$tay ¢old

The warm weather must be making the boys around this city ill or loopy or something. Your game is off, guys. What’s the problem?

“Take a ride in my time machine baby” isn’t a text that gets me wet after I’ve not returned your phone calls or seen you for three months. Take a hint. And hey, newsflash! Fucking in the middle of the day is hot! Guys (and girls) DREAM of spending the late morning/early afternoon fucking all over the place—in your office, against a wall—at random times. It’s not an impetus for you to “freak out” and get moody. So you were (really really) late to work. You also got laid. Don’t be an asshole.

Oh God, and this guy: Your most creative lines thus far include “Watch where you’re going, bitch” (yes, that’s how we met); and to ask if I’d like to bang in the dingy bathroom at the bar every time we see each other. Yeah, you’re charming. You asked me to go home with you Friday night—a step up, I suppose. When I refused, you grabbed my face and kissed me. Huh? Stop calling!

There’s the guy who makes spring-chairs with weird shapes on the top who propositioned me from his drunken, slumped position on the bar after buying several rounds of shots for the whole bar (on second thought, he wasn’t that bad). And I don’t know if this is a difference between the sexes or just between asshats and everyone else; but at a party, an unattractive dude standing sweaty and topless asking who wants to go in the back room to get it on with him and his wife is not exactly a romantic gesture. And when not one of the hundreds of people in attendance bite that lure, it’s not a hint to try again 20 minutes later.

Get a grip, guys. The summer’s only just beginning.