Missed Connection:
It was Thursday night. You saw me from across the room at the bar, but alas, I did not yet see you. As I walked to the bathroom you made your move. And WHAT a move you made! I can almost picture you at your desk, staying up nights, pouring over your composition books and coming up with incredible line after incredible line. "What's up, Betty Crocker?" Is the one you honored me with. No doubt you were paying homage to my blue dress with ruffles at the bottom. How naive of me; I honestly had NO idea that she had the same dress! I am forever in your debt for my newfound knowledge. It never ceases to amaze me that despite all the romantic prose and poetry (for how else can I describe your delicate words??) I have been seduced with, I remain single. ...This must be due to my own folly! For what other woman would not fall down at the feet of these Romeos? Foolishly, I said nothing. Though you probably knew from my vacant stare that it was love at first sight. And then, simultaneously affirming my apparent infatuation for you and setting back gender equality 100 years, you asked me if I was going to "cook you biscuits." No, my love. I am not going to cook you biscuits. Your fervent interest in my choice of clothing caused me to notice your own. Your Great Gatsby shirt that was clearly a recent purchase from Urban Outfitters and donned in an attempt to boast your unparalleled "intelligence" to the world screamed out to me: "Scholar!" "Provider!" "Everything you've been waiting for in a man!". You wore it so proudly. So when I commented on it and you told me it was your favorite book and that you "studied it in college," I refrained from telling you that I read and "studied" said Great American Novel in 5th grade. And then in junior high school. Again in high school...and then about 3 more times in college. However, I held my tongue as I want you to be proud of your accomplishments! Isn't that what proper women are supposed to do? I would have said let's talk literature, but I suppose I should leave the learning up to you and get to work on cooking those biscuits. Until we meet again...
Sincerely,
Betty Crocker
formerly, Zooey Deschanel's cousin
Monday, July 7, 2014
Missed Connection 6/11/14
Missed Connection:
It was about 9 pm on a Wednesday night and I was in the middle of hosting trivia at the Costa Mesa Tavern and Bowl. I had ordered some food earlier, but foolishly did not allow myself enough time to finish my food before starting trivia. Distressed and disappointed wholly in myself, but committed to my obligation, I moved my half eaten wedge salad with no bacon to the edge of the table. My plan was to slowly eat this as the night progressed and eventually when trivia ended, finish it. When we meet, I can go into more detail about how I was going to try to save most the tomatoes for the end because those are the best part, etc etc. However, I did not account for you and I must say you caught me off guard. While I was on the microphone you approached me. Your 50-some years of wisdom must have told you this was a good idea - nay; that this was the ONLY idea. "...You gonna finish that?" You asked, making direct eye contact - well, kind of direct. I'm pretty sure there was a lazy eye situation. Your words reeked of whiskey and broken dreams; the kind where you take one look at someone and just go, "I get it, man, and I'm sorry." Your opening line made me momentarily forget everything I have ever known. When I asked you if you were actually asking me if you could eat my half eaten salad, you unapologetically replied yes. I said no. I was too hasty. You weren't though. You lingered at the edge of my table for a full minute, staring lustfully at the salad, hoping for a miracle - or at least for my ice cold heart to melt. It didn't. Also, I was working. Maybe it was simply the rejection, or maybe it was the fact that you noticed there was no bacon on the salad. Either way, you gave up and stumbled away, dejected (or perhaps just extremely drunk at 9pm on a Wednesday). Give me another chance. You can have your own salad, or we can share. I'll even save the bacon on the side for you.
Sincerely,
The chick you don't know whose half eaten salad you really, really wanted.
It was about 9 pm on a Wednesday night and I was in the middle of hosting trivia at the Costa Mesa Tavern and Bowl. I had ordered some food earlier, but foolishly did not allow myself enough time to finish my food before starting trivia. Distressed and disappointed wholly in myself, but committed to my obligation, I moved my half eaten wedge salad with no bacon to the edge of the table. My plan was to slowly eat this as the night progressed and eventually when trivia ended, finish it. When we meet, I can go into more detail about how I was going to try to save most the tomatoes for the end because those are the best part, etc etc. However, I did not account for you and I must say you caught me off guard. While I was on the microphone you approached me. Your 50-some years of wisdom must have told you this was a good idea - nay; that this was the ONLY idea. "...You gonna finish that?" You asked, making direct eye contact - well, kind of direct. I'm pretty sure there was a lazy eye situation. Your words reeked of whiskey and broken dreams; the kind where you take one look at someone and just go, "I get it, man, and I'm sorry." Your opening line made me momentarily forget everything I have ever known. When I asked you if you were actually asking me if you could eat my half eaten salad, you unapologetically replied yes. I said no. I was too hasty. You weren't though. You lingered at the edge of my table for a full minute, staring lustfully at the salad, hoping for a miracle - or at least for my ice cold heart to melt. It didn't. Also, I was working. Maybe it was simply the rejection, or maybe it was the fact that you noticed there was no bacon on the salad. Either way, you gave up and stumbled away, dejected (or perhaps just extremely drunk at 9pm on a Wednesday). Give me another chance. You can have your own salad, or we can share. I'll even save the bacon on the side for you.
