You Got Game?

Bars are supposed to be places in which you relax, take a load off, have a few drinks with friends. Or, if you’re single, it’s the sedentary version of the Hunger Games. Why? Because it’s the last bastion of socially-acceptable mate-hunting, if only for an evening. And duh, only the hotties like Jennifer Lawrence survive.

(I’m not talking at all about online dating, because that’s a whole other bizarro world that frankly, when you think about it, only exists on a computer screen. So let’s get back to reality, at least what exists in my crazy mind…)

So! When you walk into a bar and you see hot-tail-potential, if you’re anything like me it doesn’t fill you with elation or kegel contractions. Instead, it stresses you the fuck out. “Shit! Now I have to be ON. I can’t just be a fucking slob tonight.” It’s almost like unwittingly stumbling into a beauty pageant, and you’re hoping you may make it out alive with “Miss Kinda-Funny Personality”, if not “Miss Boobs-are-Decently Large”.

First hurdle: how to act? And don’t you dare, interwebz, tell me to “just be myself.” I don’t wanna be myself! And that’s what got me non-laid in the first place!

Am I cool, but not too cool? Interested, but not too interested? Lingering eye-contact, or seizure-inducing rapid-eye blinks? Suck on straw, finger, olive, $5 foot-long? Do I initiate conversation? Does he? Is he shy? Am I shy? Well am I supposed to be, dammit?!? Then do we talk shop (“yeah, I’m a relationship and dating blogger, Ariel. You’ve probably heard of me. Heh-heh, yeah, I was being sarcastic. So, is that a prosthetic nose?”), talk careers (Um, yeah, I work in the industry. A lot of people depend on me…OK fine I’m a receptionist at a nail salon in Hollywood. But Kirk Cameron once walked by with his mom.”) talk hometowns (“Where ya from? Where’s that? Never heard of it!”) talk sports (“Yankees Suck! Sorry, your dad is George who?”), talk music (“Do you like Karaoke?”), talk booze (“PBR is my beer of choice! What’s that? No, I don’t think I’m a douchebag hipster,”), talk drugs (“are you high, like, right this second? Because you’re kinda freaking me out with that drool…”), talk sex (“uh, buy you a drink and I’ you breakfast? No? OK, how about I buy you some beer nuts?”)?

I obviously have no game. None whatsoever. If anything, I act the ice queen wall flower, full of bravado, piss and vinegar (mostly piss because of the PBRs) pretending I could give two fucks that you’re in the joint, lookin all fyyyne, desperately trying to convince myself you’re a total arrogant asshole who’s shitty in bed so it won’t be a total loss when I’m in bed at midnight watching Lifetime.

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