Figure it out, dickwad


After last week’s blast from the past, I figured I’d get our asses back to the present. In honor of the Christmas spirit, you know, all that Christmas Carol past, present, and future shit. Not sure how the future is gonna work out yet, but I don’t plan that far in advance so it’s kinda beside the point. Anyway, back to the present. Saturday night, I head to the bar. Granted I’ve been pre-gaming at my friend’s house for several hours so I’m already glowing, to put it nicely. Also its past midnight so only the best people are at the bar. And by best, I obviously don’t mean best.


I manage to find a seat at the bar and order a whiskey sour. I’m there minding my own business, really just enjoying people watching at a super hipster bar in Bushwick (you should try it; you might see some fucking hilarious shit). Before long I’m approached by one of the worst men I have ever encountered. I mean, at the time, it always seems like it’s the worst guy ever. But this one was most definitely at the top of the list, no exaggerations. Let me try and paint a pretty little picture for you (it’s gonna be paint by number though, ‘cause my drawing skills suck). Older guy, looks to be about 40. He’s wearing big head phones around his neck the entire night, accompanied by baggy jeans and a hoodie, dressed as though he’s still in his 20’s, which no one should do. Also, just to be clear, he’s not the silver fox type man of 40 who is older, sophisticated and sexy, he’s a gross I’ve-let-myself-go-since-college (which in your case sir, was a long fucking time ago) type of 40. Great, now that you have that delightful mental picture, let’s move on.


He starts blabbing on about something to me while getting a drink at the bar and I half heartedly listen and contribute for a little bit. He then seems to catch my somewhat bored and uninterested vibe and leads in with “I’m not trying to pick you up, I’m really not, just trying to make a new friend is all.” I looked at him somewhat disbelievingly. Sure enough, not even five minutes later he is trying to put his number in my phone, an attempt which I quickly put an end to. He kept going on and on and at some point I stopped being the slightest bit polite to him. Normally I try and entertain guys to a certain extent, be nice and chatty, but this guy didn’t even deserve that. You might think that’s a bit harsh, but let me ask you this, were you there? Damn straight you weren’t, so who the fuck are you to say anything. Whoa, sorry, don’t know where that came from. Moving on from that little outburst, by this point, the guy sitting to the left of me started to feel sorry for me (that’s when you know shit’s bad). He lightly told my would be older suitor that I was a lesbian, not in to guys and that he was gay, that’s why we made such a great team. Unfortunately Mr. Drunk Ass was not totally convinced by this and it didn’t hinder him for long.


It was shortly after this that Mr. Hollywood came into the picture. I’m chatting with my new “gay” friend and Mr. Hollywood comes over and stands right in between us. It was apparent to anyone (except apparently this one guy) that we were sitting together, having a friendly conversation. But to Mr. Hollywood it looked like the perfect opening. He was the tall, dark and handsome type. Unfortunately he also knew he was that type and had a fat ego as well, which weirdly I’m not really into. He told me he was visiting from out of town (so you know he just wanted to fuck), that he lived in California and made movies. He said this with such a gloating manner that I wanted to punch him in the face and say, “This is NYC motherfucker, everybody is a goddamn filmmaker”. I controlled myself and instead put a forced smile on my face. Luckily it wasn’t terribly hard to get rid of Mr. Hollywood because I wasn’t throwing myself at him, as he seemed to be accustomed to, and didn’t want to try hard so he walked away to rejoin his friend.


Mr. Drunk Ass (who kept leaving, giving me the false hope that I had gotten rid of him, and then reappearing again and crushing my hopes) reappeared in time to watch the tail end of Mr. Hollywood. As Hollywood exited the scene, Drunk Ass demanded “What was wrong with him? He was good looking.” I agreed with him and then said something about how I also enjoyed the men I talked with to have some kind of interesting substance about them. Mr. Drunk Ass just seemed confused by this and let it go. It was then that things started to get really good. He asked me a question about what I did and I gave him the abbreviated version of my life story. After I finished he looked at me and said “I actually wasn’t listening to what you said, I got distracted and was watching your lips.” What. The. Fuck? That sentence is creeper status right there. Also, side note boys, never ever start a sentence with a girl by saying, “I actually wasn’t listening to you.” There is absolutely nothing to follow that with that would make it ok in any shape or form. As far as pick up routines go it’s like saying “hey, you’re pretty uninteresting, and I don’t find the things you’re saying to be worth my effort. Wanna hang out sometime?” I responded appropriately with “Are you fucking serious right now?” He told me I shouldn’t be upset, on the contrary I should respond with “Thank you, I’m glad you think my lips are pretty”. Even I didn’t know how to respond to such a thing, I was completely dumbfounded by his awful self.


Throughout the course of the night, every five minutes or so, the conversation with Mr. Drunk Ass would come back to him saying “I’m so fucked up”, “I’m so wasted”, “I’m so hammered” and on and on and on. Boys, just a note, this is not attractive. Girls, also not attractive for you. Not attractive for anyone, at all, ever. Anyway, enough about that. It was after one of these times that he asked if he could buy me a beer (pet peeve of mine: when a guy asks if he can buy me something in particular, let me pick my own fucking drink), to which I responded by looking at my nearly full whiskey sour and saying I was “all set”. That led in to him being interested in what I was drinking. When I told him I was drinking whiskey sours he launched into a rant about how un-lady like that was, plus how I apparently had terrible manners (that sir, is because I hate you, and want you to go kill yourself). I would like to point out that he was drinking budweiser and cheap tequila shots, so as classy as they come really. At this point he leaned over to me and told me that my “gay friend” had a little crush on me. I told him there was only one problem with that: gay men don’t like girls. Shocking right? Who knew? Shortly after that he pulled another smooth move, I was talking and he told me he hadn’t been listening. Again. This time he was looking at my beauty marks (I have freckles all over my face). This is all well and good sir but are you not capable of looking at them AND listening to what I am saying. Apparently not, he was just too fucked up to multi-task.


After it got to the point where I would rather leave then keep drinking (honestly a tall task) I tried to excuse myself from Mr. Drunk Ass’s company. He kept asking over and over for my number. I reminded him that I wasn’t into guys but that didn’t faze him. He said we could go out for coffee and just be friends. I almost lol’d for real (and trust me, I hate lol). It got even better when he told me he had a lesbian roommate which he wanted to introduce me to. Riiiiiight. Finally I grabbed a dollar bill he was about to pay with, wrote down my number (changing the last digit as usual) and handed it to him. He complained that he couldn’t even read the number. My response was something similar to “Figure it out, dickwad.”



About 25shotsandcounting

My name is Sylvia. I’m a 22 year old girl living in NYC. For reasons I wish I knew, I get hit on a lot. I don’t think it’s because I’m particularly more attractive, funnier or even more intelligent than other girls. I’m convinced that it’s some kind of weird aura that only men can sense. An invisible sign that says, “Well hi there, I’m open for business.” Ironically, I’m usually not. The idea for this blog came about while I was dating a bartender in Williamsburg. I would go his bar and have several drinks by myself while waiting for him to get off work. Like clockwork, it was usually only a matter of time before I had a parade of guys come and talk to me. So much so that it became a running joke between my boyfriend at the time and all of his co-workers, just betting how long it would take before I had my next victim. Sometimes flattering, sometimes annoying, other times like some sort of scientific curiosity, the unelicited attention became enough of a pattern to notice and, free drinks aside, generally dread. I seem to be a magnet for awkward pick up attempts, which sometimes lead to misadventures of one kind or another. I know this is a common phenomenon for young women in NYC, but I figured, why not write about it.
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