Paul Parillo Pickin' Up Chicks

I’m lost when it comes to the art of picking up women. Firstly, is it an art? I can just as easily walk up to a girl and say, “Hey, if it weren’t for laws and stuff, I’d totally pull a Jeffrey Dahmer on your sweet ass”. Usually, if the opportunity arises where a lovely young woman is left to my devices, I become a blabbering fool aimed at tickling her funny bone with the accuracy and efficiency of a blind Robin Hood. I suppose I lack “game” since I haven’t been single that often, and most of my relationships have been subject to the convenient catalyst of school or work; and thanks to these forgiving environments, I haven’t really had to “try”.


Perhaps the school boy in me still wrestles with the fear and uncertainty of being turned down or made a fool of. I find it most admirable to watch my courageous friends walk up to a girl at the bar, immediately engage their target in conversation, and minutes later see her joining us at our table, or better yet, letting my friend peruse her vaginal canal. Believe me, I’ve witnessed the conversations take place – they’re not that impressive; its mostly small talk, laughable banter and transparent white lies dressed to impress. I just can’t do it; either I suffer from some pretentious idea of having an honest conversation with someone, or I’m a chicken shit. Personally, I like to think neither.


The advice I generally hear is, “Just go for it—if you fail, who cares? Move on and try again”. It’s noble, you must admit, but unfortunately the flame of their nobility usually sputters out as if encountered by a dreadful monsoon. As Yusuf Islam (previously known as Cat Stevens) once said, “the first cut is the deepest”, I can realistically believe that if I don’t succeed the first time, the pain will subside and all my other endeavourers (failed or not) will seem significantly less perilous. If the opportunity arises and the right amount of liquid courage can stabilize an unwavering lack of self-esteem, I think, the next vaginal canal I aim to explore will be mine – and if all else fails, I’ve always got my chloroform rag.   

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