It’s only been two months but I’ve already forgotten how it’s like to be in the middle of a sausage fest.

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The first is Night Game Is Dead…

It’s time to pronounce the death of night game. After having its limbs hacked off and its genitals yanked out by the root for dog food, night game has finally shuffled off this mortal coil to that big swank discotheque in the sky. If you just discovered [the seduction community] and are reading up on the best shotgun negs to use on a HB7.5, you’re already behind the curve. The minute you step out of the cab, you’re going to get slaughtered.

He goes on to give an accurate assement of how it’s like to game in a modern club while taking a shot at Steve Jobs for being the “biggest cockblocker is human history.”

In the good old days when cell phones were overpriced walkie-talkies, people who went out on the weekend were forced to engage with the world around them. As late as two years ago, you could introduce yourself to a girl and be assured that you could carry on a civil conversation for at least fifteen minutes. You might not get the lay or even a number, but you could put in a decent effort.

No more. The minute the girlies get to the bar, they whip out their iPhones and start texting all their friends to tell them where they are. Then the whole gang shows up and they all turn a deaf ear to everyone else save for the bartender.

I agree with him in that I wouldn’t dare step foot into an American club with the intention to pick up. I don’t mind taking a date for some drinking and dancing, but the hurdles I have to face when rolling without girls are sometimes insurmountable. A club in a poor country is only marginally better.

My biggest issue with clubs is the high male to female ratio. Here’s a picture that a forum member posted from a night out in Ultra Bar in Washington D.C.

That’s an 8:1 ratio on a non-gay night in a big city club. This example is extreme, but even the 3:1 ratios that are just about universal in DC will kill your odds. The reason is that when a girl knows she is scarce, she puts on more cuntish attitude that makes getting laid much harder, regardless of whether the other guys in the club are approaching or not, and regardless of how good your game is. When I’m in a place where the ratio is equal, or where there are actually more girls than guys, I can feel the difference. Girls are looking more, smiling more, approaching more, spending less face time with their phone, and being much more receptive to even my laziest game. When a place is packed with dudes, the best “positive” outcome is to work your ass off to get with a 6. I’m not saying you can’t get laid, but I am saying that it won’t be worth it.

Another reason why club game has declined is because of the proliferation of bottle service. Here’s an email I received which articulates the problem:

The whole bottle service concept did major damage to my club game. I’m lucky enough to be a pretty good dancer, so nightclubs have always been good to me. But when the owners started dedicating much of what used to be a large central dance area, ideal for trolling and mingling, to seating areas for bottles I mourned the loss of a lot of great rooms. I live in South Beach (since 1997) and watched most of the best clubs around 2002 start to turn into meathead venues, largely for tourists and our version of bridge and tunnel types from metro Miami coming in who wanted to be posers with their “bros” and pretend to be big deals. What a shame.

The post Ferdinand wrote should really be titled “Club Game Is Dead,” because night game is still alive and well in bars, which are still the main way that Western girls have sexual relations. While of course some problems exist with bars, they are the easiest way to get laid in modern society. Once your game becomes competent, what matters most is venue selection. Every large city has bars where getting laid is no harder than it was 10 or 20 years ago, and if anything it’s easier, even when you account for the proliferation of mainstream game and smartphones.

Venue selection is an art, but let me share the secret: neighborhood bars. If the bar has a crowd of regulars during the week, then it’s probably a good venue to pick up. If the bar only packs them in on the weekends, like clubs do, then you’re going to run into a lot of amateurs who are less concerned with getting laid than being a dumb ass. You have to pick bars where the main goal of its patrons is to drink in a familiar place instead of showing off, stroking their egos, and getting together with a large group of friends. Once you identify these bars, the difference between them and clubs can make it feel like you’re in a different city. Personally, I’d have extreme difficulty getting laid in a club like pictured above. It’s an unnecessary challenge that would just make me hate myself.

Of course there are downsides to the neighborhood bar: the quality is lower on average, the girls are less likely to put more care into their appearance, and it takes a bigger time commitment to do solid approaches since there are fewer targets, but if you’re in the business of getting laid at night then this is the way to go.

If you’re having trouble getting laid at night, there are two things to look into. The first is your game. If you know other guys are getting laid but you’re not, then there are likely some things you need to work on. But if no one is getting laid, even guys you know who can get laid, then it’s venue selection. Commit to finding neighborhood spots out of your comfort zone. If the neighborhood spots don’t give you the type of girl you want, you’ll have to move to day game, and if day game doesn’t give you good fruit, then you may have what Ferdinand calls Roosh Syndrome…

There’s a new disease spreading among American men of intelligence, class and accomplishment, characterized by total disgust of the victim’s surroundings. The victim becomes increasingly repulsed by the pointlessness of his job, the venality of his co-workers, the stupidity of the people he meets on the street, and the boorishness and dullness of the women he is expected to date. He becomes sullen, forlorn, and anti-social, preferring to self-medicate with alcohol and commiserate with his trusted friends. Self-help books and prescription drugs either don’t help or defeat the purpose of helping by destroying the victim’s mind. Vacations to other places, particularly foreign countries, can temporarily ameliorate the symptoms, but every inch of progress made while away is undone once the victim returns home. The only way to cure the disease is for the victim to leave for good.

I’m calling this disease Roosh Syndrome. And I’ve got it.

