegant style.
You wake up and receive a text: Niece not well, I’ll be alone. You remember she loves flowers. You buy a bouquet and decide to give her flowers one by one from it. She doesn’t like roses, lilies, or daffodils — your first three options. She leaves in a fury. You don’t know anything about her. The remaining flowers go down the gutter. You sleep alone.
Example 5: You say ‘fuck it’ but still give it a shot in your truest, purest creative style.
You just meet her and the niece. You write a half-hearted, half-baked haiku. ‘I lose in glory; striving to win fame and love. My last stroke of luck.’ The napkin marks the ink and she reads it. She gets up to leave with a deadpan face, handing you another napkin. ‘Tonight at 10, your place.’
Of all the things that you tried, a 17th-century poem gets you laid.
