Hello, My Name Is Desperation

The main problem I have with “connecting” is that it feels exactly like what it is. Fake. A networking event, a meetup, a group where people show up in their best "I'm an interesting person" costume and recite the same script over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over.

What ends up happening? A bunch of people standing around. A lot of nervous laughter. A lot of phrases like "So, what do you do for work?” It’s all just a game of niceties where everyone pretends to care about what the other person is saying.

No friction, no realness, no stakes. And without friction, there is no fire.

I can’t do it. At least not in the way that’s expected. It doesn’t mean I’m combative. I’m not some lunatic barging into your event to expose the lie. I just can’t feign enthusiasm for conversations that I couldn’t care less about.

People like to convince themselves that friendships can be found in adulthood, in these artificial spaces, in some desperate bid to reclaim what was lost. But real friendship can only be found during youth, before you learned how to curate yourself into a personal brand. When you’ve got nothing to offer but your dumb opinions and your embarrassing hobbies, and somehow, someone sticks around anyway. You can’t manufacture that at a rooftop mixer full of people who all have the same “aesthetic” and the same ability to make their eyes go dead the moment they realize you’re not interested in dating them.

Forced social interactions suck because they have no drip. No swag. Just a sea of people trying too hard to pretend they’re not trying too hard. Like a run club. The most inherently humiliating thing a human being can sign up for. Have you ever seen a run club in action? A stampede of people in polyester clothing. Everyone acting like they’re there to better themselves, but deep down, they know the truth: they are chasing after something they will never catch.

There is no scenario where a bad bitch joins a run club. And the men are even worse. You think they’re there for fitness? No. They’re there because this seemed like a good way to get near women without incurring a restraining order.

You cannot force anything in this life. Not success. Not money. Not love. And especially not human connection. But these people keep trying, like if they just attend enough conferences, shake enough hands, exchange enough Instagrams, they will be rewarded with a friend.

The only way out is to stop forcing this charade. To take your hands off the wheel. Because the things that actually matter don’t come when you’re looking right at them. It’s like staring into the sun. If you try to force it, you’ll go blind. But if you look slightly away, it actually feels kinda good.

It’s cliche to say, but the harder you push, the more resistance you create. The guy who needs a girlfriend more than anything? He’s the one radiating so much desperation that even women across the room feel it. The person who needs a job the most? Sweaty handshake, voice cracking, already sabotaging the interview before it begins. You ever notice that when you’re actively looking for your glasses, you can never find them? Then the second you give up and surrender to the idea of a life without vision, there they are, sitting on top of your head. That’s everything. That’s life. The moment you truly stop grasping for something, the world, as if it’s trolling you, finally drops it in your lap.

The people who show up to these forced interactions, gripping the wheel so hard their knuckles go white, trying to brute-force connection, don’t realize they’re doing the social equivalent of chasing squirrels in the park. The more you lunge, the faster it scatters. But if you just sit there, eat your sandwich, exist in your own world, eventually, one comes to you. You didn’t force it. You didn’t trick it. You just let it happen.

Or maybe it doesn’t happen. Maybe you never get the job, the friend, the love, the thing you want. Maybe you just exist in a state of perpetual wanting until you die. Either way, at least you won’t be at a run club.

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