Roosh Syndrome happens after you discover quality. Once you get a taste of an easier standard of living, a better way of life, better women, or better anything, it becomes impossible to erase those experiences and continue living in what is now a low quality environment. I’ve touched on this a million times in the past—especially in this video—where you become “permanently damaged” after rich experiences. Nothing short but prudent and methodical exploration of the new environment can alleviate the disease.

Ferdinand writes:

I couldn’t justify this self-imposed life of pointlessness any more. I couldn’t sate myself with promises of doing something about my life later, when I had more money or fewer worries. I had to take action.

I polished up my resume, punched up letters of introduction, and sent them both out to a million different places. I went to job interviews, shook hands, and BS’ed like I was back in high school trying to get into Fucknozzle U. And last month, I struck gold.

…

Living in America is like being a zombie, an endless torture for anyone who isn’t a mindless member of the Crowd. Today, I begin my journey back towards the world of the living. Today, I begin my new life.

The trend I’m seeing is not so much more men living abroad (men have always done that), but men with lessening attachment to the American way of life. More men are willing to admit that there is something wrong with the system that their parents rarely questioned (the mainstream acceptance of books like The 4 Hour Work Week is testament that today’s generation is not crazy about having a boring job with its nine-to-five stability). There is a loss of pride that is tempting men to open other doors, not only due to dissatisfaction with the women, but with the country’s future and place in the world.

Why work so hard for something that seems on an irrevocable decline? How can you not get curious when reading about places like Brazil, China, or Singapore, the rising stars of the world? Why can’t my country be rising? Personally, I wouldn’t mind being in Brazil as it achieves its potential—I’d adopt the country so it can give me the feeling of “national” pride that I don’t have for my own. Call be a bandwagoner, but like anyone else I want to be on the winning team, and unfortunately America has been at the bottom of my fantasy rankings for quite some time. I hope that changes, but I don’t see anything looming in the future that gives me hope. So I pack my bags.

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One of the reasons I stopped going to Baltimore every week was because the logistics were horrible. I didn’t have one-night stand game back then so it was pointless to drive an hour for a date to see a girl who most likely lived in a dorm. I still visited Baltimore monthly because the girls were definitely of higher quality than in D.C.

I can’t say that anymore.

I went on a Friday a few weeks ago to both Canton and Fells Point for the first time in over a year and was stunned and how huge, sloppy, and ugly the girls were. The only approachable girl I saw was waiting in line of a pizza place. I actually wished to be back in D.C., and I hate D.C.

The reason Hammerjacks kept me interested for so long was because those girls I was grinding my junk on were babyfaced teenagers who weren’t technically from Baltimore. While the area of Federal Hill may have some college cuties (I’m thinking of the bar Dirk McGerk), I completely understand why all the guys who email me from Baltimore say the scene is a wasteland. Without finding a niche I don’t see how I could be happy there. The city is dead to me.

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There were three girls dancing in a tight circle near us, definitely the hottest ones there.

“I’m trying to think of my line,” Rookie said.

“Doesn’t matter, it’s a suicide mission right now. One girl won’t just stop dancing with her friends to talk to you.” I thought about it for a second and added, “A dancing approach could work.”

“I’ll just wait until one goes to the bathroom.”

“Or goes to the bar.”

One went to the bar. She was closest to me so I made a move. I tap tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around. “Excuse me but your salsa dancing seems like it’s from Colombia.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Just the movements. That’s how Colombian people dance to salsa.” I was making this up of course.

“No actually I’m from Brazil.”

Living in Brazil for six months has given me an automatic two minute conversation with B girls in the States, because they’re mildly curious about the where and why of my time there. I told this girl a few sentences in Portuguese and she’s smiling and asking me light questions, but I noticed her body was angled towards the bar, as if she wanted to walk away. To gauge her interest I said, “Sorry I didn’t mean to stop you on your way to getting a drink.” She was totally free to leave at that point without being rude. Instead she said, “No that’s fine.” I was getting ready to buckle down when her two friends simultaneously pulled her away from me in a coordinated attack.

I went back to my spot and was trying to understand the emotions I was feeling. It was a mixture of disappointment, annoyance, and confusion. Why would those girls do that? Didn’t they see she was having a nice conversation with a non-creepy guy? It’s not like I was trying to lead her to another part of the bar. I didn’t even start touching her yet.

It’s true I’ve been cockblocked in South America, but usually when doing throwaway approaches on the street or when talking to a girl who had a boyfriend I failed to spot. It has been about 14 months since getting assaulted with a cockblock of this caliber. Standing there with my warm Corona beer, I tried to remember back to when this used to be a common occurrence.

An hour later came closing time and the lights got brighter. I was walking out with the Rookie when he spotted the Brazilian leaving with her group. “I’ll try again,” I said.

I reapproached her in Portuguese. Before I could even finish my sentence, a new female friend wrapped her arm around her and led her away.

“Wow that was rude,” I said to the new cockblocker.

I don’t remember the exact words, but there were a couple tense back and forths where she told me to fuck off while I told her that her that she has no class.

We were out on the sidewalk so I expected a white knight to “save” her and get in my face, but I forgot that Latino men are not as pussified as American betas. One came up to me and said, “Stop talking to that bitch.” He probably got cockblocked by her earlier.

