Please critique my writing?

I still remember when I thought up the idea for the Anarachist Furs show. I was walking around the quad meeting up with an old friend, spotted this girl in a beautiful dress—purple… might have been green—carrying this hula hoop and I walked up to her told her I was putting together this little show, peppered my pitch with “astral plane consciousness” and prose of the like which I had spotted in the first chapter of this Carl Sagan book that I told my ex-girlfriend I read, and my lie was quite successful and indeed sent her panties in free fall down her slender legs, toes pointed inward but since that was all over it was just the woman with the purple-green dress and the hula hoop of excess—ample breasts, pouty bee-stung lips, certainly contrasting with my ideal of a minimalist, slender (a wealthy ascetic and champion of willpower, consciously deviating from whorish behavior and frivolous consumption that typified so many other woman, and those who it didn’t typify were most likely not in avoidance of such excesses but were barred by ugliness or poverty and yet sought so rabidly to obtain what they could not have, becoming exponentially enraptured by craving. And so the hula hoop girl was my candidate, if only because her position at the center of this continuum minimized the intimidation as I pitched my idea, minimized the chance of rejection, minimized that goddamn emptiness in my stomach, the feeling of panic and weightlessness, as if my entire body was being strewn about my marionette strings and I surrender to it in vain attempt at sensory-deprivation. And I walk away shaking—my knees shaking—but still this eustress vitalizes my soul until I hear the fateful “no” and the strings break and I come collapsing to the ground, pinned under the weight of failure, paralyzed, trying to isolate myself from both the cognizance of failure, failure, failure and the fear of future failures and the present failure until I became this lifeless mass that wears a mouth slightly upturned as my body functions and only functions like cogs in a machine, devoid of self-reflection, sadness or happiness, existing no more than the field mouse fresh dead on the white line of the highway, its fur ruffled by the passing car on right left, decaying unseen.