By Tony D.

In case you cherished The Game...

Sebastian had man-boobs, and existence used to be a bummer...until he bought surgical procedure and came across an internet neighborhood of Pickup Artists. relocating to Montreal, he stumbles right into a global of events, intercourse, medicinal drugs, and drama - merely to emerge with a brand new, yet questionable figuring out of himself, girls, and the human situation.

Have you ever questioned, how lengthy will it take to discover good fortune with ladies? Does this Pickup Artist stuff relatively work?

What compels a guy to relentlessly flirt for recreation, and at what cost?

Part handbook, half hipster-Unicorn sexual event tale, one thousand Tiny disasters is a hilarious and addicting novel, for males who are looking to increase, and ladies who are looking to understand.

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Additional resources for A Thousand Tiny Failures: Memoirs of a Pickup Artist

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Fine boys, good job. Now it's your turn," I said, pointing at a group of girls across the bar. I wasn't ready to give up. I was just getting started. " My friend said, pointing at his chest. "No thanks. I'll leave that to you. " I'd never considered what I was doing as creepy. I looked at the girls on the dance floor and realized I might have ruined their night. They were just chilling out, and here came this awkward stranger to get in their space and steal their energy. I could be a serial killer.

I asked. " "Yeah, drug sense. Let's get high. " I looked at Olivia, she smiled. I'd never tried mdma before, and I wanted to experience the love drug, especially with a hot girl. "Sure man," I said and handed him the money. Eric returned ten minutes later with three white lines on a cd case. "Wow that was fast," I said. Then he bent over the case and with a long snort, inhaled one of the lines. He held the case for Olivia and she took one, and I took the other. At first it just burned my throat and tasted like Tylenol.

I was wearing cheap, baggy jeans, a plaid shirt and generic Adidas shoes. I was straight up no-style. I didn't recognize the music, or fit into the culture. It was isolating. My mind was racing with the eternal chatter—that little voice that tells you little lies, "Go home, you aren't cut out for this," and whatnot. At this point I had no concept of The Now, or Ego, or any of that stuff. The puas just told you to approach within three seconds, before you could think. But here I was, head in the sand, stifled in my skull, heart palpations, etc.

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