My Internet has been down for a week. It's quite liberating, to say the truth. Writing this weekend.
Unfortunately I now have a huge crush on Little Cutie. This is not good. My whole state of mind changes. I apparently invited her over for a cooking date last Saturday, and she actually showed up. That's for something I'll post this weekend if I'm in town. Also had to keep the weekly streak going after two girls flaked/bounced/were dumb, as usual. Also for another post. I'm tired.
A girl friend (see the space between "girl" and "friend") came to the Giants game with me last night. I count it as a date. She's cute. No sushi for Jersey Surfer Girl this Friday. She's out of town anyways, doing whatever people in Jersey do. (I have no clue. Apparently there's surfing and actually cool things to do in Jersey. Well, since I've only passed through there on a train at the age of six, I will only have hearsay perceptions of Jersey. In Jersey you can be a guido or go to Atlantic City. That's what they do in Jersey. This stereotype will not be put to rest until I actually go there).
So I'm sitting in a cafe on the corner of two main streets in SF and cute girls are walking by all the time, going out with their girlfriends to satisfy their Thursday night alcoholism. I simply play the eye contact game with them: Keep eye contact with them until the girl looks away first. It establishes dominance. I enjoy the game. Play it all the time. Except for sunglass girls - they're cheating. Big time.
I really shouldn't be writing more because I'm dead tired. This week has been slow with women. I think it's the fact that
a.) I'm obsessing over Little Cutie. We have a dilemma. This was not the plan. I am not supposed to focus on one woman. It seems as though I am sneakily putting my eggs in one basket so my conscience, my dating plans, and Jersey Surfer Girl don't catch me going against my original focus on this being a numbers game. I think I'll write "Seriously, she's just a number" on my notepad at work tomorrow 100 times so I can instill it into my brain never to focus on one specific girl. That's for marriage, at least 40 years down the road.
I'm going out tomorrow night. I'll create stories.
b.) My Internet is down, so I have to go to cafes to write. I'd rather read in my apartment.
c.) Jersey Surfer Girl is not in town for me to tell someone stories.
Yes, this post does not have much substance or luster to it. However, I prefer consistency, so I decided I would write. Tomorrow is Friday.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Busful of Bricks - Wednesday, August 25
I'm standing in the back of the crowded bus at rush-hour bus time, smiling and holding a pack of 20 rolls of toilet paper and nothing else. Duh, I'm awesome.
The first thing I notice is that this particular bus ride has the highest percentage of cute girls than any other bus ride I'd been on yet. And they're all standing or sitting near the back, obviously because my musk is irresistibly intoxicating.
I give up my seat behind two cuties so another girl can sit and overhear their conversation about God knows where whispered conversations between two girls go. Standing is better anyway. You can talk to anyone. As long as they're not buried in their fucking iPods. Come on, what happened to a literary society? Read a fucking book for once. The bus is prime time for reading. You can listen to Jack Johnson when you get home and want to cry about how awesome you thought high school was.
Now I'm standing next to an iPod girl with big round sunglasses, staring at a blond iPod white shirt girl sitting at 1:30 o'clock in front of me, and checking out brunette pink shirt iPod girl behind round sunglasses girl.
You can sense a them here with these three girls, can't you. You got it -- they're all irresistibly attracted to me. All I need to do is perform the role of the man and break the ice.
Bus stops. A couple of people are getting on and off. It's crowded. My big pack of toilet paper I'm clutching is getting in commuters' way. Seat next to where I'm standing vacates. Pink shirt girl gets this crazed look in her eye that she'll do anything for that seat. I see her fiery look. This could be a battle between her and round sunglasses girl. Whichever girl stays standing will be the lucky one that gets talked to by this guy. Pink shirt girl goes for the seat. She almost face-plants as the bus lurches forward. Round sunglasses grab her arm and purse and pulls her to the seat. I laugh. Time to start.
"Is my large sack of toilet paper getting in the way?" I flirtingly say to round sunglasses girl with a faux confused look on my face. "Yeah, you're the asshole," she flirts back. She's game. I'm in. This was so easy. All I had to do was say random words in a semi-coherent sentence and the ice was broken.