It’s been too long that I’ve gotten into an argument with a cockblocker, so my attack was not as strong as I would’ve liked (she definitely wasn’t about to cry and seemed to get a kick out of our little street battle). And then it hit me—I actually had a scripted counterattack to this problem.

If you get cockblocked by a girl, you need to respond by shaking her core so hard that she hesitates doing it ever again, like a mouse who hits the wrong lever and gets the shit zapped out of him. No jokes and no wit—you gotta get dirty.

This is what you must say to the cockblocker. Say it with a stern tone, like a parent scolding a child.

“Did you really just do that? I’m being friendly and respectful to your friend and you rudely interrupt. Did your parents teach you to be anti-social like that?”

Then shake your head and turn your back on her. Don’t engage her in a conversation or even act like you hear her response. She no longer exists.

It had to have been bad if I started an anti-cockblocking movement, and while from a sociological perspective it’s interesting how cockblocking is a cultural phenomenon, I’m ready to destroy the next ugly bitch that interrupts me while I’m talking to a girl that is obviously considering having this hairiness on top of her in the throes of passion.

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When guys asked me what the deal was in getting with foreign girls, I complained about their slow drinking and how it was harder to get down to business. But was I really getting more in the States because the girls there drank more?

I don’t like to make conclusions with looking at the data, so I reflected on circumstances surrounding the first times I had sex with American girls. First thing I immediately realized was that I never banged a girl who was trashed or shit-faced. This is probably because drunk girls are almost impossible to game. They can’t maintain a conversation, can’t stand straight, and are like retards in how they process stimuli. I believe guys perceive them as easy because they are nearly unconscious and will not be able to put up a strong fight on the way to a bedroom.

(If you want to look at how cockblocking evolved here, look no further than the drinking habits of American girls. If there wasn’t a cockblocking mentality then there’d be a million rapes every weekend because so many of these girls are too immature and stupid to ensure their safety by not drinking to the point of blacking out. They need to babysit each other like little children up until at least their late 20′s. But it’s when girls unnecessarily cockblock, which they do out of habit, that provokes annoyance and sometimes anger from men like myself.)

For my study I chose a sample size of five American and five South American girls I most recently banged and rated them on their drunkenness at the time of initial penetration. Here’s the scale I used:

1: Completely sober.
2: Two drinks. More outgoing and chatty.
3: Tipsy. More flirty with slower movements.
4: Very tipsy. Eyes closing, problems speaking.
5: On the verge of passing out or puking.

Let’s start with the American girls first.

American Girl A: She was drunk enough that The Rookie almost got some right after me. Score: 4
American Girl B: Mostly sober. She kept saying “I don’t usually do this.” Score: 2
American Girl C: She had a few strong drinks. I noticed her speech ability decrease slightly. Score: 3
American Girl D: Sweated out much of the alcohol by dancing. No obvious sign of intoxication. Score: 2
American Girl E: Just a tad tipsy, but otherwise very coherent. Score: 2

Average American score: 2.6

Now for the South American girls.

S.A. Girl A: She was very tipsy when I met her, but the night I hit she only had two drinks. Score: 2
S.A. Girl B: She walked nearly half a mile to my place without any difficulty. Score: 2
S.A. Girl C: We had a glass of wine and then fell asleep. We woke up a couple hours later, completely sober, and did the dirty for the first time. Score: 1
S.A. Girl D: I bought a lot of booze in the hopes of getting her drunk, but she didn’t even finish the first drink. Score: 1
S.A. Girl E: Did it the morning when we were completely sober. Score: 1

Average South American score: 1.4

My sample set says that, on average, American girls are twice as intoxicated as South American girls when I have sex with them. Since these aren’t standardized for time, I cannot firmly conclude that girls who drink more are easier (though I think it’s safe to accept), but I can conclude that American girls are more comfortable having sex under the influence. Alcohol is more of a sex lubricant to American girls while for South American girls it’s dancing or simply nothing.

South America was the first place where I’d kiss or fuck girls who were completely sober. Developing game in the United States I had a belief that alcohol was essential to intimacy, but I understand now that it’s a cultural phenomenon, albeit one that cannot be ignored. While you don’t need to get American girls drunk to fuck, you should drink to connect with them at night. You can cover your sobriety by lying about how you’re the designated driver or what have you, but truth is no girl wants to fuck the designated driver. In South America you can take a girl for a walk in the park and then hit for the first time. I’m not exaggerating.

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There is a bar in Rio called Ovelha Negra (Black Sheep) that doesn’t sell beer, wine, or spirits—just champagne. It was embarrassing for my Danish roommate when we went the first time and he asked for Skol, a cheap Brazilian beer you can get for $1.50 on the street. He realized the type of establishment he was at and quickly adjusted, adopting more of a nouveu rich accent that would have the King of Denmark proud.

The bar has only one room in the shape of a long rectangle. There are little tables on one side and then a big table in the middle where most of the action happens. Starting at 6pm the place packs with the professional happy hour crowd. Almost everyone speaks English and $1,000 jailbroken iPhones make constant appearances.

It can be challenging to pickup here because everyone is in large groups, but really it’s not because those guys with the girls are usually coworkers. Girls are looking to flirt, and Danish and I have done well enough that we’ve become regulars. The young bartender with the moppy haircut greets us with a thumbs up whenever we come in but I keep forgetting his name. I think it’s Thiago.

