Squirrel Report #2: An AFC Valentine's Day

Boys it's gut check time! I'll be honest. My game isn't where I want it to be at this point.

I think a lot of the time field reports are like war stories. People love posting stories of daring and courage and victory. But you don't read so many stories of bleeding and crying or cowardice. Well, tonight I bled out there. But I'm posting it anyway in the hopes that at least having the balls to admit it will help my game somewhat.

PRE GAME

Prior to tonight I'd been feeling pretty good. As far as hunting theory goes I have it down. I have most of the answers. I know what to do and I enjoy instructing on the correct mentality and approach tactics. However, tonight I realized I might be talking the talk without completely walking the walk.

Lately I have done a lot of nothing, been lazy and not gone out or made any approaches. I decided to go out tonight only when pressured. I have been talking a lot of shit but suddenly the people I lecture are getting results. This weekend Worm !closed, Turtle number closed and almost extracted, and even Wild Goat number closed. (Thata boy Goat!)

I didn't focus on gaming a single set over a prolonged period and as a result I got nothing-even though I consider myself to have more powerful game than most of the individuals mentioned with the exception of Worm PUA.

So tonight when I couldn't find a wing and I hadn't done any approaches in days, behind in the game versus some of my wings, I decided I had to live up to my reputation and go into the field even if it meant doing it solo. That's right lone wolf!

IN FIELD

Long story short, I really didn't feel like it but knew I had to. I delayed by studying in the library and then when it closed I decided to walk past the pub. I hesitated by the door. The bouncer didn't know what the fuck I was doing. Neither did I. Assuming I was going in, he asked if I had ID. I pulled some out and was in the field.

First thing: beer. I stood awkwardly at the bar waiting to get a drink. I was aware my body language was bad and this only made me more nervous. I got a pint. Drank it.

Now let me be clear. A few years ago I was absolute AFC. Complete, utterly scared, virginal AFC material. Those days are long past me. But now, for the first time in years I was working a social setting solo and it all came back. Suddenly all my game was gone. It was like I had reverted back to nothing. I was so nervous my legs were actually physically shaking a bit. Real unbelievable AFCishness.

Took another pint. And had a major realization: for some reason I cared more about what this group of random people would think about me than what I thought about myself. That's crazy.

Only positive was that I wasn't going to quit. I wasn't going to be a pussy even though I was kind of being a pussy. I would force myself to stay and sarge the room alone.

Mid way into third pint another realization: even after a couple beers I just couldn't sarge without wings. As weak as that sounds I still was not at the point where I could sarge confidently alone. It was scary to approach not knowing that in the worst case scenario I can't return to a friendly face for some validation and a pat on the back. Of course this only made me more nervous; I was in the position of having to open a male set. In my mind there is nothing more pathetic and gay than being alone at a bar and trying to open male sets.

Luckily a dude opened me. He saw me alone, AFCing and pushed me into a couple sets. Great! Suddenly I was myself again: smiling, working the room, I had my confidence back. I was there doing what I do.

It's strange to admit it but with some guys watching the effort I felt confidence. Whereas before I feared the reaction to being seen getting shut down now I knew the guys wouldn't expect me to sarge perfectly and so every set was just an opportunity to exceed expectations for Squirrel PUA.

Now by the end of the night unfortunately I still had not met my modest goal-one number to salvage an otherwise weak Valentine's week. But I had made several approaches at least.

By the time I was IN the game mentally unfortunately most of the targets were gone-the other guys were by then also in the game mentally-ie drunk.

In the end I'm happy I persevered but concerned:
a) My confidence in my game may be actually artificial and will evaporate the moment I don't have a wing as "training wheels"
and/or
b) My game is dependent on consuming at least three pints of beer and I won't be able to sarge without alcohol, effectively reducing me to a life of alcoholism

To be honest I don't think either scenario is that likely to it was scary out there for a while and I am now aware that to some degree these self-limiting perceptions remain and will have to be overcome.

So all in all a squirrelly night. But Stan will be back Friday.