Four friends arrive at a bar. We go upstairs to play pool and the first thing I notice is the debauchery of four guys next to us who were seemingly spring break wasted on a week night.

They seemed like they were partying a little hard for it being a week night but who knows, maybe it was someone’s birthday or someone got a raise at Pizza Hut?

They also seemed like an odd combination of people: there was the typical jock in his baseball jersey watching the game and going down on buffalo wings; the scenester in his white V-neck and fo-hawk; the hipster with his slouchy beanie, plaid shirt, women’s jeans and long black hair; and then there was #4. I don’t know if he was someone’s little brother, some guy they just met or actually one of their friends. He just didn’t fit.

My friend and I came to the conclusion that they probably had fourth period bio together in high school, found each other on Facebook and chose that night to meet up.
She and I go downstairs to get drinks while our other two friends stay behind (side note: our friends are guys, this is important in a moment).

There’s no one at the bar top besides a Guido with a cougar on either side of him, one wearing leather pants and the other wearing jeggings, and a homeless guy wearing a backpack.

While we’re waiting for the bartender, homeless guy flails his arms about mumbling something about how he showered that day and he won’t bother us; we can sit down and have fun as he whips his head in the opposite direction as if he has a warrant against him for talking to women.


We sit. We Order. We Wait to pay.

I was too zoned out wondering why homeless man was laughing to himself to notice #4 had escaped his friends, wandered downstairs and started flirting with my friend.

I gear my attention away from giggles and #4 is saying something about how he wants to buy us Jaeger shots.

Clearly, he was piss drunk because he had to have seen that we were with two guys upstairs. Aka: not on the prowl. Aka, busy with friends. Doesn't that violate some kind of hitting on women code?

She’s cordial, you kind of have to be, but declines it. As do I. I don’t even think the bartender would have given him Jaeger if he asked. Probably milk and he probably wouldn’t have noticed the difference anyway.

“Yes? No? Yes? No? Going once, twice?”

Why is he doing an awkward moonwalk away from us?

He goes back upstairs.

We wait a sec then go back up.

Our friends leave to get drinks so it shouldn't have been a surprise that #4 would come sashaying back over.

It’s like he was waiting for the coast to be clear of dudes.

Here we go.

“Bad news bears.”

What on earth could he have bad news about? We just met.

He mumbles something about how the shots they bought weren’t Jaeger; they were pineapple juice, rum and some other “treat.”

I’m sorry, a treat? Like Cocaine? A roofie? Razors?
“I couldn’t finish mine if you want a taste?”

His friends are all lined against the wall like it's the dance floor at homecoming.

Wait, you couldn’t finish a shot?

“No, we’re good.”

His friends call him back over like a puppy.

Our friends come back.

We give them the look of: if you leave again, we will stab you in the throats.

They give us the look of: if you’re getting free shots ask for two extra.
We leave and go to the next bar which was a hipsters paradise.

Oddly, people were teaching each other how to dougie on a dance floor playing music that I know stands against everything Urban Outfitters believes in.
We try to get drinks but the bartender was only tending to gays, hipsters or scantily clad gay hipsters.
What the hell? I needed a mustache and black rimmed glasses that didn't have a prescription stat.

Three weeks later we get our drinks. We go outside and hang. Random’s start talking at us--at, not to--like we’re poor common folk.

I go to my impending doom of the women’s restroom.

How many vintage-wearing, unknown-band-tattoo girls does it take to get the hot water on? Three. They leave and it's like a trail of flowers follow behind.

A girl stumbles out of the stall in everything lace. It was only fitting that toilet paper was stuck to her shoe.

She curtsies as she exits. Why? I will never know. But how polite of her. It was like a movie scene.

Some guy walks through our group as we're deep in meaningful conversation (not really) and grabs my waist, lingers and gives me a look like I’m supposed to come with him, hop in his van and runaway to Florida.

Uh, no. Move along.

Night ends. As it must.

This is the story of a guy, probably a lawyer or some executive big wig, who is trying to get this girl in his building.

He is probably the guy who has swag; all the ladies love him and he smells like fictional romance novels and has striking good looks.

Meet his victim: a girl who of course wants him. I get the sense she is married and horny because her husband is seeing his nurse so she wants spiteful revenge.