It was so packed one night that we ordered two bottles to ride out until closing. A lot of people go to a place like this and get the second cheapest bottle of champagne, or at least something that’s not the absolute cheapest, but we always get the cheapest (R$ 37). We don’t know the difference between a champagne and sparkling cider and we’re not going to pretend like we do. Is it making us burp? Are we feeling tipsy? Garçon this is great champagne!

My roommate likes to start his approaches with a cigarette angle. If we’re outside he asks for a light and if we’re inside he asks to bum a cigarette. He did this on one girl and she walked out with him to find smokes from a street vendor, leaving me with the bucket of two open champagne bottles. By now we had finished one and was about to get started on the other. As usual the bartender put a salt solution in our bucket, ensuring the second would be near freezing temperature when we were ready for it.

The bucket was on the communal table and I stood in front of it behind a high bar chair. To my right was a girl that looked cute from the back—I was working on getting facial confirmation—and to her right was an obviously drunk girl in a white dress. Sitting next to her was a guy petting her back, her boyfriend maybe, or at least trying to be for the night. Across the table were three more of their friends.

I’m standing there with my champagne glass, trying to act cool, when I see the drunk girl in the white dress reach over and grab the neck of our full bottle. Good thing I was watching it, I thought.

“No no no excuse me that’s our bottle.” I said it very loud, almost shouting, because I know how drunk people can be hard of hearing when it comes to things that hint at possibly limiting their alcohol intake. My face had not a hint of humor or generosity or kindness or anything to suggest I wasn’t serious. I was a father scolding his little girl.

The bottle was now out of the bucket, dripping with icy water as it very slowly traveled past the girl next to me and directly in front of white dress. It approached her glass. There was no time to think about specific actions. No time to devise a battle plan. The autopilot light in the cockpit burns bright orange and your belief system take over.

“Hey hey no, that’s mine and I’m sorry but you can’t have any.”

From the side of her face I could see a quick frown, but she kept going. Her right hand began tilting the bottle towards her glass. She looked at me, squinted her eyes, and then made the “just a little bit” sign with her left hand. She didn’t care what I said and was going to take whatever she wanted.

Slow motion. I’m moving. The weight of my body shifts to my left foot and then I take a big step with my right. I’m next to her friend now, touching the side of her body. My hand shoots like a rocket from my hip. It’s flying through the air across the table. I’m leaning. The back of my right shoulder hits the chin of the girl next to me. She scrunches her face and flinches backwards. White dress is beginning to pour, an entitled, upper-class smirk on her face. I make contact with the neck of the bottle. My hand muscles tighten. Death grip. My knuckles are white. I tilt it upwards. I’ve stopped breathing. Now I’m snatching and pulling. Pulling away. It’s raining champagne like New Years on my arm, on the drunk girl, on the girl who got sidearmed, on the guy who wants to get laid. Cheap champagne on the dark wood table, on professional work clothes. I’m pulling still, and bring it safely back to my side. I step back. Less than a second.

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING YOU DON’T JUST STEAL SOMEONE’S FUCKING BOTTLE LIKE THAT WITHOUT ASKING WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE I DON’T BELIEVE THIS SHIT!”

I’m flailing my left arm in the air like an excited monkey. My right hand is still squeezing on tight to the cheap bottle of champagne. My arm and hand is wet and cold. Then silence.

White dress is beginning to cry. Her five friends are staring at me with their mouths gaped open. Half of the bar is looking at me. I’m the bad guy, the arrogant, angry gringo who doesn’t know the capitals of European countries and comes to Brazil only to bang prostitutes and do cheap drugs.

Fuck you all I don’t care what you think.

All her friends gave me the “calm down” sign, apologizing. I pursed my lips and nodded my head up and down. I took a deep breath then put the champagne bottle back in the ice bucket.

I looked at her glass. Only a few drops made it in.

—

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A couple hours into the night the group scattered and I found myself with only one of them, a short but muscular engineering major at the local university. He overdrank a bit but overall I found him to be a good, fun kid.

Following him through the club, he opened a group of five girls, a tough approach in any country. Instead of dealing with the entire group he focused on the girl closest near him, a logical move since the music was too loud to attempt to engage everyone. About fifteen seconds into his approach, the ugliest girl of the group raises her hand into his face and makes a goodbye motion, telling him in so many words to fuck off and die.

Now if she did that to me then I’d accept it and move on because I almost deserve it for all the women I’ve used and abused over the years, but this guy was harmless. He only tried to have a conversation instead of going for cheap feel. He didn’t say anything sexist or mean. The ugly girl had no reason to treat him like trash.

I saw the ugly girl’s hand hanging in the air and my vision focused on her chubby fingers going back and forth in an undulating wave pattern. That bitch… who the fuck does she think she is? Does she think she’s better than him? I became enraged. I couldn’t believe that this undesirable human being would disrupt the normal flow of nature and prevent an attractive person from getting with another attractive person. Just because she can’t stop stuffing her face with Hot Pockets doesn’t mean she should interrupt the game of someone who can.

In one quick motion I put my hand on top of her wrist and pushed down.

You could only see the shock on her face for less than half a second. She quickly glanced at a far off spot in the club and started to dance again with a forced grin as if nothing happened. She didn’t look in my direction again. Of course the approach was over but I taught that bitch a lesson: do not disrespect a man who didn’t disrespect you. I guarantee you that for the rest of her life she will never do that again. Part of being a real man is teaching lessons to those who sorely need it.

