Remember how I shot my social wad a few days ago? (If you are envisioning me jizzing with reckless abandon on a loosely formed crowd of Starbucks drinkers then you and I should be friends/message me.) So, apparently, it’s Monday, I am knee deep in rums, and also I had a conversation with a dear friend about porn and whatever here it is:
Drinking makes me attempt to flirt.
You think you know what bad flirting is. You’re all oh yeah this guy asked ‘hey are you pizza cuz I want you’, and it was the worst!
This is the real why dating apps might be the only reason I could get laid as a person who hates leaving the house, putting on clothes that involve zippers or buttons, and has fundamental and pervasive side eye for anyone I haven’t known for twelve years (AND EVEN THEN!).
Have coveted loving glances from *dark mysterious grad student*
We hang out together bc *social groups* whatever *like minds* blah
He and I are somehow at a very hip bar some twilightish evening.
It is late o’ clock, and we are all winding down into hook ups and pre-pairs, and he turns to me and says, dark eyes all up in mine,
“It would be fun to practice Korean with you…some night.”
And I’m all,
“Oh all I could tell you would be, ‘eat shit and die.’”
Pre-hubs is at a bar with me and 17 other people. He is mid-break-up. I am mid-seeing-opportunities. There are several hours of drinks and merriments whereupon pre-hubs laughs mightily at my jokes. Because I am the shit only he doesn’t know it yet. All of a sudden, drunk hits everyone like precum on a precious duvet and we’re all three shades of flirty and chagrined bc college, and pre-hubs goes, ‘Let’s do shots!’ and everyone hesitates but me bc I’m all about hubs’ pants and whatnot plus also I am good at drinking and so here we go.
The shot happens.
He gets up and leaves because *angst over previous breakup*
I am plastered and walk home with guy who wasn’t up for me saying ‘eat shit and die’ at him in Korean some night. No sex happened to anyone.
Dude who is an amazing pianist at my school and who only speaks the language I don’t know (German. Whatever some language I don’t know. There are many. It was probably German. I’m not sober, clearly. But no really. German.), but is insufferably cute and single, sits at a table in my section.
I’m all ‘hiiiiii here’s what’s good and here’s why and omg did you see whoseywhatsits do the brahms thing at so and so omg’ and he’s all uhm hi fries please.
And so I serve the fries right as pre-hubs and Korean-some-night traipse in and spot him and they’re all omg did you see whoseywhatsits with the brahms whatever and I am over there with my apron and zero tips.
So while they’re all having a lovely chat, I saunter up and say,
“Here’s your bill of three dollars. If you can’t pay in cash, you have to talk to the manager. His name is Bill.”