2003-09-23

If I go to a coffee shop by myself, it’s an obvious sign that I want to make new friends, right? Because sitting alone in a corner hunched over a book is a clear cry for help, isn’t it? Oh please, kind sir! Seduce me with your charming mental indigence! I’m only carrying around this fancy-looking book in the hopes that you’ll ask me retarded questions about it, as so:

Social Maladroit: [peering over my shoulder] Is that a good book?

Me: [rolling eyes] Yes.

SM: “Ulysses”…so, is it like, you know, the original story of Ulysses? But, like, updated to modern times?

Me: Something like that.

SM: James Joyce…I think I read one of his books. It was a long time ago, though. I don’t remember the title.

Me: Uh-huh.

SM: He’s a British author, right?

Me: [contemptuously] Irish.

SM: Oh…it can’t have been him, then. The author I read was British.

Thank you again, sir, for putting those five minutes of my life, which I will never get back, to such good use. I admire you for your endearing lack of shame in the face of your own glaring ignorance. It’s refreshing! So much so that I want to have sex with you RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW. We can have a threesome with my erstwhile literary suitor, Mr. Frost/Not Frost.