Now imagine if all men would stand up to disrespectful women, whether it be cockblocking or just general bad behavior. Most of the problems that we bitch about would eventually disappear, all because we stopped accepting it. If we don’t punish what deserves to be punished, it will merely continue.

I have no sympathy for guys who always whine about getting cockblocked, because they’d remain silent if I ask them what they’ve done to stop it. Have you called out cockblockers? Have you made it uncomfortable for girls to continue cockblocking? Have you put the nasty fat bitches of the group in their place? Have you ruined her night by teaching her a lesson she’ll never forget? If not then as far as I’m concerned you’re part of the problem. You have done nothing to stop it so you don’t deserve for the problem to stop affecting you.

One night at a time, one girl at a time, we can change the world.

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The following two months were especially rough. I had little money coming in. I wanted to go out but I couldn’t afford it. I remembered what I did in Las Vegas, and reluctantly went with it, perfecting the skill. I stole microbrew pints and brightly colored cocktails. I stole screwdrivers and champagne with lipstick imprinted on the glass. I enjoyed it more than I should have. It was addictive—the plotting and planning, the positioning of my accomplices, the feeling of my heart beat race from the fear of getting caught and pounded upon, and finally the confident grab. It’s all in the grab! Like an eagle swooping down on a defenseless squirrel, gone before you know what happened. The rush of stealing drinks was so great that one of my friends got addicted to it even though he was gainfully employed. Unfortunately he contracted a mysterious virus and had to stop.

I preferred the cocktail drinks with the skinny little straws. Not much backwash. I tossed the straws and drank from the glass. The more colorful the drink, the more it glows in the dark, the faster it went down my throat. Beer bottles are for amateurs. The rim is coated in another person’s mouth, perhaps a girl who just got finished sucking a dick in the bathroom. If it’s not full then forget it. The martinis are the real score. There is no fast getaway like that clear drink, only one-third consumed, its owner turned around trying to get into a beastly girl’s pants. Thick green lime wedge. Another gin & tonic. Not my first choice but I’ll take it. The liquid touches my tongue five feet away from the crime, and what a beautiful surprise—a gimlet! Perfect for the summer. Refreshing. I slam the empty glass on the bar and a satisfying burp erupts from my belly. The guy looks around for his drink.

I wanted to get good. I wanted to steal a drink in front of a man face and he will think it was mine all along. I wanted him to doubt himself, his being. I wanted him to be in disbelief that another man would perform such an act. But I already did it. It’s gone. Replaced by an empty glass. Buy another drink old man, this time not something so sweet. Then I got a job (bartending, ironically). I couldn’t live like that anymore. It was too dangerous, too shameful and pitiful. But sometimes I see a full drink, sitting unguarded, and my heart skips a beat, and I squint my eyes through the darkness, and I notice my friend’s glass is almost empty, and I take a deep breath, and…

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After a decade or so of drinking, I have settled on a strategy which lessens the negative effects of alcohol while maximizing the amount of pussy I get, and I’d like to share that with you right now.

First, let’s take a night that I drink heavily on—at least five liquor beverages in a short amount of time. After the fourth drink in less than two hours, there comes a point where I feel absolutely invincible, like I can hit on any girl in the universe with the tightest of tight game. Unfortunately it’s an illusion. I think my game is great but it’s actually not proven by the results: I rarely pull when drunk. Just like how a drunk guy thinks the girl he’s talking to is hotter than she really is, when heavily intoxicated I think my game is better than it is. Plus, that feeling of invincibility fades very quickly as the depressant side of alcohol takes effect and all I want to do is lean against the bar or sit down.

You’re probably thinking, “Wait, I’ve gotten laid when drunk many times.” If you go back to those nights, I believe what happens is you interest a girl while merely buzzed, and then continue drinking with her until you’re both drunk. So the drunkenness comes after you already lock in your prospect, and is very rarely the direct cause of sex.

Second, research has shown that binge drinking messes with your dendrites (neural connectors). I like my dendrites and don’t want to damage them.

Third, it takes a while for alcohol to work its way through your body. If you’re feeling fucked up and then buy a sixth drink, you’re going to feel really fucked in a couple hours since the fifth drink hasn’t even taken effect yet. This is why police officers don’t mind waiting an hour or two until testing your blood for alcohol at the station (the lowest you’ll blow is when they pull you over). It’s a waste of money to be done partying but still processing the last couple drinks you bought.

Keeping the above points in mind, while also wanting the favorable of alcohol’s loosening effects, my strategy is as follows:

Consume no more than three scotch drinks or five light beers per night.

You get the buzzing effects of the alcohol while still retaining that pimp game ability. You avoid the effects of hangover. You kill very few brain cells. You don’t hurt your wallet. You’re disciplined and rely on your abilities instead of drink, since three drinks will not give you stupendous courage. It puts you on a similar level playing field as 80% of the girls who are drinking, and very rarely will you be drunker than her, which is death when it comes to pick up.

I get my scotch with two or three rocks and then sip sip for about hour, enjoying the effects as they take hold in a comfortable manner. My third scotch is done by 1am but I continue to feel a light buzz until 3am closing time. The next day I wake up refreshed, whether in my bed or in a girl’s. Best of all I only spend a maximum of $35 a night of drinking the finest of spirits. I can be dirt poor but still do this.

