L Woods Get some new game

Many of you lovely gentlemen have worked hard over the years to perfect your skills at picking up chicks. Every Friday night you head out to the bar or club scene to once again put those skills to work. What you call your “game” I call annoying and totally overdone. Any of this ring a bell?

You’re apologizing on behalf of your drunk friend who just bumped into me and spilled half of his beer on my shoes. I tell you it’s fine. I’m annoyed but it was clearly planned. You tell me he does this every weekend, you then use an array of classic “I’m a good guy” lines. You say that you never really drink too much; you don’t like to get too drunk because it’s embarrassing and leads to bad situations. From here you launch into your latest tale of being kicked out of a bar for getting too drunk and punching a bartender/bouncer/fellow patron. Naturally, you’ve changed your ways. I call this the “reformed badass act.”

You then switch topics and start asking about me: where I’m from, what I’m studying, how I’m enjoying it, etc. I give the appropriate answers and then the well awaited “What about you?” You begin to tell me about how you still don’t know exactly what you want to do but you’re in school for business because you didn’t want to settle for “just an arts degree.” You have now insulted my degree, I tell you so. There’s no taking back what you’ve said so you give some bullshit line about how arts degrees are perfectly acceptable for females – but you’re not a sexist douche-bag or anything. Now I hate you and there’s a painful lull in the conversation as we both take a sip from our drinks.

You pull out your phone and find a half-assed excuse to show me pictures of your “baby.” If it’s a dog, you’ve won back my attention. If it’s an instrument, I’m mildly intrigued. If it’s a car or motorcycle, I hate you even more so either buy me a drink or get lost, please. Some of you will try to impress me with how much it cost you. The higher the number, the less impressed I am.

There’s another awkward lull as you put your phone away and I polish off my drink. You now point to my glass and give me some variation of “Hey, your glass is empty.” or “You finished your drink!” What a remarkable observation!

We head to the bar to get refills. Like any decent human being, I offer to pay for my own. You wave off my offer and say that you’ve “got it.” The bartender hands you your change and you keep it all. No tip, jerk. You make a “joke” about how I can get the next round. Please note that I would have gladly paid for the next round without giving it a second thought but now that you’ve made me feel obligated, I’ve lost all interest in buying you a drink. (Women’s logic.) [Psychologically, this is called Reactance - Ed].

We cheers and make a bit more small talk before I tell you that I seem to have lost track of my friends and should probably go find them. You pull out your phone and ask for my number so we can “chill sometime.” I have no idea how to work an iPhone so I just pretend to press random buttons and then hand it back to you saying that my number is stored under L Woods. I then hightail it outta there. It doesn’t matter anyway, you don’t have the balls to make an actual phone call. Instead, around 8pm the next Friday I would receive a text saying “hey whats up :p” as if I’m supposed to just know who it’s from.

Oh men, you’re so predictable.

Sidenote: I am greatly looking forward to reading the men’s side of this.

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