Sincerely,
The chick you don't know whose half eaten salad you really, really wanted.
Monday, June 23, 2014
Missed Connection
Missed Connection:
You were at The Huddle last night around midnight. I had had a long day and was having a few drinks with friends before starting the week anew. On my way out the door you yelled (literally, yelled), "HEY! ZOOEY DESCHANEL'S COUSIN! LET ME TAKE YOU OUT TO DINNER - WE CAN GO ANYWHERE YOU WANT!" As I turned around full of curiosity and bewilderment, you then added as a last ditch effort: "...YOU CAN ORDER WHATEVER YOU WANT!!!" I don't know if it was the sheer shock of wondering how in the world you knew I have a somewhat unhealthy obsession with eating unsexy amounts of food as often as humanly possible, or how you knew how much I love being compared to an attractive yet extremely annoying celebrity solely based on the fact that I too have bangs, but I panicked. Instead of running to you with open arms and my open calendar, I rolled my eyes and continued to my car. I hadn't even eaten dinner. I have since realized my mistake and that you are probably my soulmate. I was also not wearing my glasses (which was quite unfortunate, given the circumstances), but I'm sure if I had been I would have immediately taken off all my clothing and offered myself to you. I have no idea how you obtained and honed such impeccable flirting skills, but when are we going to dinner? I have been working on a list of what I want to order since last night.
Sincerely,
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Friday, January 11, 2013
The Naked Days
When I was little, I really liked being naked.
Not the normal naked-to-clothing ratio that a child has which is already pretty high, but the causing-actual-problems-for-my-mom kind of naked.
I imagine it was cute and endearing at first.
But eventually, things escalated.
Obviously at home it was not a big deal, just probably annoying to spend time putting clothes on me only to immediately find them on the floor with no Morgan in them.
I soon began to embarrass her when we would go into public.
I also began to embarrass other people.
It went on this way for a while, always frustrating my parents (mostly, my mom). For the most part she just rolled her eyes and put my clothes back on, chalking it up to my being a child.
...Until the day that she decided to bring me to her annual company party.
This was incredibly foolish and she should have known better.
Everyone gathered at the beach that day to celebrate their work as a company. I, of course, remember zero of this, but have been told the story many times.
Things started out fine.
My mom introduced me to everyone and everyone told her I was sooo cute and blah blah blah other stuff that people say about babies.
She had managed to keep my clothes on through the majority of the party, so she thought it would be OK to have a quick conversation with her coworker.
She was wrong.
Because a few minutes later, I was naked and peeing in the sand in front of her entire company.
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Thursday, January 3, 2013
The Cheesecake - Factory of Stress
Have you ever been to a restaurant or a fast food establishment that just stressed you the FUCK out?
Well I have. And I love food. Like, A LOT. ...Like, too much. And I will keep going to these places BECAUSE I love food, but it doesn't help the fact that after I eat there I feel like I need a glass of wine and a cigarette.
I don't even smoke.
Have you SEEN that fucking menu? It's like 45 pages. It's got footnotes. There's an appendix. There's a works cited page. There should be an FAQ section. It's RIDICULOUS.
I'm sorry, I thought I was coming to your establishment to eat, not to READ A NOVEL.
If I wanted to do that much reading I would go back and get my fucking Masters Degree.
Anyway, here is pretty much what happens to me every time I go to eat there.
It's Friday evening and a friend and I have made the fatal decision to dine at The Cheesecake Factory. I've been here before and I know what I'm getting myself into, but something in me says, "maybe this time it'll be different" like a hopeful woman taking back a shitty boyfriend who will always be shitty.
We sit down.
The waiter walks menacingly towards us...
...and I see it.
The menu.