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Instead of a female friend, what you want is a female sponge who smothers you in public. Go to Craigslist and pay a cute woman to throw herself at you in a crowded bar. You only need her services for one hour (estimated cost: $20-40, lower is she’s unemployed). Act indifferent during her affections and let the numbers roll in after she leaves. It’s best if she’s not too hot, or else it won’t be believable, especially if you have no game and are a loser. I’m a special case so it’d be best for me to enlist the services of the hottest chick possible, since the sight of a dime piece throwing herself on me is very natural.

To save some money I have forwarded my entire nightlife itinerary to the Saudi chick.

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(Disclaimer: If you’re new to the game then you should be approaching girls in every type of situation imaginable to get experience, but when it comes to refinement you can choose approaches carefully to get the most amount of sex with the least amount of work.)

Before I approach a girl, I ask myself who has to move or turn away if the approach doesn’t go well. If the answer is me then most of the time I don’t do the approach. I wait until positions change and she is the one who has to walk away if the conversation doesn’t catch. If the girl knows she is the one who can stay put, like in situations where she is leaning against a wall or sitting down on a stool while I’m standing, she will be a bigger bitch than if it was her who had to do the walk. She, or more commonly her beastly friend, will abuse that positional power to make me feel weak. It’s human nature to take advantage of perceived strength, and female bar-goers are no exception.

What I do is stake out a spot and stick there. Like a commercial fisherman I wait for girls to come into my net. If a girl is sitting with her large group of ugly friends, I take note and wait until she has to go to the bar or use the bathroom, then pull her into my circle and spit game until things go well or she has to walk away. This is the same strategy I use in a coffee shop, where I wait for a girl at a faraway table to cross my path instead of awkwardly walking up to her. If it doesn’t go well I don’t have to do anything.

The way I see it is why should I have to do the walk of shame in the likely chance there is no connection? I’m already taking 100% of the risk by doing the approach, the least she can do is fuck off if she’s not feeling me.

Almost a month ago I started talking to a girl who stood a few feet away from me. I had to take only one-and-a-half steps to get within conversation range. I put the obligatory face time with the fat friend, who told me her mom was from Chile. Without thinking I said, “Yeah I’ve been to Chile. Man the people there are so fat.” I forgot that she was fat, but I was respectful and tried to recover by quickly changing the subject.

Surprisingly she gets upset anyway and says, “It was nice talking to you,” which is code for “Go away.”

I said, “I’m going to stand right here. What, I’m going to walk away because you told me too?” Sure, I was probably in the wrong due to my inconsiderate observation, but that doesn’t mean I have to obey her command.

She looks at me, realizes I’m not moving, and then storms off. Her friend stays and apologizes for her fat friend’s behavior.

You’re probably thinking if having to do the walk of shame really matters or not. Isn’t it just pride? No, because whoever has to do the walk of shame has less hand. That fat girl who I wasn’t even hitting on me tried to use her position to make me feel small, and in this case it backfired. If she was sitting down then I would definitely have to do the walk, and she would have gotten satisfaction from that and repeated it on guys such as yourself.

With turf in mind, even if I fuck up an approach pretty bad there are no repercussions. She walks away and it’s over. I can have a laugh and continue as I was with my buddies. That’s how it should be: the man shouldn’t have to move his body because a girl didn’t like him. Now of course I still up to girls and gotten numbers and gotten bangs, and that can work very well, but I prefer to have an edge before I open my mouth.

My entire game is becoming increasingly structured around the fact that a girl almost never has the upper hand when she’s talking to me.

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“Did you really just do that? I’m being friendly and respectful to your friend and you rudely interrupt. Did your parents teach you to be anti-social like that?”

My friend was basically castrated. I was doing something when I look over and he has this shell-shocked look on his face. He said, “I don’t believe how badly I just got cockblocked. Jesus Christ.” It’s like he saw a ghost.

“WHO? WHO DID IT?!” I yelled.

He glanced at a short blonde nearby. Next to her were two girls, including a brunette that I know from experience is probably the one he was going for.

I tapped the blonde on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me, my friend was being respectful and you rudely interrupted him.” She looked away from me, but I wasn’t done. “Did your mom and dad teach you to be anti-social like that?”

I gave a disgusted look and walked back to my friend. I kept an eye on her and the best way I can describe her facial expression was someone who felt like they were unjustly accused. If I could read her brain I would say she thought this: “What the fuck I always do that, why are you picking on me. I don’t understand.”

That’s what I expect. Girls are so used to cockblocking and never getting challenged on it that it doesn’t feel right when they are called out for being the psychopathic cunts that they really are.

A minute later and the cockblocker still looked extremely upset. I don’t think she cried but if I kept pushing that’s what would have happened. Making her cry though is not my goal, and notice how I didn’t use foul language or make fun of her appearance. She couldn’t write me off as a drunk asshole. I was 100% reasonable with my comments, which is why it bothered her.

I put my hand on my friend’s shoulder and said, “Bro, I ruined her night.” He thanked me and we laughed.

I wonder if any other guy out there has defended their honor against a cockblocker yet, but I don’t mind changing the world on my own if I have to. This coming weekend there is going to be one guy out there who doesn’t get cockblocked because of what I did. And I sincerely believe that.

