I’m not very comfortable or adept at walking up to girls in bars. So instead, I’ve written the following cover letter to hand them before scurrying away, giggling.
To Whom I Made Eye Contact With at the Bar:
Hello. My name is Scott and I’m writing to ask you to please consider me for your opening for male company this evening, and possibly for times in the near future (maybe forever?!).
Earlier tonight while I was standing at the bar, pretending to engage friends but really to eavesdrop on a conversation between you and your “betches,” who were taking a break from “owning the dance floor” like you were “on some Sasha Fierce shit,” I heard that you are “sick and tired of dickheads like Mike,” and that you “Just want to find a decent fucking guy for once.”
I believe I can be that fucking guy. And I sincerely think I can make you a believer, too, that we can both benefit mutually from some sort of courtship. Or maybe even just a hug.
I gave you the old once-over and opted to apply because I think I am, in a word, decent. I am not stellar, but I am also no Mike, who I’m sure did not cherish you in all of the ways I’ve found a good man should.
Since 1994, when I gave a cheap ring to my kindergarten crush, I’ve worked part to full-time as a skirt chaser and closet romantic. In that time I have gained at least moderate expertise in backrubs, agreeing with the crazy shit girls sometimes say so I can avoid confrontation, dinner purchasing, opening car doors and other impeding doors, gazing passionately into eyes, flower giving, homemade card writing, rom-com marathoning, Gold Bonding hands so they don’t sweat when you touch them, carrying electronic heating pads on person when the lunar cycle dictates I should, and joint slumbering in a twin bed.
Also: Making out, the act of boning, not ever calling the act of boning “boning” out loud, Instagramming creative dick pics, entry level tantric sex, kegels for longevity, and post-coital spooning.
I understand I may not be precisely what you’re looking for, since you just got out of a relationship with Mike, a man I imagine has cheekbones that could cut Superman’s fingernails, and rippling muscles (I have bookshelves and couldn’t fit a Bowflex in my apartment) and maybe some disposable income, but let me tell you something: You don’t need to be physically strong to lift and mend a broken heart. And you don’t need razor sharp cheekbones to sing a love song.
I submit that average is the new awesome.
Anyway, like I said, I’ve attached my résumé and a few provocative photographs I hope will convince you we’d be a good fit. I can be reached any time at srm5082@gmail.com, or at 724-272-9357, if you’d like to schedule a first date/interview (same damn thing, amirite?) or some illicit drunk sexts after closing time.
Thanks so much for your time, and I really hope to hear from you.
Cordially,
Scott Muska
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