Next thing you know, round sunglasses and I are bantering back and forth, envisioning her carrying bricks on the bus, her doing cartwheels on a 20-foot construction beam 300 feet in the air, and then her throwing bricks out the window of the bus if the bus ever caught on fire. To save the bricks first, before her own life, of course. Yes, in five minutes we have escalated to anthropomorphizing bricks.
I can guarantee you that the eight or so people around us who could overhear us over their iPods were all wondering where the fuck this overheard conversation was going between toilet paper guy and iPod round sunglasses girl. Do you want to know where it was going? I'll tell you: Everywhere. It didn't matter. Two attractive strangers bantering back and forth, having a blast while everyone else sat there wishing they had an ounce of fun in their lives.
I knew I was in when round sunglasses (now nicknamed Bricks) tells me her iPod battery is actually dead and she simply put the headphones in her ears so she wouldn't have to talk to people. I call her out and tell her I won. Whether this dead battery story was true or not didn't matter. Obviously, she was flirting and conceding that she was the submissive woman and I the man, in control of the relationship.
We set a brick date for the next bus ride we're on together. A brick date is when the guy brings bricks onto the bus, gives them to the girl to hold, and watches the entertainment that ensues with a girl holding a sack of bricks on a muni bus.
I tell her not to flake, because I don't respect people who flake on dates.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
On another note, Little Cutie left a message on my phone saying she was in town this Saturday for a burnt-chicken cooking date.
Sucks being awesome, doesn't it. Or being an idiot. Same thing.
The first thing I notice is that this particular bus ride has the highest percentage of cute girls than any other bus ride I'd been on yet. And they're all standing or sitting near the back, obviously because my musk is irresistibly intoxicating.
I give up my seat behind two cuties so another girl can sit and overhear their conversation about God knows where whispered conversations between two girls go. Standing is better anyway. You can talk to anyone. As long as they're not buried in their fucking iPods. Come on, what happened to a literary society? Read a fucking book for once. The bus is prime time for reading. You can listen to Jack Johnson when you get home and want to cry about how awesome you thought high school was.
Now I'm standing next to an iPod girl with big round sunglasses, staring at a blond iPod white shirt girl sitting at 1:30 o'clock in front of me, and checking out brunette pink shirt iPod girl behind round sunglasses girl.
You can sense a them here with these three girls, can't you. You got it -- they're all irresistibly attracted to me. All I need to do is perform the role of the man and break the ice.
Bus stops. A couple of people are getting on and off. It's crowded. My big pack of toilet paper I'm clutching is getting in commuters' way. Seat next to where I'm standing vacates. Pink shirt girl gets this crazed look in her eye that she'll do anything for that seat. I see her fiery look. This could be a battle between her and round sunglasses girl. Whichever girl stays standing will be the lucky one that gets talked to by this guy. Pink shirt girl goes for the seat. She almost face-plants as the bus lurches forward. Round sunglasses grab her arm and purse and pulls her to the seat. I laugh. Time to start.
"Is my large sack of toilet paper getting in the way?" I flirtingly say to round sunglasses girl with a faux confused look on my face. "Yeah, you're the asshole," she flirts back. She's game. I'm in. This was so easy. All I had to do was say random words in a semi-coherent sentence and the ice was broken.
Next thing you know, round sunglasses and I are bantering back and forth, envisioning her carrying bricks on the bus, her doing cartwheels on a 20-foot construction beam 300 feet in the air, and then her throwing bricks out the window of the bus if the bus ever caught on fire. To save the bricks first, before her own life, of course. Yes, in five minutes we have escalated to anthropomorphizing bricks.
I can guarantee you that the eight or so people around us who could overhear us over their iPods were all wondering where the fuck this overheard conversation was going between toilet paper guy and iPod round sunglasses girl. Do you want to know where it was going? I'll tell you: Everywhere. It didn't matter. Two attractive strangers bantering back and forth, having a blast while everyone else sat there wishing they had an ounce of fun in their lives.
I knew I was in when round sunglasses (now nicknamed Bricks) tells me her iPod battery is actually dead and she simply put the headphones in her ears so she wouldn't have to talk to people. I call her out and tell her I won. Whether this dead battery story was true or not didn't matter. Obviously, she was flirting and conceding that she was the submissive woman and I the man, in control of the relationship.
