I’m not very comfortable or adept at walking up to girls in bars and then beginning a dialogue with them. So instead, I’ve written the following cover letter that I can hand them after tapping them on the shoulder and before scurrying away, giggling.
To The Woman With Whom I Made Eye Contact At The Bar:
Hello. My name is Scott, and I’m writing in hopes you will 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 dedicating all my energy to eavesdropping on a conversation between you and your “betches,” who were taking a break from “owning the dance floor” like you were “on some real Queen Bey shit,” I heard you say 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 believe 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 would totally love a hug.
I gave you the old once-over and opted to apply for the opening to maybe someday penetrate your opening 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 people sometimes say so I can avoid negative 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-sized bed. (College was a struggle, right?)
Also: Making out, the act of boning, not ever calling the act of boning “boning” out loud, Snapchatting 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 rippling muscles and cheekbones that could cut Superman’s fingernails. I have neither of these things. He also may have some disposable income, but let me tell you something: you don’t need to be wealthy or 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 stapled 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 firstname.lastname@example.org, or @scottmuska, 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. Keep fighting the good fight.