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What The Hell Ever Happened To…

January 31, 2011

Just asking someone out?

Now it’s like if a random person you’ve never met comes up and asks you out, you’re quickly compiling a list of all of the things that could be wrong with him, like he’s socially inept (which is obviously not true because he just had the balls to ask you out) or he’s a stalker or he’s bound to go all Tom Cruise on your ass and start jumping on couches after the first date.

But with Facebook and the assumed role of texting, the thought of approaching a total stranger and asking them to spend a few hours with you on a Friday night cant help but lend itself to a bad episode of Dateline. Facebook and texting have become our crutch in the dating world because rely on the lack of real-time to buy us time to come up with those perfectly clever and flirty little quips. Social networking has made it harder to actually network in social settings. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to go all “Texting is ruining the English language” on your ass because I love a good Facebook stalk as much as the next bored college girl but it’s funny how it’s mainstream to ask a person out over Facebook messages but it’s becoming less and less acceptable to ask out strangers.

When you want to ask someone out now it’s like to you have to have an in or some kind of thing that you pretend to care about to start up a conversation. It’s like, I’d almost prefer the moronic pickup lines because they are direct and best of all, they require little to no effort whereas sitting there pretending to be well-versed in something I know absolutely nothing about and Wikipedia-ed simply because I saw it on your Facebook profile is not just a pain in the ass, it’s a lie! Of course I’ve never read “The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet” (and chances are you didn’t even read it either, you just put it up on your profile to appear well-read and trendy) and yet I have to memorize a few lines from an online book review and verbally plagarise for a few minutes before I can figure out a way to subtly shift the conversation not just to my own original thoughts but also to something that doesn’t bore the hell out of me, wondering when the hell we can talk about those crazy Kardashians already!

So here’s an example of how I take this “not being able to just ask someone out” idea to the extreme, as I take most of my ideas. Here was my brilliant idea conjured up in 2 a.m. world, NOT the real world.

Once upon a time there was a futon cover, from a far away land called Ikea. After a youth of being tossed from foster home to foster home, desperately making ends meet just to avoid the godforsaken loneliness of a cold and dark storage unit, he finally found a home in my apartment. The first few weeks were splendid, like futon cover paradise full of Febreze cocktails and vacuum massages, but much like the fleeting content from his previous homes, this home too, became a place that would eventually neglect and haunt him. Subjected to spillage from ramen noodle bowls, countless cups of black coffee and Franzia, the futon cover did its best to fend for itself. But if it wasn’t the careless trickling of dangerously pigmented liquids, there was always something else to dodge, like the drunken debauchery of the habitant’s friends and their consequently weary hands. The days were hard but the nights, harder. In a last attempt to give the futon cover a shot at a better life, I sent him away to be cleaned, to be released from all of the horrible things he’d been through, despite the obvious stains, his unofficial badges that declared to the world that he was damaged goods. Jaded and burned from his past of being sent away every time things got messy, the futon cover had a feeling that this time would be no different. New home, same story. This, however, is not the case. I have every intention of bringing him back to his permanent home, in my living room, where he belongs. However I do need to come by and get him and since your roommate who offered to wash said futon cover has been MIA, I thought I’d give you a shot.

So yeah, I’m probably the only person in the world who’s ever told a story about their personified futon cover (or used the term “Febreze Cocktail” for that matter, though I’m sure it’s a bandwagon the real housewives of anywhere would like to get on) but I like to think that there are plenty people who would find it endearing – like my mom or Jesus or Barbara Walters – though I’m not expecting you to be one of them. But on the off chance that you are not completely freaked out and you want to know how the story ends (I’ll give you a hint, probably not well, I just picked up a bottle of red) we should hang out.

So at the risk of sounding like a walking Craigslist ad, let me know if you want to hang out sometime and/or maybe get a drink. In addition, I promise not to tell any more stories about inanimate objects.

Psh man, screw ya’ll, I thought it was funny… though you’ll be happy to know I decided not to send it. Not because I didn’t think it was funny but because I realize that the ideas that originate from the hours of 2 – 5 a.m. are not my best (hence my overused term “my 2 a.m. life not my real life”). Just ask the burnt marshmallow goo on my George Foreman grill…or the scar on the left shin of my best friend…or every person I’ve ever drunk texted.

Go ahead, judge me. Two can play that game crazy-eyes, two can play that game…

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One Comment leave one →
  1. Stephanie permalink
    February 1, 2011 8:56 am

    I actually thought that was an EXCELLENT story! Coming from someone who names most of her inanimate objects (I used to sleep with Oliver every night until I moved home…now I just don’t need my iPod to sleep) I have no room to judge about this story. :-P

    It would make my life a lot easier if strangers would ask people out. Dating websites and Facebook ruin everything; I guess my personality is just that awful that once they see me they turn the other way. At least with strangers, I’d get that date before I scare them off! That is, if strangers asked me out. Call me old-fashioned (or a wuss), but I just don’t make the first move. It’s a rare occasion.

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