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Recently, I participated in a “dry run” day game workshop with Roosh to help him streamline operations. Since my day game is underdeveloped, I happily volunteered to be a guinea pig.

We covered the major types of daytime approaches, including coffeeshop (my favorite), retail, book store, metro, grocery store, and the toughest, street game. Roosh was methodical and detail oriented in explaining how the approaches should go, so there was very little guesswork I had to do. I was pleased that his openers and followups were short, sweet and easy to deliver. A big problem with some pickup material is how cumbersome it sounds when you use it in real life. You want openers and comversational gambits that sound as cool and natural as possible, and only take a second or two to deliver.

Roosh timed the interactions with a stopwatch, which had a surprisingly positive effect. As guys, we relish a challenge, and beating the clock (or, in this case, talking with the girl as long as possible) is a great motivator. Roosh broke a land speed record with a 1.47 second pickup attempt. As for the rest, I won’t give away too much here, except to mention a couple things.

Roosh emphasizes a “bait” concept which helps extend a conversation with a girl through the use of open-ended questions and hooks. I asked a girl for directions like a regular guy would do, and she answered, and then… the conversation died. When you bait a girl, you might ask where the metro goes, instead of directions to a specific location. Then you might drop a leading followup like “It’s a shame. Public transportation isn’t as convenient in this country.”

The other major concept discussed was day versus night game. If you think you can seamlessly bring your night game into the daytime, forget it. The two are separate animals. I ran my cocky night game on a girl walking down the sidewalk, making fun of her oversized “homemade” ring, and it bombed. I was reprimanded for deviating from the day game script.

On a final note, approaching a group of girls on the sidewalk is less likely to succeed than approaching one or two girls. It’s counterintuitive, because you’d think that a lone girl would be more suspicious of strange men coming up to her in a non-bar environment where approaches are expected, but in fact the opposite is true. The lone girls walking slowly were the most open to the pickup, while the big groups of girls quickly closed ranks and followed the alpha female’s lead like sheep.

Day game is the new night game.

Roissy’s game was at an advanced level so we were able to breeze through the instructional portion of the workshop and dive straight into approaching with the openers and followups. Even though he was spitting completely fresh lines, his delivery was smooth and natural. His only problem, if you want to call it that, is being picky and not getting numbers when he could’ve. He still did very well and I’ll leave it up to him to share specific results.

After working out some logistical issues, I was ready for my four students, two on Saturday and two on Sunday. They came with very different abilities, and the challenge was teaching the basics to those who needed it while allowing the most experienced student to practice closing.

My advanced student had experience hitting on girls in bars. He was also very talkative, the hallmark trait of a successful pick up artist. I pushed him to approach a girl in coffee shop with an opener and follow-up related to what she was doing (typing on a laptop). Fourteen minutes later he got her number.

Two other students were in the beginner to intermediate range. For them I worked on their tonality, body language, and what I call “ramble,” the ability to keep talking while tossing out pieces of bait that allow the conversation to continue.

The last student was a young guy, only 22-years-old, with just about no pick up experience. It was like working with a clean canvas. I’ll never forget the look on his face after his first approach attempt on a very pretty girl in a coffee shop (2 minutes, 15 seconds), which for day game feels like quite a while. Afterwards he remarked how friendly she was. “Welcome to day game,” I said. I don’t think this young man will be spending a lot of time in bars anytime soon.

We didn’t talk to any ugly girls (range was 6-8, since 9′s don’t exist in DC), though I did make one student deliver the subway opener to an old man because we couldn’t find any girls around. I told them never to “practice” on ugly girls. From day one they will only go after girls they want to have sex with.

One flaw of the workshop is that it was hard to focus on what will be their day game bread and butter: coffee shops. Each student could only do one or two approaches there, even though it will be where they get most of their numbers. For example they did just as many approaches in the retail store as in the coffee shop even though they barely go shopping. I still think that that retail practice was useful because daygame approaches have the same framework and experience in one will no doubt help with other venues.

Here’s a quick view of the workshop from a student…

I thought the Daygame workshop was great. I don’t think me or the other guy would have gotten nearly the kind of individual attention or the quality instruction from any other PUA company costing a ton more money.

And another…

I’ve never done a workshop before, but I’ve read a couple books and websites. This was appealing because it wasn’t going to break the bank, and neither will day game, really. Only two students was nice as well. I appreciate getting the day game packet, something to refer to and study. I don’t have much else to say, because results will take more time afterwards. Personally it was helpful for me to declare to someone besides myself that this is something I need to work on. It got me in an approaching mood, and I hope I can build upon it. I think the workshop was planned well because it was during Christmas shopping season, but by chance there weren’t as many people shopping/walking around as anticipated. What are you going to do… Roosh made the best of it.

And from the advanced student who got the number…

I thought the day game workshop was a great workshop. I would divide the workshop into four sections: (1) A discussion of the philosophy of day game. (2) A walk-through of specific day game strategies and lines. (3) Day game practice. (4) Review of your performance.

Here are my thoughts on the sections: #1 is a sound philosophy, and was explained well. #2 has clearly been honed over the years by Roosh. #3 was obviously the critical portion, and was great because Roosh provided on-the-fly guidance and motivation. #4 was helpful, especially because feedback was provided throughout. All in all, Roosh is a great teacher, and it’s clear that his motivation with this workshop (just like with Bang) is to help others. There’s no doubt that this workshop will help my (previously non-existent) day game to become a useful tool in my pick-up arsenal… and I already got a date out of it

I must say I don’t think getting a date from the day of the workshop will be common since you’ll be testing out all-new material, but it’s nice he’s already seeing results.