We set a brick date for the next bus ride we're on together. A brick date is when the guy brings bricks onto the bus, gives them to the girl to hold, and watches the entertainment that ensues with a girl holding a sack of bricks on a muni bus.
I tell her not to flake, because I don't respect people who flake on dates.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
On another note, Little Cutie left a message on my phone saying she was in town this Saturday for a burnt-chicken cooking date.
Sucks being awesome, doesn't it. Or being an idiot. Same thing.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Tuesday, August 24th
Sisterfriend flaked today.
"Thought you ditched because I didn't hear from you."
That was her lame excuse of at text message. So how do you respond to someone flaking on your date?
"I play hard to get. Guess I'll have to find someone else when I get there." Right back at them. Their fault. So I went to the location we were supposed to meet. I'm not changing my plans to go out simply because she's not tagging along. Tons of girls there. All insecure. All waiting for a man to talk to them. Yet ready to reject at a moment's notice because girls have incredible bitch shields. It truly is the strangest phenomenon. Girls spend 90% of their time talking about how they can't get guys or how they want a guy yet every guy that approaches them or gives them attention, they shut down like the DMV at 5:00pm.
Here's the blatant truth, girls: It's hard for guys to talk to girls. Make it easier. Guys are uber-afraid of rejection. Hence, they don't approach 90% of the girls they want to talk to. Girls are such bitchy critical insincere humans that it's their fault in the first place they cry over guys. Have an open mind for once.
That's where I come in. I am here to lead the pack and throw myself at the mercy of the bitch shield. I'll say anything. Word vomit. Throw me to the wolves. I'll break the ice. Jump on the grenade. Take the risk. Rejection is success for me. I'm here to see how many times I can be rejected. So I've decided to start a running count. Somehow I'll get my rejection stats up here. Everything is in beta form now, so I'm excited to see how we progress.
Why am I willing to risk such rejection, humiliation, torment, and ridicule? Because of the stories. Because I'll write about them here. I've decided I'd rather live rather than be a wussy.
Rejection cases in point from today:
1. Sisterfriend ditches out on date. Her loss. What do I do? Nothing. She owes me. If she texts me or calls me in the next few days, I'm going to let her have it. Because what she did is rude.
2. Called Little Cutie today and left a message asking her to come over and cook this Saturday. The phone rang three times before the message came. Phones don't ring three times. They either ring four plus times or go straight to voicemail. This means that Little Cutie checked her phone as it was ringing, saw it was me, and ignored my call. So how did I feel about this shunning, this obvious rejection? Didn't care. Moved on. Left a message. She can come over or not. Because this is a numbers game.
3. Texted Boxergirl, a girl I had hooked up with in college and who was in love with me at the time. Hey, just stating facts here. I told her we ought to meet up for a drink. No response. REJECTION. Thoughts? Didn't care. Moved on. Once again, the theme comes full circle: Numbers game.
Today? 0-for-3.
Sisterfriend - REJECTION
Little Cutie - REJECTION
Boxergirl - REJECTION
Obviously this post may not have the most substance to it, yet everything is an experiment and the only way to learn what works is to try everything.
Side note: After chatting with Jersey Surfer Girl today about how strangers on the street don't respond to your saying, "Hi," I decided to do a little study. On my walk home from work, anyone walking towards me would first receive eye contact. If they looked back at me, I would say, "Hi," and see if they responded. So I tried it. Guys and girls. The majority of people (probably 20 to 30 plus people on the walk) did not return eye contact. However, the ones who did received a "Hi," from me. The (few) results? Three-for-eight. Three "Hi's" back. Five no responses. Conclusion? The majority of Americans are either shy or mean.
Giants 16-5. That has no relevance at all. Yet I needed to end this somehow.
"Thought you ditched because I didn't hear from you."
That was her lame excuse of at text message. So how do you respond to someone flaking on your date?
