“I sabotaged her computer so she would have to call me to fix it. That way I’d get to talk to her. Oh, and I connected to her computer and went through all of her stuff of course.”
“What? Really? Why don’t you just go and talk to her Matt?”
“Lopez, I don’t want to seem like a creep.”
I think I still have a bit to learn about this whole courtship thing. In my defense, if the other help desk guy hadn’t shown up to work early that day and fixed her computer before I had the opportunity to, it may have worked out. What can I say? I’m a romantic.
Actually, it wouldn’t have worked out because as it turns out, Cute Girl Who Works In Sales has a boyfriend, which makes sense – most cute girls have boyfriends. I found out about the boyfriend situation when, two days later, her computer broke all on its own, and I came skipping in to fix it with bright eyes and a big stupid smile on my face. I felt like a fucking butterfly I was so happy. The stars had aligned for sure, I thought. And oh boy, they aligned all right. They lined right up to fuck me in the ass. Thanks stars. In the end I got turned down for lunch through an email. It could have been worse I suppose; she could have sent me a fax.
I think I need to find out how to differentiate between when a girl is flirting with me, and when she is trying to giggle at my bad jokes in an attempt to cope with how terribly awkward I am around pretty girls. What I’ll do is start hitting on ugly bitches. Wait, hear me out. Trust me, this is scientific; I’m not lowering my standards. I’m doing research. Stand back while I attempt science folks…. If I go and make my bad jokes around the unattractive chicks and they act the same as the hot chicks, I know the hot chicks are flirting with me because I won’t have the “talking to a pretty girl awkwardness” about me. I’ll just be normal semi-awkward Matt. This is legit. I’m serious. I’ll wear a fucking lab coat when I do these studies. There will be charts, graphs, and lots of arrows pointing at things. I was a hard science major. I rocked an A in advanced physics lab. This will be as easy as pushing an old lady down a flight of stairs.
All of this is to build confidence. Bitches loooooovvve confidence (bitches also like it when you put a lot of repeating letters in words to emphasize them). Then I’ll be able to continue my research even further. More charts, more graphs, and even bigger arrows.
It will all culminate in a formula. It’ll probably be logarithmic – it’s always fucking logarithmic. It won’t be some bullshit unification theory formula either. I don’t give a shit about the four fundamental forces. This will be way better. This will be the equation to women, and therefore the equation to ultimate happiness.
Want to know why your girlfriend left you? Solve for x asshole. Bam. There you go.
Hey, why does my girlfriend seem to ask me questions there is no right answer to? Integrate with respect to time motherfucker. Boom. There’s your answer. Ah yeah.
Then I’ll just patent it, sell it to the highest bidder, and make many men happy. It will be as if Rogaine fucked Viagra – better than curing prostate cancer. Life solved. I’ll die happy for sure.
And thus we come to the end of the formula – not the impossible formula for understanding the eccentricities of the female mind, but the formula for everything I ever write for KAB. Start with something outlining a serious point, expand on it to the point of absurdity, and hide it under a wrapping of profanity. When the dust settles, conclude with a short paragraph of honest inner reflection. Mention how you drink too much. Allude to how despondent you feel. End with a few words of apathetic observation. It’s an easy equation to solve, though the answer is hardly worth the effort.
… until I’m very drunk indeed.