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You had black glasses and some nice salt and pepper face scruff and black pants and a white shirt with a rainbow design thing on it. You were carrying a bunch o’ stuff, and dropped a polaroid as you sat down. I stepped on your toes and pointed to the photo like a socially incompetent doofus. Look, you’re a fucking Baberaham Lincoln, and the only reason I didn’t actually say anything to you is because I was afraid if I opened my mouth I would just start mumbling “hubba hubba hubba” and drooling. You said “thanks” again as I got off at Union Square, and I smiled awkwardly and shuffled away because I’m a chickenshit with tiny balls. Then I spent the rest of the afternoon kicking myself for not dropping my card in your lap, and now here we are.

If I’m interpreting what pick up artists refer to as “signals” correctly, you seemed to be a little warm for my form, but maybe you were just staring at me because I was staring at you? Oh Jesus Fart Christ, this is embarrassing. Whatever, fuck it – I would really like to take you out for an ice cream sundae or adult beverage or both. It’s your lucky day!

(Unless you really were just staring at me because I was staring at you, in which case I was totally kidding and none of this ever happened. UNDO! UNDO!)