I also believe this guy uses this same scenario on a weekly, if not daily basis to get chicks:

In the top right picture, notice her seductive stance. Women do this to gear men’s attention to their chest. No it’s not an accident. It’s not comfortable to stand like that and notice where his eyes are.

Clearly, he knows she wants him and he won't have to work too hard hence her standing like that (which she won’t admit directly because women, as we know, are indirect).

He mumbles something about screwing up and saying she probably hates him after yesterday--whatever that may mean--so he is doing the typical blame game by calling himself a heel (which I had to look up because I know he wasn't calling himself a shoe).

He starts saying he didn't mean to get a kick out of Chalcis deal. Whatever the deal may be—drugs, human trafficking, who knows—then he plays the sorry sap card by adding, "whoa is me, I am basically an asshole and everything I do should be frowned upon, feel sorry for me, I am not really like this, blah, blah, blah."

He turns the tables. He tells her now that he met her, he won't go on with his life without her. Because I’m sure they’ve known each other longer than 24 hours and have had life changing conversations.

"I want to be able to look at you just once and not feel dirty," he said.


But nice move. She now thinks you really care about her.

He tells her he has never fallen in love like "this" before.

He admits he asked another girl to marry him but she couldn't wait but he's glad she couldn't (in which he got rid of her) so he could marry this chick.

Wait a second. So, he is currently with another girl planning a wedding? Or, huh? What the all things red flag?

But, it doesn’t matter because little does he know, she is a total rabbit boiling bitch for sure.

“But suppose I was bad at waiting too?” she adds.

Insert evil laughter in her head.

They proceed to go have wild sex in the mail room I'm sure, and then she gets crazy wedding planner on his ass making him dump her.

He tells the switchboard girl the exact same story the next day.

The end.

So you met a girl. This girl is the cat’s meow: she’s a total babe, she’s really cool and possibly someone you see yourself with.

Cut to a few conversations of small talk later and you’re on a date with her. In your mind, it was a really good time. So you call her a few days later, or five minutes after leaving her—whatever—to initiate something in the future: voicemail.

Days pass and there’s no return phone call; not a text back saying she’s busy but will call; not an email, a friend request on Facebook, a post card, a message in a bottle: nothing. I know. What the hell?

Guess what. It’s not her, it was you. What most likely happened was this: You freaked her out because you called her five minutes after she got out of your car or you didn’t connect to her emotionally. It was most likely the latter because if she was into you, you best believe that she would so answer that phone call.

An article by David Wygant discussing your favorite question “why won’t she call me back?” said women need distinction when it comes to dating. Duh! Welcome to 2011.

We need you, yes you varsity athlete and president of your fraternity, to stand out from the other guys we encounter on a daily basis.

What makes you different from the homeless guy, the freak poking us on Facebook or the regular Joe in a coffee shop? If you aren’t connecting with us on a different level, you are in the homeless guy, freak poking on Facebook, regular Joe in coffee shop category.

“She needs to know something that makes her feel “connected” to you,” said Wygant. “That you shared something with her – a moment, a laugh, an experience.”

This doesn't necessarily mean you have to disclose your criminal record, this means connect with her. I repeat, connect with her.

Men and women are beyond different. Men are visual. Women are not. Men connect through activities. Women connect by storytelling, words and emotions. It’s a fact. If you want to get somewhere with someone, you must know this and you must meet halfway.

So if you like a girl, you better get your act together before she is long gone boy. If you’re talking about yourself and not showing interest in her, what she does and who she is as a person, you may as well be dating yourself because believe me, she is checked out or at least checking out the waiter.

Oh, and this doesn’t just happen on first dates, it happens over time as well.

Cut the “my favorite hobby is putting ships in bottles” bullshit, self-disclose, take note of things she tells you, ask her questions, and be fully engaged.

I am just letting you know that if you don’t learn how to connect emotionally with women, you are screwed and will live a life constantly wondering why it didn’t work with that girl you thought the world of.

Dear my long lost Sourav,

I am so glad you found me. I have been living in this life wondering when you will come to my rescue and save me from what is only a memory of my past.

I am impressed by your resume: the music industry, a degree and your lusty good looks? Wow, wow and wow. This is just too much.

