If You’re Trying To Fuck The Guy Who Showed Up To The Bar With Me, You Better Have A Really Good Fucking Plan

She’s standing alone in the middle of the bar, and I’m over on the dance floor, with at least eight of my friends, pointing and laughing because after a couple shoots of Hennessy that seems like the most logical thing to do. I guess me and my friends can’t really be described as “nice people,” but seeing as we’re all prettier and smarter and more popular than most of the people in here, we don’t really have to ascribe to niceness in order to feel like we belong here more than you do.

It’s Christmas, and she’s alone at the bar, and all of us all together are wondering what kind of pathetic act of desperation has inspired her to show up alone at the bar on a national holiday. Generally, people spend time with their friends and their family on Christmas, although if that’s not in order, getting desperately drunk with other lonely people is a good solution. Her? She’s here because she knew that he’d be here, but she probably didn’t know that he’d be with me, and her wonderful plan of showing up alone to the bar on Christmas night in order to win him back just isn’t going to work out because she forgot to calculate the exact velocity of how awful it would look to show up to the bar alone on Christmas. Trying to throw pussy at someone who doesn’t want it is never a good look, but when me and my friends are standing there, watching, ready to ridicule and laugh about it while we prance around with glasses of champagne and knives in our pockets and Louis Vuitton handbags – well, I mean, there was probably a better way to go about doing this, but game is elusive for people who don’t put any effort into thinking about game, so: here we are. Or, rather, there you are, alone at the bar, and here I am, with your man in my hands and only one thing left to say: try harder next time, because you’re going up against the big guns of gaming guys in Downtown bars. Come correct or GTFOH. Bitch.