All I had to do to convince my disability examiner that I was a for-real-mentally-ill-person was mention that I have rather grandiose thoughts about myself. I didn't even really have to go into specifics, and that, along with all the trouble I was having at the time with my full-time retail job, and the hospitalizations, and the documented, continued need for psychiatric care and medication, was enough to convince him to green light my benefits.
One of the main things I go on about in my head is this idea that, what has until now only really existed, so far, as a reality of ANY kind, has existed in my head, will someday be manifest in the reality-the "real world"- that most of us readily recognize as the reality we all exist in. Of course, a guy who gets credited with singlehandedly ending the cold war in the eighth grade, among many other deeds, is going to be quite the something if that day ever does come. That would probably mean that I would have the veritable pick of the litter as far as getting a real live girlfriend. Would it not?
Here's the problem with that: for as long as I can remember, I've been the guy who admires the really attractive young women from quite a distance. These women always had a lot of confidence that went with their great beauty, and that only enhanced their beauty. They also tended to have a really bitchy, mean side to them as well. And here's the problem with that: no matter what I did to prove myself worthy, and I'll give examples further on down, they always seemed to decide that giving me some arrogant, "kiss my ass" "opportunity" was plenty good enough for trash like me.
Two examples: 1) in 1988, while in my last year of undergrad at UT-Austin. I managed to generate a cat-and-mouse game with Sara out of her attempt to take me down. Look at the post "I'm not bad" from January, 2016 for some detail on that. Anyway, I decided to end the deal when a friend of her's started conspicuously coughing when we two, myself and Sara's friend, were alone in an art studio at UT-Austin. I hadn't seen Sara in two months, and this attitude her friend gave off that now was my "opportunity" to start kissing ass really put me off. At least that's how I interpreted all of those forced-sounding coughs coming from this girl.
Example 2) At SVA in New York City in 1991, I had assigned love interest status to one Ann Marie. Unfortunately, I had come off as kind of scary to everyone, so she was having none of it, and she had moved on by my last semester in grad school in the Spring of 1991. The critical juncture came in the last days of the Spring Semester, when I essentially let her go as she walked by me in the hall in one of the Art Buildings.
This seemed to please those that it mattered to me to please, such as a teacher/ artist named Brett DePalma, who seemed to be worried about me up until then. Funny thing is, I saw Ann Marie on the streets of Midtown Manhattan in the days after school let out. I felt her eyes on me, I smiled as I we passed on the street, as if to say, "You see! I really do love you."
A few weeks later, I figured that I had to go see her at a nearby gallery from where we encountered each other. A gallery that I induced that she may have worked at, from interactions with my thesis advisor, among others, whose gallery it was that represented him, and I went there one afternoon.
There was a nicely dressed young man at the front desk. I talked to him a little and looked at the brochure for the exhibit, and I heard a young woman's voice from an office directly partitioned off from the front desk. Could it have been Ann Marie? She talked on the phone, and the young guy at the desk coughed a forced cough, or "harrumphed," so I walked out.
Both of these examples have the quality of me showing up, and the other party giving me this "kiss my ass" attitude in response. Mind you, I was the guy who made the crude sexual proposition that made the rounds in the UT Art building, I guess, and who was viewed as a threat to the girls at SVA , so these women saw these "opportunities" as good enough for me.
Maybe, in both instances, these women were trying to orchestrate "meet cute" moments, like those moments in the romantic comedies, and that "meet cute" quality didn't quite come off. If this Richy Vegas stuff has any basis in reality, I would advise the Chloe Grace Moretzes, Jennifer Lawerences, or Ariana Grandes of the world not to try to meet me cute. It might not come off as cute, and if I'm the kind of man that I've wanted to be for so many years, I might let them all know, in no uncertain terms, that they can go fuck themselves. Please don't treat me in an arrogant manner. Please?