That spiral ring-bound, pretentious, dissertation of a menu containing every possible food combination known to man...mocking me through its pages.
The waiter hands me the menu and I need both hands to support the weight of all offered food options and my impending failure.
I'm not ready for this...I think to myself, but it's too late. I'm here. I've committed. There's no going back.
A chill runs down my spine as I open the menu to the first page, knowing what lies ahead, but still not ready....
Drinks. Beverages. Alcoholic Drinks. Alcoholic Beverages. Half Alcoholic Drinks With A Twist Of Half Non Alcoholic Beverages. First Appetizers. Second Appetizers. Small Plates Larger Than Any Large Plate and Large Plates That Will Make A Grown Man Cry.
I feel dizzy. I need to sit down, but I'm already sitting down.
It's confusing.
I feel like I'm 16 again and taking the fucking SAT's when the waiter comes around asking for my drink order.
"I....uh...uhhh...WATER JUST WATER I'LL FIGURE THE REST OUT LATER!!" I manage to blurt out with my nose deep in the "menu," if you can even call it that.
I look over at my friend across the table and she also appears worried.
There is absolute silence at the table. We have previously agreed that any conversation will have to wait until after we have ordered.
The waiter walks away to get our drinks and as soon as he is out of sight I'm in full on panic mode, flipping through 400 fucking pages of food to find something, ANYTHING that looks good.
Fuck, I'll even settle for OK food at this point. JUST BRING ME SOMETHING THAT'S OK.
The waiter comes back with my water and asks if I'm ready to order and I order a fucking appetizer just to stall to get a few more minutes of precious, precious time....I need more time. I NEED MORE TIME. I WON'T BE ABLE TO PAY MY RENT THIS MONTH, BUT GIVE ME 10 MORE FUCKING MINUTES PLEASE.
My heart is pounding. A bead of sweat rolls down my face and I finally hit the half way point in the menu. I feel like I'm running in circles and have made no progress, though page 239 says otherwise.
I order two shots of tequila to calm my nerves and give me strength through this daunting task that has been placed before me.
...They do nothing. I have been drinking a lot this week.
An attractive gentleman at the table next to me smiles and me and I scream "I DON'T HAVE TIME TO FLIRT RIGHT NOW CAN'T YOU SEE I'M TRYING TO ORDER?!?!?!" He looks hurt, but I am not shaken - if he can't understand how important ordering this meal is to me, we would never work out anyway.
Time passes. Who can say how much?
Not me. My mind is spiraling through what I can only describe as one of M.C. Escher's never-ending staircases.
After what feels like an eternity, I finally find something that looks good and I feel like I've won the fucking lottery. It's as if invisible angels are singing and flying all around me while my item choice practically glows through the pages of themenu novel.
The waiter comes back with high expectations and I do not let him down. I proudly order my food and finally feel like I can relax a little bit. I smile back at the guy at the next table, but he pretends not to see me, perhaps due to envy as I have clearly ordered before him, perhaps afraid for his life. I don't even care. I'm busy riding on my cloud of decisiveness.
The food comes and per usual, it's delicious and way more food than any normal person is capable of consuming in a week's time. I slump back into the booth with a large grin on my face in a mixed coma of food and pride.
...And then, it happens.
The waiter comes out of nowhere. I am not prepared.
"Would you like to order dessert?" he asks, with an air of importance that insinuates he knows all about my most intimate shortcomings.
The test is not over.
FUCK, I FORGOT ABOUT EXTRA CREDIT.
I frantically search through the menu for the desserts (because you can't go to the CHEESECAKE factory and not order dessert, you just CAN'T).
The waiter is annoyed and I still haven't even found the damn dessert page.
"It's on page 415" he says will a roll of his condescending eyes.
"OH THANK GOD!" I cry with delight - I feel like I just cheated off the kid next to me in high school during a math test. Much to my chagrin, I finally locate said page of desserts.
To my horror, there are 843 different types of cheesecake. I start crying. The waiter looks disappointed. I ask for more time and he says no. More crying. I DIDN'T ASK FOR THIS I think to myself. But I know that's not true. I knew what I was getting into. I knew and I STILL walked through those doors.
Parallels between my current situation and some of my past relationships flash before my eyes as the never-fading regret washes over me.
"BRING ME ALL OF THEM." I yell, puffing out my chest.
"Seriously lady? There's literally like 800 cheesec-"
"I SAID ALL OF THEM" I challenge him with an all-too-familiar-and-judgmental smirk.
