What am I dooooing here? I wanted to watch TV. At home. Not in a bar. The American Pickers are probably… picking… various things right now. Did I DVR it? And I was promised single women. Where are these mythical single women. The birthday girl herself is single, I suppose. And she looks like a billionaire’s mistress. In a good way. But I could never date her. Well maybe not never… I could possibly date her. Briefly. In the summer. She’s “Woo”ing a lot. I could never date her. Why, hello. And who are you? What’s on her t-shirt? Buncha robed dudes at Stonehenge? What’s the writing say? “These aren’t the druids you’re looking for.” Okay. That’s genius. I may want to marry her. Or buy her a coffee. She looks like she drinks hot chocolate though. She’d look good in a sweater. Near a fireplace. I would hug her in a sweater. Man, I need a girlfriend. I like her hair too. It would look good falling over a sweater. Wow. I have very specific likes. I wonder if she has a boyfriend. She looks like she should have a boyfriend. Probably one of those dudes that high fives his bros. Why do women date bros? She looks like she’d say “Bless you” when I sneeze. Every time. Check out that smile! Yowzers. I think I just swooned. There’s a fine line between a swoon and an inner ear infection. I should tweet that. I should go talk to her. I should. Her smile made me smile. That’s the sign of a great smile, right there. But what if she talks about Kardashians? Or tells me about her bro boyfriend? No. I’m not going to talk to her. I mean, I would talk to her. But she’d have to approach me.
I shaved to the knees for this? I mean, come on. “There’ll be boys,” she said. “You’ve trained your cat to do three tricks,” she said. Well I’m here and there are no– Hmmm. He’s kinda cute. In a rumpled way. If he put in some effort, I bet he could be downright handsome. I hope he doesn’t start putting in the effort though. He’d be swamped by all these skinny girls in skinnier jeans. And he’d develop an attitude. He’d be less fun and naturally dorky and be all dorking too hard. He looks… nice. Like he’d hold the door for a stranger. He has big hands. I wonder if that is really a thing. At this point I don’t care how large the ship is, as long as he’s a sea-worthy captain. Man, I’m glad I didn’t say that out loud. I may need a boyfriend. Is he reading my shirt, or checking out my boobs? Glad I took my sweater off. I like that he’s wearing old school Nikes while all the other guys are wearing fancy douche shoes. Rocking kicks to this place takes a certain confidence. Rocking kicks? Who am I? Miley Cyrus? Nooooo. I don’t want that song in my head. Stay out of there. Stay. Okay. Okay. I think we’re good. I should talk to him. What’s the worst that could happen? Well I COULD try to introduce myself and accidentally mention anal leakage. I mean, I probably won’t. But I could. I hope he’s really nice. I want to mess up his hair even more. And touch his stubble. And maybe have three-to-five of his children. I should talk to him. But what if he doesn’t like girls that make the first move. Maybe he’s old fashion and would call me a harlot. I really hope he uses words like harlot. Or trollop. Just not when describing me. I should go talk to him. I should. I’m not. I want him to come talk to me. I’ll wait patiently. Maybe have a snack or — Come talk to me, you! I wonder if I have telepathic powers. It’s possible. “Come talk to me!”
The birthday girl returns from the dance floor, grabs her by the hand and drags her towards him.
“Sarah, have you met Ryan?”