I was standing outside the bar taking selfies because, y’know, it’s 2014 and I’m 26 years old. What else are people doing nowadays? Anyways, that’s the besides the point, but it was late and the people inside seemed a little bit peeved that the flash was disrupting their drinking. Which didn’t bother me, but then one of them came outside.
“I noticed you’re trying to take a selfie,” he said.
“Yeah, I was,” I responded, still blinded from four failed selfie attempts in a row.
“Need help with a selfie?” he asked.
“Sure,” I replied, thinking he was going to take a picture of me, but instead he wraps his arm around and takes a picture of us together.
“Wanna go on a date?”
“Huh, okay?” I replied, feeling a little bit duped and still a bit blinded by my own overwhelming narcissism. Which was the wrong response, because as soon as the light started to dim a bit, I realized that he this charlatan had fully taken advantage of the moment with me in my hazed state. Ugh, this guy was not attractive but I smiled and weasled away as soon as my friends came out to talk to me.
“What was that?” my friend asked after the selfie-taker walked away, obviously vanquished after not getting my number.
“Um, the weirdest pick up ever,” I responded. “He took a selfie with me and then asked me on a date, which is weird, because what kind of guys take selfies with female strangers?”
“He was probably a pick up artist.”
“Ugh, really? What do you think he’s going to do with that photo?”
“Well, worst case scenario, that picture is going to enter a pantheon of ‘selfies with girls at bars’ spank bank material. Or something.”
“Or, well, who knows. But probably.”