I too think we will compliment each other well. It's just not your fault that you're so incredibly handsome. It takes a confident person to recognize just how good looking he is and make others feel inadequate by verbally announcing that.

I wish I was in your picture lying in the green pasture next to you. However, something tells me it won't be long before we are frequenting fields of tall grass discussing worldly topics and reciting romantic poetry to each other.

The wait is over.


Dear 17 and Smitten,

I understand you’re hot for teacher, or at least older woman, and as much as I would love to be your Mrs. Robinson, I just can’t.

You see, there comes a time in a girl’s life when she must realize that dating a person who has to ask his mom to borrow her car isn’t going to live up to her expectations. Yes, it’s a nice car, but it’s your moms. Can you even have anyone in the car with you yet?

I understand you think I’m mature—not like the other girls at school—but that’s because I'm not like them at all, I'm way older. Like, I worry about funny looking moles being skin cancer, older. I also understand your frustration with the girls you go to school with who can’t carry on a conversation about worldly topics or books because the books they read have been made into four vampire movies. I get you.

In fact, I commend you for being cultured and well-read but it’s not their fault they still read Tiger Beat and watch re-runs of That’s so Raven (am I aging myself? Do you even know what Tiger Beat is?); they just can’t comprehend anything more yet but give them time.

It's just not going to happen. I’m not impressed by how many touchdowns you scored or the fact that you were the homecoming king. I'd be impressed if you told me you had perfect credit though. You talk about things that are so far into my past that I age as I listen; things regarding high school, a very dark time in my life in which I've blocked out and now you're making it vivid again. I can't be with someone like you.

Don’t you want a girl you can actually take to the prom? I am far over the allowed age limit.

I hate to bruise your ego when you’re in a delicate state of puberty but I promise there’s a girl in third period wearing a T-shirt she bought at Wet Seal reading “Where’s my Mr. right?” who would jump at the chance to go out with you.

Stop listening to your friends who are telling you to keep trying because they want a six-pack of Smirnoff Ice and no, I can’t “tutor” you in social studies and no you can’t call me when you’re 18.

Best of luck, pal.
On behalf of a friend:

Once upon a time, she had a spring break in Las Vegas. Everything was good; everything was what it was supposed to be during a spring break: belligerent. It’s Vegas.

You meet people; you do your thing and go your separate ways, so it was normal that some dude who spotted her across the pool started talking to her. Little did she know he was going to be a stage nine clinger. Yeah, stage nine. The only reason he isn’t a 10 yet is because he hasn’t shown up at her house, yet.

So here it is. You’re probably a crazed motherfucker who needs a reality check if you:

Think you met your soul mate in Las Vegas. That’s not love, that’s Belvedere talking. Vegas is Vegas. Okay, so you might have something in common like your first words were "dadda" and you both have 10 fingers, great. But relationships that form in Vegas should never cross the state line.

Think if you put money down on a table for her, she will be swooned and want to jump your bones because you’re a “baller.” Uh, think again. This aint no Ocean’s Eleven fool. You aint no P.Diddy. She aint your J.Lo.

Form a fantasy of the two of you together after one day, I mean, a few hours: something a la white picket fence. Are you a 14-year-old girl in high school?

You continue to text her even after no response. Then call her, leave messages and then text afterward saying things like “what, no love?” And still, no response.

After her friend kindly breaks things off with you over a text the next day, you fire back with “sorry for being a creeper, thought you were different.” Damn right you’re a creeper. Did you think you were going to really start a long distance relationship with someone you met over booze and more booze?

She was the perfect girl for your Vegas weekend. She hung out, had fun and didn’t cling; every guys dream and then you screwed it all up moron. Maybe she shouldn’t have given you her number, but you seemed semi-normal for the most part. How was she supposed to know you’d get all Glenn Close on her?

I don’t know if you were planning a white wedding at the church of Elvis or what, but you are what women fear.

Oh, and texting her a few days after she, I mean me as her, blatantly told you she didn’t want to pursue anything further saying “are you still mad at me?” is a sure sign you have a screw loose.

Get back on (because that’s where the eHarmony rejects go right?) where you belong and stay out of Vegas. That’s no town for you. Is any town?



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