Out of all the ways to pick up men in the city, I didn't foresee handing a crumpled piece of paper with my number and a message saying "You're cute! Call me!" as a viable option. Until last Thursday.
Yes, it's come to this. I've been single almost three months now. How could I resort to something so desperate in such a short amount of time, you ask? Four reasons: unemployment, living alone (i.e. not talking to other humans for the majority of the day), an unhealthy dependency on The Bachelorette, and many failed Okcupid attempts.
So last Thursday, after one too many forkfuls of pork belly fat and cured meat, I stood on W. 72nd sheepishly eying a hot guy talking on his cell phone, presumably on a business call. He seemed unaware that I was standing a few feet away giggling with KT like a 12-year-old girl while she began frantically searching for a scrap of paper to write my digits on. Our conversation went something like:
"You can do this! It's going to be awesome!"
"I'm scared! My stomach hurts!"
"Just do it! He'll be flattered!"
"I can't! It's too embarrassing...oh wait, he has an accent! Ok, ok! Fuck it! I'm doing it!"
I awkwardly handed him the piece of paper without saying anything (to which he said, "Cheers!" not exactly sure of its contents) and quickly walked off, mortified, without looking back.
"Best. Story. Ever." KT said to me after rounding the corner onto Broadway. I told her that if this was a romantic comedy, he would have texted me already saying something like, 'Wait! Where did you go?' But, alas, that didn't happen. He did end up texting me at 11:30 p.m. asking what I was up to. Full-fledged booty call. I texted him the next afternoon (I'm not THAT desperate) asking if he wanted to hang out that evening. No response. Haven't heard from him since.
Potential Date 1 of 4. Fail.
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