He brings out all 800 cheesecakes at one time and I don't make it through the first 4 before running to the bathroom to vomit. The cute guy at the next table asks to be moved to another. I don't care. I showed him. I showed BOTH of them. I made a decision.
I spend the next year paying off my $5000 credit card balance from my last visit to The Cheesecake Factory.
Well I have. And I love food. Like, A LOT. ...Like, too much. And I will keep going to these places BECAUSE I love food, but it doesn't help the fact that after I eat there I feel like I need a glass of wine and a cigarette.
I don't even smoke.
Like Chipotle.
I LOVE Chipotle. A giant burrito that you get to build yourself for under $7? YES PLEASE, I'll take 3. ...No not to go, I'm going to eat them all right now.
I do NOT love feeling like I'm part of a fucking wartime rifle assembly line. They move you through that line like they're trying to beat some sort of burrito making record. You're all, "I DON'T EVEN KNOW IF THAT'S WHAT I WANTED," but they're all, "tough shit, here's what you're eating."
Or Del Taco.
I mean, Del Taco is just stressful because you shouldn't be eating there.
...Like, YOU SHOULD NEVER BE EATING THERE. I know you're drunk, and it sounds awesome, but even the fucking receipt says "seriously, you shouldn't be eating this." The workers all look at you with disappointment in their eyes as they hand you your bag of shame, judging you as they hand it off...we all know it's true.
But the place that stresses me out the most is definitely THE CHEESECAKE FACTORY.
Have you SEEN that fucking menu? It's like 45 pages. It's got footnotes. There's an appendix. There's a works cited page. There should be an FAQ section. It's RIDICULOUS.
I'm sorry, I thought I was coming to your establishment to eat, not to READ A NOVEL.
If I wanted to do that much reading I would go back and get my fucking Masters Degree.
Anyway, here is pretty much what happens to me every time I go to eat there.
The Cheesecake - Factory of Stress
^ See what I did there? ^
It's Friday evening and a friend and I have made the fatal decision to dine at The Cheesecake Factory. I've been here before and I know what I'm getting myself into, but something in me says, "maybe this time it'll be different" like a hopeful woman taking back a shitty boyfriend who will always be shitty.
We sit down.
The waiter walks menacingly towards us...
...and I see it.
The menu.
That spiral ring-bound, pretentious, dissertation of a menu containing every possible food combination known to man...mocking me through its pages.
The waiter hands me the menu and I need both hands to support the weight of all offered food options and my impending failure.
I'm not ready for this...I think to myself, but it's too late. I'm here. I've committed. There's no going back.
A chill runs down my spine as I open the menu to the first page, knowing what lies ahead, but still not ready....
Drinks. Beverages. Alcoholic Drinks. Alcoholic Beverages. Half Alcoholic Drinks With A Twist Of Half Non Alcoholic Beverages. First Appetizers. Second Appetizers. Small Plates Larger Than Any Large Plate and Large Plates That Will Make A Grown Man Cry.
I feel dizzy. I need to sit down, but I'm already sitting down.
It's confusing.
I feel like I'm 16 again and taking the fucking SAT's when the waiter comes around asking for my drink order.
"I....uh...uhhh...WATER JUST WATER I'LL FIGURE THE REST OUT LATER!!" I manage to blurt out with my nose deep in the "menu," if you can even call it that.
I look over at my friend across the table and she also appears worried.
There is absolute silence at the table. We have previously agreed that any conversation will have to wait until after we have ordered.
The waiter walks away to get our drinks and as soon as he is out of sight I'm in full on panic mode, flipping through 400 fucking pages of food to find something, ANYTHING that looks good.
Fuck, I'll even settle for OK food at this point. JUST BRING ME SOMETHING THAT'S OK.
The waiter comes back with my water and asks if I'm ready to order and I order a fucking appetizer just to stall to get a few more minutes of precious, precious time....I need more time. I NEED MORE TIME. I WON'T BE ABLE TO PAY MY RENT THIS MONTH, BUT GIVE ME 10 MORE FUCKING MINUTES PLEASE.
My heart is pounding. A bead of sweat rolls down my face and I finally hit the half way point in the menu. I feel like I'm running in circles and have made no progress, though page 239 says otherwise.
I order two shots of tequila to calm my nerves and give me strength through this daunting task that has been placed before me.
...They do nothing. I have been drinking a lot this week.
