JiB's Merry-Go-Round of Chat-Up Cunt-O-Rama

Okay guys, I’m not posting as much these days. That’s because it’s summer and hey... The sun makes everything fine! Or maybe the sun is just a huge yellow ball of flaming, projected denial, crisping away the fuckedupness of my life and letting me settle into a lazy “ignorance is” style of bliss. Whatever. So in lieu of a massive, jaded rant about romance, instead I’m going to give you a brief insight into why, perhaps, I never seem to pull or anything remotely resembling it.

When I chat to girls that I’ve just met, I like to be original. This means I will do stupid things like using scenes from The Lost Highway (David Lynch) as a basis for what I’m saying. First, let me explain a little background. The Lost Highway is a brilliant, surrealist film about some deeply screwed-up shit that I can’t explain here; I can only recommend you watch it. But at one point, the protagonist is confronted by someone resembling a freakish, squat, white-faced nosferatu at a dinner party. The following conversation ensues, with the freak in italics:

We've met before, haven't we?
I don't think so. Where was it that you think we've met?
At your house. Don't you remember?
(surprised) No, no I don't. Are you sure?
Of course. In fact, I'm there right now.
(incredulous) What do you mean? You're where right now?
At your house.
That's absurd.
[ The freak reaches into his coat pocket, takes out a cellular phone and holds it out to our protagonist. ]
Call me.
[ The protagonist snickers, like this is a bad joke. The freak puts the phone into the protagonist’s hand. ]
Dial your number.
[ Pause. ]
Go ahead.
[ Protagonist shrugs, laughs, dials his number. Someone picks it up. ]
(freak on the phone) I told you I was here.
How did you do that?
[ The freak points at the phone. ]
Ask me.
(into phone) How did you get into my house?
You invited me. It's not my habit to go where I'm not wanted.
Who are you?
[ The freak laughs - identical laughs - both over the phone and in person. ]
(freak on the phone) Give me my phone back.
It's been a pleasure talking to you.

Brilliant!

Anyway, on a recent trip to New York City, I found that girls were easily approachable - and certainly more so than the randoms here in London, who basically think you’re trying to rape them if you so much as accidentally glance at their friend’s friend’s handbag. So In NYC I thought, what better place than to adapt the above scene in The Lost Highway into a chat-up scenario? How I was going to appear to be in their house, I didn’t consider at the time – I assumed I wouldn’t make it that far.

So I downed my drink, selected the most attractive girl at the bar, and went for broke. This is what happened, gorgeous girl in italics:

Hey!
Oh – hey, how’s it going?
Oh, I’m good – say, we’ve met before haven’t we?
We have? Uhh… (laughs) Oh god, I can’t remember, when was that?
Hmm it was a while ago – at your house, don’t you remember?
My house? Oh, which house?
What?
Oh, you know, my folks have a house out in Long Island – was it there, or my apartment here in the city?
It was your apartment.
(laughing) Oh god, I still don’t remember! I’m sure I’d remember… I’m so sorry!
No, it’s okay! You know-
Hey do you want to get served here? I can order your drink?
No, it’s okay.
No hey come on, what’re you drinking?
Nothing, it’s okay. Listen-
Come on, why’re you at the bar silly? Come on I’ll get you something. You want one of these? Sex on the beach? Haha…
(gulp, trying to stay focussed) In fact, I’m there right now.
Huh? What’s that?
Look, you know we met at your house?
Yeah, I mean, I believe you and all – but I really can’t remember that. Was it a house party? Did we sleep together? (laughs)
(!!!) No, I mean… Well. Look, we met at a party there yep.
That’s great, are you a friend of Josie?
Who? Look, we just met at the fucking party okay?
(to bartender) Yeah, and another sex on the beach. Oh, what’s that? What’s your name by the way?
My name’s JiB and we met at a party at your house and-
Heyyyy I think I do remember you! Last fall, right?
Right! It’s not my habit to go somewhere I’m not invited.
What, do you want to come over again? We have a party on tonight.
Well, the thing is, I’m there right now.
You’re what? Where?
At your house.
Yep the party’s at my house!
I’m at your house right now!
What? Oh, you’re so funny! (laughing)
What? I really am there now.
At my house?
Yep!
Which house? The one in Long Island or my apart-
Oh for the love of god!

… It all fell apart from there. Now I know what you’re thinking. Why didn’t I just try and chat to her normally, when it became clear that I was about to get a free invite to a house party? Well. It’s because I’m a tardwit. A great big, fucking tardwit that doesn’t know what he’s doing. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to try and stab my eye-teeth out using a penknife.