"I play hard to get. Guess I'll have to find someone else when I get there." Right back at them. Their fault. So I went to the location we were supposed to meet. I'm not changing my plans to go out simply because she's not tagging along. Tons of girls there. All insecure. All waiting for a man to talk to them. Yet ready to reject at a moment's notice because girls have incredible bitch shields. It truly is the strangest phenomenon. Girls spend 90% of their time talking about how they can't get guys or how they want a guy yet every guy that approaches them or gives them attention, they shut down like the DMV at 5:00pm.
Here's the blatant truth, girls: It's hard for guys to talk to girls. Make it easier. Guys are uber-afraid of rejection. Hence, they don't approach 90% of the girls they want to talk to. Girls are such bitchy critical insincere humans that it's their fault in the first place they cry over guys. Have an open mind for once.
That's where I come in. I am here to lead the pack and throw myself at the mercy of the bitch shield. I'll say anything. Word vomit. Throw me to the wolves. I'll break the ice. Jump on the grenade. Take the risk. Rejection is success for me. I'm here to see how many times I can be rejected. So I've decided to start a running count. Somehow I'll get my rejection stats up here. Everything is in beta form now, so I'm excited to see how we progress.
Why am I willing to risk such rejection, humiliation, torment, and ridicule? Because of the stories. Because I'll write about them here. I've decided I'd rather live rather than be a wussy.
Rejection cases in point from today:
1. Sisterfriend ditches out on date. Her loss. What do I do? Nothing. She owes me. If she texts me or calls me in the next few days, I'm going to let her have it. Because what she did is rude.
2. Called Little Cutie today and left a message asking her to come over and cook this Saturday. The phone rang three times before the message came. Phones don't ring three times. They either ring four plus times or go straight to voicemail. This means that Little Cutie checked her phone as it was ringing, saw it was me, and ignored my call. So how did I feel about this shunning, this obvious rejection? Didn't care. Moved on. Left a message. She can come over or not. Because this is a numbers game.
3. Texted Boxergirl, a girl I had hooked up with in college and who was in love with me at the time. Hey, just stating facts here. I told her we ought to meet up for a drink. No response. REJECTION. Thoughts? Didn't care. Moved on. Once again, the theme comes full circle: Numbers game.
Today? 0-for-3.
Sisterfriend - REJECTION
Little Cutie - REJECTION
Boxergirl - REJECTION
Obviously this post may not have the most substance to it, yet everything is an experiment and the only way to learn what works is to try everything.
Side note: After chatting with Jersey Surfer Girl today about how strangers on the street don't respond to your saying, "Hi," I decided to do a little study. On my walk home from work, anyone walking towards me would first receive eye contact. If they looked back at me, I would say, "Hi," and see if they responded. So I tried it. Guys and girls. The majority of people (probably 20 to 30 plus people on the walk) did not return eye contact. However, the ones who did received a "Hi," from me. The (few) results? Three-for-eight. Three "Hi's" back. Five no responses. Conclusion? The majority of Americans are either shy or mean.
Giants 16-5. That has no relevance at all. Yet I needed to end this somehow.
Monday, August 23, 2010
1 - Little Cutie
Stats
Name: Little Cutie
Hair: Brown
Body: Skinny. Hot.
Setting: Drinks at a bar half a block from my apartment.
Likes country music: Big time.
Pre-date attraction meter (GPA scale): A. Already pretty sure I like her.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“I’m anorexic.”
This date is going to be awesome. When these are two of the first words out of your date’s mouth when she arrives for your date, you already know you’ll be having a better conversation than any other human in the bar.
We’re at a bar/appetizers place down the street from me. Excuse me – date bar, because pretty much everyone there is on a date. Except for the cute girls at the non-date tables. They're already jealous of me.
Simple drinks. Before Little Cutie arrived at 8:04pm for our 8:02pm date, I had already asked the bartender about the beers. Apparently the house favorite is a three-dollar Red Seal Ale. Perfect. She’ll never know I’m that cheap. Whatever. It tastes great. She gets some raspberry mixed thingy, something I would never touch. I’m a man.
On another note, this girl is, excuse my français, fucking cute. I immediately have a crush on her. This is not good. Then this comes out of her cute little mouth:
“Yeah, I love country music.”
