“Do you know Mike Beeswax?” My sister asked.
“No, does he know me?”
“He says he does. Or he knows of you.”
I looked up Mike Beeswax. He had 49 “friends” in common with me. I really need to work on my facial recognition software. I’d never seen MB in my life.
Or, he was so unremarkable I put his face in the Recycle Bin.
The other night I walk into a bar, flipped my hair, and waited. I was trying about as hard as I usually do (visibly unshowered), but nothing happened.
“Shit,” I said to Evo, “Maybe we’ve lost our touch.” I resigned myself to buying my own drinks and sat at the bar.
“I don’t understand what happened,” Evo said, “Maybe we’re-”
“Don’t say it!” I bought the bartender a drink and prepared for my life as someone who buys bartenders drinks.
Five beats later, Bartender shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” he said, “These are from the guys by the tv. These are from that guy in grey. These are from…” And so on.
Careful what you wish for, Team. I began tossing shots over my shoulder (standard operating procedure. Cassie Stays Classy Tidbit: Never get wasted on purpose. Pleasantly tipsy is fine) and by the sixth, “Just tell him I’m a lesbian,” I was exhausted.
Okay. Here’s the point:
Buy a lady a drink, that’s your bait. Now let her decide if she wants to bite. Otherwise you’re just an asshole. If she wants to talk to you, great. If not, oh well. You baited your hook and didn’t catch anything. Let it go.
Simply sticking a worm in the water doesn’t guarantee breakfast, if you catch what I’m casting.
My malicious game is unfair, I admit. I’m not on the market, and you’re obviously a jerk if you think I’m stupid enough to be wooed by whiskey.
Ladies, do us all a favor. Accept a man’s “generous” offering with a polite cheers, then carry on with your night. Let’s rewrite the notion that his lame “Vegas Bomb” is going to get him anywhere but drunk and alone.
Sorry, Beeswax, no shortcuts allowed.
“I bought Uncrustables. I really should have brought one of those.”
