Maybe this will give me temporary reprieve so I can focus on a boring business plan:

I see now why the happy, dancing boy in me died Monday night — he was told that just having fun wasn’t enough; he had to be more aware of his dance partner, more adultlike, taking responsibility because he was just not that good of a leader in a lead/follow dance style — talk about a mood killer.  It so deflated my ego that I just couldn’t stand being on the dance floor last night, especially after having a complete stranger, who hadn’t danced in six months, tell me, “Oh, you must be a beginner.”  Yeah?  Well, thanks for the confidence booster.  Go tell your friends because our dance instructors have reminded us that girls talk and tell each other who the terrible dancers are.  My reputation is sealed.  In reality, I’ll never be that guy in my dreams who dances suavely with women.  I’ll go home now and let you find someone else to bring you back up to speed.  I don’t need this shit!  I remember now why I asked my wife to marry me — because she was never a game player, having never played the field, so she was a safe bet that she wouldn’t be comparing me to other guys because we knew each other more intimately than anyone else, having been penpals since we were twelve, me having told her more about myself than I had to other girls and she never once saying anything negative — no need to pretend because we knew neither one of us was athletically talented or gifted dancers.  Am I just chasing my tail?  Is it so obvious to others that I don’t need anything from them in return for their giving me their life stories to write about?  How many women have offered me sex/drugs/friendship in exchange for a poem, short story or novel where their personalities were fictionalised and then realised that their virtual portrait of them was more than sufficient to keep me going, sex/drugs/friendship too complicated for my simple needs?

Whew!  Thoughts of self are finally tiring out this morning.