Punch me in the face. Now. This is where I tell her, “Please stop. I’m already attracted to you. You didn’t have to say that. I’m now getting thoughts in my head that if we were wasted in Las Vegas I would pull a Britney Spears-get-married-at-a-chapel-cause-it’s-3am-and-only-good-things-happen-wasted-after-midnight move." Seriously. I wanted to baby-trap her into marriage after a mere five minutes into our date. You know, baby trap – when a woman has a kid with a guy so he’s forced to be part of her life for the rest of his life. Yet in Little Cutie’s case this wouldn’t be a baby trap. This would be marriage trap.
Or love. However you want to see it.
So there we are, sitting at bar stools in date bar, her getting at it with her raspberry red Mexico spring break drink and me with my $3 tap beer. I’m in love. She’s talking a mile a minute. Nervousness? Her normal pace of talking? All I’m wishing for is an earpiece with a dating expert voice on the other end saying, “Yes, she’s into you. See that? Eye contact. Shoulder touch. Sip of drink at same time you did. You’re doing well, Romeo.” However, I think those are hard to hide without their being detected. “What’s that in your ear?” “Just my hearing aid. A train hit me when I was 12 and lost hearing in my left ear. Don’t worry about it.” I think that would probably kill the date. Damn, no earpiece then. I already feel naked.
Here’s the deal. I’m fucking terrible at reading women. Well, not terrible, yet I can never tell if they’re into me or not. Which is the complete wrong way to approach these situations. I can see when girls are attracted to other guys; yet why I can’t I see the same things for myself? Oh, that’s right – it’s probably because I am an idiot.
So there we are. Dim lighting, drinks, good ambience, and one attractive future married couple chatting away on the first of thousands of dates. I’m in love. Yes, I said it again. Just to clarify if I’m into this girl or not.
Shit, she just touched my shoulder. She’s twirling her necklace ring. Pulling her hair back over her shoulder. Yes. Yes. Yes. All unconscious body language signs of a woman’s flirting. I AM IN. This is now the greatest night of my life. I’m already Google mapping the route to Vegas in my head. Bay Bridge to the 5, stop at the In ‘N Out at Kettleman City…no, I can’t do that, marriage stops for no food.
Now, I’m not going to bore you with the typical stuff that two people talk about on the first date. You know, work, family, what-do-you-like-to-do-for-fun stuff. Yeah, we don’t touch any of that. I come out of the date not knowing where she worked, what she did for a living, what her favorite movie is, and any other boring-ass things that mean nothing because I really don’t give a fuck and she has no clue what I do either. BECAUSE IT DOESN’T FUCKING MATTER. You’re either in love or not. God, life is simple.
What I do know is that she’s obsessed with Pac Man and likes to make jokes about anorexia and bulimia: “I lived with four girls in college and ate enough for the five of us. Then just threw it up, of course.” It’s debatable if I made up the last sentence or not. Yet she says she eats like a pig. And she’s fit and skinny. More perfection. Stop it Little Cutie.
So I learn these and other useless tidbits that only send my emotions raging at a mile a minute because I’m falling head-over-heels after only ten minutes. Can a guy fall head-over-heels? Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? I have no clue. I’m not going to Google it and get some Yahoo Answers response from some teen that can’t capitalize or use periods in response to my question. Why was this chosen as the best response, Yahoo. Stop being terrible. Face it, your homepage is trash. I don’t “yahoo” random stuff. When I’m not on Facebook, I’m tweeting my Google search to my MySpace friends anyways. Good luck being alive in five years, Yahoo. I’m not even going to add the exclamation point to the end of your name because that only serves to make my sentences look weird.
Right, the date. I have legitimately liked very few women in my life. “Liking” in my world means consciously thinking about them, wondering what to say, getting nervous around them, etc. All the simple signs of utter attraction that no guy should go through. That’s for chicks to do. Unfortunately, this happens to me. So, yes, I have "officially" liked very few women – less than ten, I can count them on my two hands, I know.
What’s that? Prove it. Ok. Tawny, Dana, Mariah, Kim, Emily, Nadia, Lauren, Steffi, and now Little Cutie.
Nine. Wear it. Faster than Matt Damon's naming his brothers in Good Will Hunting. Don’t challenge me. I win at everything. Charades. That basketball game at the fair. Raffles. And drinking contests.
