Despite having proven it's largely ineffective and oftentimes translates as "I'm forward and am free at midnight," sometimes SD just makes us do things that in other circumstances would be totesinappropes.
Enter bar scene last night: It's Fashion Week, which means a bar that usually gathers countless attractive men was instead filled with waif-like Amazon women and extremely handsome gay men.
Out of the 25ish (straight) men, we spot one that is decent and not accompanied by other women. He's with friends, doing a cute little lean across the room.
Two drinks in, I pull out the New Yorker, tear off a little piece, and scribble these simple lines:
You're cute. Call me.
You're cute. Call me.
KP is the excited messenger.
My friend thinks you're cute. You should call her. She's the one over there on her phone.
(Me, pretending I'm on phone.)
Now, any normal man would be flattered, blush, and even if he wasn't feeling it would say a quick and simple, Thanks.
Not this dude.
What?!? But I don't even know her!?
Ok, really? Really?! Give me my number back.
Fast forward two hours, I get a text from said victim:
"Thanks for number! I didn't get to say hi. Hope u are good."
Ohhhhhhkay. Hope you are GOOD? Hope you are GOOD?! Someone skipped 4th grade grammar.
Two strikes and unidentified man is out. Too bad, would have gotten me back in the game.
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