Hey, how’s it going? No, don’t get up; I’ll stand.
I saw you over here sitting alone and I thought, “How sad. A man shouldn’t be left to drink all by himself. It’s hard enough as it is with social pressures to conform to an unattainable idea of masculinity perpetuated by a patriarchal and antiquated set of phallocratic norms.”
I noticed that you were about to finish that drink and I was wondering if I could buy you another one. I have a tab here. They know me. I drink pretty heavily.
I’ve been pounding Irish Car Bombs all night, but I’m willing to transition to Cosmos if you’re more inclined.
In fact, a Cosmo may be a better option for me anyhow. Not because of its pink hue and dainty lemon rind, but because the alcohol content is lower and I have to be up fairly early for my corporate executive office job.
I’m not sure about your schedule for tomorrow morning—you could be doing anything from packing school lunches to midwifery—but I have to be up at 6:30 sharp. Mainly to hit the gym. And not because I’m concerned with maintaining a taut feminine physique but because the morning adrenaline rush gets my head in the corporate game. It’s a minefield out there and the gym turns me into an emotional tank.
I should probably mention that I approached you with the sole intention of having sex with you. Ideally tonight. I assessed your body from the other end of the bar and thought that, irrespective of your personality, I’d like to have sex with you. I know we’ve only just met, but I enjoy being penetrated by a stranger with no promise of an emotional commitment. Call me old fashioned.
Looks like Hillary may do a push for 2016. I think she’s perfectly competent but I’m more of a Biden person myself and I’m spearheading a letter writing campaign on his behalf. I just feel inspired by his potential run. If elected, he’d be the first president from Scranton and I think that’s an important glass ceiling to shatter. If not now, when?
Oh how gauche of me! I’ve just been rambling on like some kind of Chatty Cathy or Calvin. I haven’t even properly introduced myself. My name is Terri, with a dollar sign over the i, instead of a dot. I’m not afraid to make money, is what that says, especially if it’s apportioned based on my physical efforts and intellectual abilities.
So what do you think? Would you like to take me up on my offer to buy you that drink? No? What about the indiscriminate sex? We could head back to my place, which is actually pretty dirty at the moment. It’s really more of a crash pad. A landing spot for me and my Steelers-themed mini fridge filled with domestic beer.
What’s that? I’m harassing you? How horrible. And you probably won’t even report it. All too often, men won’t report harassment or abuse because it conflicts with an archaic sense of misguided masculinity and pride. But it’s so important to alert the authorities of any aggressive behavior from a woman as soon as possible. A friendly tap on the shoulder becomes a less-than playful nudge becomes throwing a man down two flights of stairs at three in the morning.
I’m just saying: Women Are Dangerous.
No, no! Don’t call the bartender, he’s been on his feet all day. I’ll just leave.
No, no! Don’t get the door, I’m perfectly capable of letting myself out.
And don’t worry about me. I’m just going to head home, eat a TV dinner and fall asleep in shapeless pajamas. But for now, I thank you for your time, which was roughly two-thirds as valuable as mine.