I might have exaggerated on that last one because I’m gone after five beers, yet I still see myself as awesome. Yet my problem is that when I like a girl, I fucking like her. I have to tone myself down sometimes because I’ll do stupid shit. Like skip class to go over to Dana’s house because we had kissed the night before and I thought we were totally into each other. That turned out well. She’s married now.
Little Cutie and I leave the bar. It’s 10:40pm. That’s over a two-and-a-half hour drinks date. I meant to keep it short. Apparently that didn’t happen. I don’t put forth any effort for a kiss – I don’t kiss on the first date. It’s all a strategy. You have to pretend that you’re not interested. Learned that from Tom Brady. Yeah, he didn't used to get women either. Or is married to a supermodel. So no kiss. Disdain showing interest. That’s how I play. Maybe it’s wrong. I don’t care.
As I’m falling asleep 45 minutes later – success caps off my night. My phone vibrates. Text message. Can only be one person. Something about her crazy cab driver and thanks for drinks.
Two things go through my mind:
Number 1: Success. She wanted validation from me. She got home and chatted with her roommates. They obviously talk about me. Duh, they’re girls. “How’d the date go, blah blah blah.” And this obviously from Little Cutie: “Do I text him tonight? Tomorrow? Do I confess my love to him yet?” I know this went through her mind. How? Because I made it up in my mind, so it’s true.
Number 2: I’m not responding. Let her stew. Wonder if I enjoyed it or not. Fucking dating games.
I like her.
Name: Little Cutie
Hair: Brown
Body: Skinny. Hot.
Setting: Drinks at a bar half a block from my apartment.
Likes country music: Big time.
Pre-date attraction meter (GPA scale): A. Already pretty sure I like her.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“I’m anorexic.”
This date is going to be awesome. When these are two of the first words out of your date’s mouth when she arrives for your date, you already know you’ll be having a better conversation than any other human in the bar.
We’re at a bar/appetizers place down the street from me. Excuse me – date bar, because pretty much everyone there is on a date. Except for the cute girls at the non-date tables. They're already jealous of me.
Simple drinks. Before Little Cutie arrived at 8:04pm for our 8:02pm date, I had already asked the bartender about the beers. Apparently the house favorite is a three-dollar Red Seal Ale. Perfect. She’ll never know I’m that cheap. Whatever. It tastes great. She gets some raspberry mixed thingy, something I would never touch. I’m a man.
On another note, this girl is, excuse my français, fucking cute. I immediately have a crush on her. This is not good. Then this comes out of her cute little mouth:
“Yeah, I love country music.”
Punch me in the face. Now. This is where I tell her, “Please stop. I’m already attracted to you. You didn’t have to say that. I’m now getting thoughts in my head that if we were wasted in Las Vegas I would pull a Britney Spears-get-married-at-a-chapel-cause-it’s-3am-and-only-good-things-happen-wasted-after-midnight move." Seriously. I wanted to baby-trap her into marriage after a mere five minutes into our date. You know, baby trap – when a woman has a kid with a guy so he’s forced to be part of her life for the rest of his life. Yet in Little Cutie’s case this wouldn’t be a baby trap. This would be marriage trap.
Or love. However you want to see it.
So there we are, sitting at bar stools in date bar, her getting at it with her raspberry red Mexico spring break drink and me with my $3 tap beer. I’m in love. She’s talking a mile a minute. Nervousness? Her normal pace of talking? All I’m wishing for is an earpiece with a dating expert voice on the other end saying, “Yes, she’s into you. See that? Eye contact. Shoulder touch. Sip of drink at same time you did. You’re doing well, Romeo.” However, I think those are hard to hide without their being detected. “What’s that in your ear?” “Just my hearing aid. A train hit me when I was 12 and lost hearing in my left ear. Don’t worry about it.” I think that would probably kill the date. Damn, no earpiece then. I already feel naked.
Here’s the deal. I’m fucking terrible at reading women. Well, not terrible, yet I can never tell if they’re into me or not. Which is the complete wrong way to approach these situations. I can see when girls are attracted to other guys; yet why I can’t I see the same things for myself? Oh, that’s right – it’s probably because I am an idiot.
