For a male in his mid-20’s, a Friday night out usually ends in one of two ways; 1. a nice girl is successfully courted, and the pair head back to a place where he can lay his head and more than likely have intercourse. 2. he get’s shut down by every girl at the bar and he heads home alone, likely stopping at a greasy spoon to fill the void left by not having a girl on his arm.
There is no perfect algorithm for hitting on women. While I have no factual evidence to back this up, I believe the success rate for an average looking male on a Friday night is less than 5%.
In most situations, it is the times when the male isn’t actively searching for a companion that something happens. You’ll be in an outfit that doesn’t see a lot of playing time because you haven’t done laundry in a week.
Maybe you’re wearing something for comfort over style. It is in these moments when ass, of the female variety, will quite literally fall into your lap.
But that doesn’t happen nearly as often as any of us would like it to. More times than not, I go home alone, hopelessly, unflinchingly devoted to a chase that with each passing day seems to become more pointless and unavailing.
I found myself at a Whataburger at 1:40 this morning moderately drunk. I hadn’t given it much of a go last night. I was comfortable enough sitting with my buddy drinking beers that I wasn’t all that interested in hitting on girls.
In the back of my mind, I thought that maybe if I didn’t try too hard something would fall into my lap. This did not happen.
If you’re in a Whataburger past midnight there is a very good chance you’re drunk. I looked around at my counterparts.
A group of college-aged guys sat a table adjacent to mine, guzzling pop and talking about the party they had been at. Two girls sat at another table laughing maniacally as they shoveled chicken fingers down their disgusting gullets. These were my peers. The absolute dregs of humanity.
I just wanted my taquitos to come out so I could leave. It’s nights like these that make me question things the following morning.There isn’t a regret quite like the Whataburger regret. While it can be halfway decent, there is no reason for me to be eating that shit.
At 10:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning, I sat in my kitchen regretting my decision to eat at a place that prides itself on staying open 24 hours a day.
I opened my refrigerator and stared down limited beverage options. Orange Juice, a half-way drained 32-oz “medium” Coke from Whataburger, and a couple of ice cold Miller Lites. What the hell do I have going on today?
There isn’t anything quite like a hungover, Saturday morning domestic light beer. Sure, there are going to be some people saying that this is a move for alcoholics and college kids, but I’m willing to die on this hill if need be.
The Euro Cup or whatever the hell it’s called is on. We’ve got moving day at the U.S. Open. Not to mention the fact that I’ve got two segments of the OJ Simpson “30 for 30” chilling in my DVR.
So yeah, I’m going to enjoy the fuck out of this Miller Lite. I might enjoy three before noon. I’ve got eggs, bacon, and Miller Lite out the ass right now and I’ll be damned if anyone’s going to tell me I can’t have one on a Saturday morning in mid-June.
What’s the difference between the girl who orders a mimosa carafe at 10:00 a.m. and me cracking an ML at the very same time? I’ll tell you what the difference is. I’m more comfortable.
I’m not sitting outside sweating my ass off trying to choke down some overpriced egg dish. I’m chilling in the A/C blasting Steve Winwood and watching some third world countries play soccer.
My ego? It’s a little bruised from two straight Friday nights out on the town without anything to show for it. If anything, please just let me have this. Let me enjoy a coldie at 10:00 a.m. on a Saturday without judgement. I need this right now. .