Musing On Being Alejandro

During my fifth of a century of life, it has become rather apparent that I am a beta male. This ranking has led me to a series of personality quirks and various physical reactions to external stimuli. The life of a beta male is most dangerous while in middle school, where the hormones leave their training academy and head for the front lines. This is the time in which the alpha and beta males begin their great schism, the alphas went on to bulk their muscles and reigned over the females of the school, and the betas retreated to their caves and began to whine.
I being a fairly low ranking beta male did not exit my pupal stage until after my teen years, which is not the most fortunate of times to leave metamorphosis as a rather large and unseemly moth. Before you go about saying “that’s not true!” and all of that other clap-trap, you need to stop taking me so seriously and continue reading. Now, where was I? De Nang?
As expressed in my previous blog, I apparently lack the proper combination of pheromones to attract any females that don’t spend four hours a day watching reruns of Oprah from 1992, and eating tubs of processed cheese. So, I’ve began to try and rely on my outright witticisms to attain the eyes of the ladies, but unfortunately for me they are quite tightly stuck inside their sockets. Though in recent years since emerging from my cocoon I have done my best to make myself less garish and unsightly to look upon it’s seems not enough to make women take interest in me. So instead I have built a device from a used toaster oven and a series of misused Christmas lights to make myself more interesting, but it only left me unevenly cooked and half-lit.

The only time in recent memory that anyone took an interest in me after hearing my voice was during my adventures with my compatriots Laura, Linzie, and Nicole last week. Upon Laura, Linzie, and I’s return from the utterly unspicy food of a local Thai restaurant to Nicole speaking with her mother on the phone. When we got settled in our seats Laura and Linzie got to talking about something while I stared off into space (one of my greatest skills), yet at some point I said a handful of sounds that may have been formed into a fractured sentence. For description sake, I will say that I was having an internal discussion with my brain over what my favorite middle-eastern fruit was.
Apparently the few syllables that escaped my larynx was able to move across the apartment to the kitchen and into Nicole’s phone. As my nasally whines were sent by satellite to another part of the country it apparently registered as “man” in the mind of the mother on the phone, a common mistake to be made. She then inquired her daughter; “is there a boy there?” with some anti-hesitance as apparently it was assumed that I was someone who resembled a young Clive Owen, as opposed to being a modern day Ed Grimley.
Now, you might wonder what the point of all that was? Well to tell you the truth I don't know either, but you still bothered to read it, maybe I just felt the need to waste your time by making you read some inane gibberish in run-on sentences. Anyways, despite all of the weirdness that I exhume, and lack of testosterone I am becoming mildly well adjusted with the moth I have turned into. And thinking about it, even if I don’t always enjoy who I am, I don’t think I would rather be anyone else. Except for maybe this kid.