A Thousand Tiny Failures : Memoirs of a Pickup Artist Read Online Free

any guy, any size, shape, race, or age, could learn to seduce beautiful women through the practice of not-so secret techniques. And there were Internet forums where amazing and powerful pickup tactics were being shared freely.
    I looked at my roommates to see if they were excited. One was picking his nose, the other was launching a new game of God of War on the Xbox. I ran upstairs to my room, got onto the Internet, and started reading. I devoured articles all day and all night until the sun was rising over the smog of Vancouver .
    You bro, are going to be awesome at this.
    Here was my answer: I would approach beautiful women, learn pickup and become a super hero. It was as obvious as pooping, breathing air, or paying rent. The next morning I woke up early, ate a greasy breakfast of eggs and bacon with an Americano, marched to the nearest hip street, and prepared my first approach.
    It works. Everything changed.
     

Chapter 2
     
    Transmogrification ( Newb )
     
    “Fuck it,” I told myself as I attempted my first approach… ever, with my heart hammering through my sore and bandaged chest, sweat running over my palms, bladder quivering, and every pre-installed voice screaming, Don’t do it Sebastian! You’ll be bludgeoned to death, your bloody remains scattered as pigeon feed! Go back to your tribe you pussy. Go back to being lazy, sad, and poor. You’re gonna have a panic attack. You’re invading her privacy and she’s too pretty for you.
    I lurched towards her, wiped my brow, lowered my sunglasses, and said, “You have the whole bench to yourself, nice work.” It was the best I could come up. I’d forgotten every pickup line I’d spent all night memorizing.
    “Hello,” she replied, lowering Anna Karenina and looking up at me.
    Her teeth were shiny and perfect; her lips, puffy and youthful. She was hot.
    “What are you doing?” I asked meekly.
    “I’m just chilling out. It’s my day off. I live in White Rock but I looove Vancouver .”
    It was going ok, but I was too nervous. There was something about relating roller coasters to sex and I was supposed to touch her a lot, or hypnotize her; but I’d smoked too much pot that year and the short term memory suffered. My heart beat even faster, and it took effort to push air through my lungs, so I coughed, and the world flipped upside down like in that movie Inception. I was on the verge of another panic-attack. This is what usually happened when I talked to pretty girls. This is why I wanted to learn how to pick them up—to end my brain’s tyrannical reign over my body.
    “ Ummm , well I’ll just be over, cough, ummm , at that coffee shop ok…bye,” I stuttered.
    “Umm, bye?” she said with a furrowed brow as I fled with my terror. Oh my terror. How embarrassing.
    Then there was a serene calm like a beachside breeze in autumn and a smile broke across my twenty-seven year old face.
    You did it. Fuck them all you did it. You’re awesome.
    She was into it. I should have stayed there. I should have got her number. I should have taken her for coffee. I should have done lots of things but I didn’t. I decided then that I’d do whatever it took to figure this out. I learned more from talking to one girl for fifteen seconds than I did from reading forum posts all night. The real, “ ahah ,” moments, the epiphanies, only formed after I approached a girl. Experience is the key; it holds the answers. You don’t learn to play guitar by listening to music; you don’t become a world champion athlete by going to games and sitting in the bleachers. Pickup isn’t a spectator sport. If I don’t talk to girls, I don’t meet them, attract them, or fuck them, or marry them, or whatever.
    I went home and watched my roommates play Xbox. I thought about that girl on the bench. I could have done much, much better. I would.

Chapter 3
     
    Esther (The Stupid Club)
     
    My band wasn’t that popular yet, but we still managed to land small bar gigs. At one show there