An attractive gentleman at the table next to me smiles and me and I scream "I DON'T HAVE TIME TO FLIRT RIGHT NOW CAN'T YOU SEE I'M TRYING TO ORDER?!?!?!" He looks hurt, but I am not shaken - if he can't understand how important ordering this meal is to me, we would never work out anyway.
Time passes. Who can say how much?
Not me. My mind is spiraling through what I can only describe as one of M.C. Escher's never-ending staircases.
After what feels like an eternity, I finally find something that looks good and I feel like I've won the fucking lottery. It's as if invisible angels are singing and flying all around me while my item choice practically glows through the pages of the
The waiter comes back with high expectations and I do not let him down. I proudly order my food and finally feel like I can relax a little bit. I smile back at the guy at the next table, but he pretends not to see me, perhaps due to envy as I have clearly ordered before him, perhaps afraid for his life. I don't even care. I'm busy riding on my cloud of decisiveness.
The food comes and per usual, it's delicious and way more food than any normal person is capable of consuming in a week's time. I slump back into the booth with a large grin on my face in a mixed coma of food and pride.
...And then, it happens.
The waiter comes out of nowhere. I am not prepared.
"Would you like to order dessert?" he asks, with an air of importance that insinuates he knows all about my most intimate shortcomings.
The test is not over.
FUCK, I FORGOT ABOUT EXTRA CREDIT.
I frantically search through the menu for the desserts (because you can't go to the CHEESECAKE factory and not order dessert, you just CAN'T).
The waiter is annoyed and I still haven't even found the damn dessert page.
"It's on page 415" he says will a roll of his condescending eyes.
"OH THANK GOD!" I cry with delight - I feel like I just cheated off the kid next to me in high school during a math test. Much to my chagrin, I finally locate said page of desserts.
To my horror, there are 843 different types of cheesecake. I start crying. The waiter looks disappointed. I ask for more time and he says no. More crying. I DIDN'T ASK FOR THIS I think to myself. But I know that's not true. I knew what I was getting into. I knew and I STILL walked through those doors.
Parallels between my current situation and some of my past relationships flash before my eyes as the never-fading regret washes over me.
"BRING ME ALL OF THEM." I yell, puffing out my chest.
"Seriously lady? There's literally like 800 cheesec-"
"I SAID ALL OF THEM" I challenge him with an all-too-familiar-and-judgmental smirk.
He brings out all 800 cheesecakes at one time and I don't make it through the first 4 before running to the bathroom to vomit. The cute guy at the next table asks to be moved to another. I don't care. I showed him. I showed BOTH of them. I made a decision.
I spend the next year paying off my $5000 credit card balance from my last visit to The Cheesecake Factory.
Worth it.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
A Super Awesome Single Girl's Guide To Dying Alone
As a single girl with a PhD in this field, I KNOW that many of you envy my talents and really want to know how YOU can more effectively meet your demise without any glimmer of hope of a romantic relationship. Look no further! I am here to save the day [and you from meeting the man of your dreams]! Just follow my advice and in no time, YOU TOO can join me in dying alone.
Maybe someday we can grab a drink and talk about it, but probably not.
Because I'll be busy.
With nothing.
Which leads me to my first point:
STAY IN
I know it's Friday night, and you think you should probably go to your friend Jessica's birthday party at that really fun and crowded bar where lots of guys are usually there just to pay for your drinks and tell you you're pretty, but not you!
You will be staying in tonight. And all the other nights.
Why, you ask?
Because. You just don't feel like going through the hassle of getting all dolled up to meet some loser who lives in his parents' basement, a frat house, or a double wide. It's not worth it. Besides, chances are he either already has a girlfriend, he's not looking for anything serious or isn't capable of any real intimacy anyway.
He probably can't even drink hard liquor.
You hate him already.
So STAY IN! Maybe throw on some Battlestar Galactica, pour yourself a glass or seven[teen] of wine, and really focus on your loneliness.
...I mean REALLY focus. Maybe go through some old photos of you and your ex, look at your ever-shrinking bank account and listen to that really sad Adele song a few hundred times.
Whew. That was close. Let's get back on track.
GET SOME CATS
***Please note I did not say ONE cat***
Get SOME cats.
This could mean 2, but hey, why stop there! Feel free to get up to 4 cats (if you live in an apartment), 6 if you live in a house. Why? Cats are cute! And they will suffice for an emotionally unavailable and inattentive boyfriend until your friends find your dead body one day and they've eaten all your soft parts so they wouldn't starve.