So there we are. Dim lighting, drinks, good ambience, and one attractive future married couple chatting away on the first of thousands of dates. I’m in love. Yes, I said it again. Just to clarify if I’m into this girl or not.
Shit, she just touched my shoulder. She’s twirling her necklace ring. Pulling her hair back over her shoulder. Yes. Yes. Yes. All unconscious body language signs of a woman’s flirting. I AM IN. This is now the greatest night of my life. I’m already Google mapping the route to Vegas in my head. Bay Bridge to the 5, stop at the In ‘N Out at Kettleman City…no, I can’t do that, marriage stops for no food.
Now, I’m not going to bore you with the typical stuff that two people talk about on the first date. You know, work, family, what-do-you-like-to-do-for-fun stuff. Yeah, we don’t touch any of that. I come out of the date not knowing where she worked, what she did for a living, what her favorite movie is, and any other boring-ass things that mean nothing because I really don’t give a fuck and she has no clue what I do either. BECAUSE IT DOESN’T FUCKING MATTER. You’re either in love or not. God, life is simple.
What I do know is that she’s obsessed with Pac Man and likes to make jokes about anorexia and bulimia: “I lived with four girls in college and ate enough for the five of us. Then just threw it up, of course.” It’s debatable if I made up the last sentence or not. Yet she says she eats like a pig. And she’s fit and skinny. More perfection. Stop it Little Cutie.
So I learn these and other useless tidbits that only send my emotions raging at a mile a minute because I’m falling head-over-heels after only ten minutes. Can a guy fall head-over-heels? Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? I have no clue. I’m not going to Google it and get some Yahoo Answers response from some teen that can’t capitalize or use periods in response to my question. Why was this chosen as the best response, Yahoo. Stop being terrible. Face it, your homepage is trash. I don’t “yahoo” random stuff. When I’m not on Facebook, I’m tweeting my Google search to my MySpace friends anyways. Good luck being alive in five years, Yahoo. I’m not even going to add the exclamation point to the end of your name because that only serves to make my sentences look weird.
Right, the date. I have legitimately liked very few women in my life. “Liking” in my world means consciously thinking about them, wondering what to say, getting nervous around them, etc. All the simple signs of utter attraction that no guy should go through. That’s for chicks to do. Unfortunately, this happens to me. So, yes, I have "officially" liked very few women – less than ten, I can count them on my two hands, I know.
What’s that? Prove it. Ok. Tawny, Dana, Mariah, Kim, Emily, Nadia, Lauren, Steffi, and now Little Cutie.
Nine. Wear it. Faster than Matt Damon's naming his brothers in Good Will Hunting. Don’t challenge me. I win at everything. Charades. That basketball game at the fair. Raffles. And drinking contests.
I might have exaggerated on that last one because I’m gone after five beers, yet I still see myself as awesome. Yet my problem is that when I like a girl, I fucking like her. I have to tone myself down sometimes because I’ll do stupid shit. Like skip class to go over to Dana’s house because we had kissed the night before and I thought we were totally into each other. That turned out well. She’s married now.
Little Cutie and I leave the bar. It’s 10:40pm. That’s over a two-and-a-half hour drinks date. I meant to keep it short. Apparently that didn’t happen. I don’t put forth any effort for a kiss – I don’t kiss on the first date. It’s all a strategy. You have to pretend that you’re not interested. Learned that from Tom Brady. Yeah, he didn't used to get women either. Or is married to a supermodel. So no kiss. Disdain showing interest. That’s how I play. Maybe it’s wrong. I don’t care.
As I’m falling asleep 45 minutes later – success caps off my night. My phone vibrates. Text message. Can only be one person. Something about her crazy cab driver and thanks for drinks.
Two things go through my mind:
Number 1: Success. She wanted validation from me. She got home and chatted with her roommates. They obviously talk about me. Duh, they’re girls. “How’d the date go, blah blah blah.” And this obviously from Little Cutie: “Do I text him tonight? Tomorrow? Do I confess my love to him yet?” I know this went through her mind. How? Because I made it up in my mind, so it’s true.
Number 2: I’m not responding. Let her stew. Wonder if I enjoyed it or not. Fucking dating games.
I like her.
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