You also now have another excuse not to go to Jessica's party.
"You have to feed your cats."
HYGIENE IS OPTIONAL
You know what? You've had a hard day. Maybe don't shower tomorrow. And brushing your teeth?? Please. Looks like YOU'RE about to gain 1 to 2 minutes a day!
You're single! And if you're lucky enough to live alone like me, NO ONE WILL EVEN BE THERE TO JUDGE [or marry] YOU. EVER.
Why spend so much time in the shower when you could be doing other things like not going to Jessica's party, drinking, and working on your Adele karaoke cover?
For you newbies, this might take some getting used to. Don't worry, I'm here to provide you with tips!
1. Invest in perfume.
This way, if you start to smell OH WAIT NOW YOU SMELL AWESOME.
This way, if you start to smell OH WAIT NOW YOU SMELL AWESOME.
Here are some of my current favorites:
- Omnia Crystalline by Bvlgari
- J'Adore by Christian Dior
- L'Eau D'Issey by Issey Miyake
2. Baby powder your shit.
Ok, not your actual shit. Mostly just your head. Because you didn't shower today. (Bonus points if you can actually still SEE some of the baby powder because you were going to be late for work.)
3. Stop painting your nails.
In order to give guys that true "I don't give a fuck" vibe, maybe just leave your nails the way they are. It's preferred that you were wearing a dark color that will slowly peel away [like your dreams of finding your soulmate] leaving an unattractive mess that won't quite disappear [...like your dreams of finding your soulmate].
(*If it does, repaint, but ONLY once it's completely gone. Probably do a shitty job, too.)
4. Get a "fat sweater."
Yep. This is exactly what it sounds like.
Get a sweater that will cover up the fact that maybe you haven't been to the gym in the past 28 years. Those boys will never even see you coming (because they're confused and a little concerned about your ambiguous body shape).
MARRIED FRIENDS ONLY
Why would you want to put yourself in the position of being with another single person? So you can go out and try to meet OTHER single people?!
Absolutely not.
Fortunately, I have the solution:
Befriend ONLY married people. Couples that are in a serious, committed relationship will do in a pinch, but are not ideal because hey what if that dude breaks up with his girlfriend one day?
Spending all your free time with married couples ensures there is absolutely no possibility that you will be around single men who are interested in getting in the way of your dying alone.
Which leads me to my next point:
DON'T DATE
We all know that going somewhere outside of your normal routine might lead to meeting someone new, or meeting someone who knows someone that they think you would really like. We also all know that this is in direct violation of the Dying Alone Mission, or D.A.M., as I call it.
I don't call it that. Sometimes I lie.
...To avoid that horribly awkward thing where you meet a boy you're interested in, start talking and eventually are forced to go out on a date that might lead to a serious relationship and eventually marriage, don't go anywhere different. Don't try new things. And DEFINITELY, do NOT date.
I mean hellooo, dating leads to marriage. And marriage leads to dying WITH someone (again, in direct violation of the D.A.M.).
SO, pick a local bar or two and just keep going there because it's convenient, possibly in walking distance, and you've already established that you have no romantic interest in any of the people that go there.
***SIDE NOTE: Avoid bars where attractive, single men your age that might share common interests hang out.***
If someone asks you out? Immediately look for reasons to say no.
Can't think of one?
HAVE YOU LEARNED NOTHING SO FAR!?
START READING THIS ALL OVER AGAIN.
IN CASE, AFTER ALL THIS YOU STILL GET HIT ON
There are really two schools of thought on how to deal with this, so thank God I've double majored in both of them!
1. DON'T PAY ATTENTION....EVER.
Because whatever you are doing with your girlfriends or on your phone is way more important than the 6'2" tall dark and handsome doctor that is giving you the eye. Or trying to buy you a drink. Or trying to buy you another drink. Or waving a few times. Or - ok he gave up.
2. BE MEAN
You know what? You WERE in the middle of a conversation with your friends at a public bar where it's socially acceptable to talk to new people when that guy interrupted and tried to get your phone number. Doesn't he know you're TRYING to die alone??? You should probably tell him. Maybe a little bit rudely because you've had a lot of vodka.
And tequila.
...And probably a shot of whiskey.
Well, I hope you've all learned a lot. I know I have. I feel confident that if you follow the steps and advice that I've laid out for you here, you can't fail in your aspirations to die alone. And remember, if you ever find yourself in a bar alone, make sure to keep pen and paper on you so you can write this blog.
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