While I can’t completely change a man’s game in a few hours, I’m confident that if one of my students sees a girl they like in the coffee shop, street, grocery store, etc., they know what to say and how to say it, and how to get her number if the conversation goes well. They did enough approaches (average of 8 per guy) that they know it’s not a big deal to talk to girls during the day.

My first four students got a good deal because the workshop is actually at least six hours, not four. (One went eight hours.) But keeping in mind the economy is in the shitter and I want guys walking away from this feeling like they got a great deal, I would like to do some more workshops in January for $165. The per hour cost of the workshop remains the same. For a run down of what the workshop is about, check here.

If you are interested then email roosh@rooshv.com with workshop in the subject and I’ll put you on the waiting list, which I will start going through today. Also if you live in New York City and would consider taking the workshop then email me as well because I might come up in February for a short while.

I want to give a huge thanks for the four guys who trusted me and took a chance without knowing exactly what they were getting into. And also my guinea pig.

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If you get cockblocked by a girl, you need to respond by shaking her core so hard that she hesitates doing it ever again, like a mouse who hits the wrong lever and gets the shit zapped out of him. No jokes and no wit—you gotta get dirty.

This is what you must say to the cockblocker. Say it with a stern tone, like a parent scolding a child.

“Did you really just do that? I’m being friendly and respectful to your friend and you rudely interrupt. Did your parents teach you to be anti-social like that?”

Then shake your head and turn your back on her. Don’t engage her in a conversation or even act like you hear her response. She no longer exists.

This ruins her night, completely. Girls are emotional creatures and it takes them a very long time to get over getting called out like that. To top it off, girls absolutely hate it when you don’t allow them to respond. They are so used to getting in the last word in their arguments with men (they are addicted to closure, remember), that she will be thinking of what happened for a long time to come.

I was talking to a girl and mid-sentence out of nowhere this bitch rolls up between us and starts yapping her mouth. I tap her on the shoulder and she turns around. With a straight face I said, “You see we’re talking here, right?” She gave me a stunned look and immediately stormed off. Her friend gave chase to console her.

Do you think she interrupted another conversation that night? I don’t think so. She probably went home to call her beta hanger-on for support.

If every guy calls out a cockblocker just once a month, I’m confident it will cease to exist in a year or two. I’m dead serious. Girls will continue to cockblock as long as there is no punishment for doing so, and since it’s against the law to slap her upside the face, you have to use words. But it’s important you don’t use profanity or call her names because then she won’t take you seriously. Be mostly respectful so she can’t immediately write you off as an asshole. You’re a good guy who is shocked and appalled by the rudeness you were just victim to. You don’t believe what the world is coming to.

It’s our fault that girls cockblock. We’ve been letting them get away with it for so long that girls know there is absolutely no cost for them to block. We stand there with dumbfounded looks on our face while she gets satisfaction that her friend is going home alone just like her. It’s time to let them earn that cockblock.

Here are the keywords to remember: respectful, rude, interrupt, anti-social. I don’t care if I get kicked out of bars but I’m going to ruin her night, and she’s going to think twice about doing it again. Worthless bitch.

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I was at a small lounge with a couple friends when I made small chat with this alright looking girl. It went nowhere but later I got much farther with her cuter friend. The deeper the conversation got the more the original girl interrupted, until she finally squeezed me out of the conversation by making her friend dance.

One hour later I’m leaning against the bar and who is dancing in front of me but an Americanized Brazilian girl (good enough). I hit her with my gringo Portuguese and she’s curious, wondering why this gringo spent a month in her country. I mentioned a couple popular Brazilian foods for good measure, but I didn’t overdo it or else it would come across as me trying to impress her. She asked me to dance.

Apparently half the girls at the bar knew each other, including all three girls I’ve mentioned so far. While I’m getting somewhere with the Brazilian, the original cockblocker comes up to her.

“Oh, you’re talking to him. He hit on everyone tonight.”

I was doing a dry run of the day game workshop with a friend. I told him in day game girls are polite and go out of their way to be helpful even if they think the approach is a pick-up attempt. But in bars if you get a couple girls together the behavior they exhibit is anti-social and downright psychotic. Show me a man who has tons of experience meeting girls in clubs and I’ll show you a man who has generally negative views on women. Stupid. Sluts. Idiots. Worthless. Attention whores. Bitches. Mindless. Boring. Etc.

After the girl told the Brazilian that I hit on “everyone,” I knew I was done. The Brazilian’s face turned upside down and she backed away. Two people who were getting along had it cut short because of a girl who morphs into this beast whenever she walks into a bar. How unnatural.

It’s time I share with you my plan to end the cockblocking phenomenon once and for all…

Continued… How To End Cockblocking As We Know It

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It started the second I stepped foot in the Metro.

“Holy shit, it’s Jesus!”

“Jesus Christ!!”

“Look, that nigga Jesus!!”

A Muslim-looking man wanted to have his picture taken with me. I gave a serious look, like Jesus would, and made sure my large-print bible was in the frame of the photo.

On the Metro car a girl dressed up as a devil asked to take a picture with me as well. All the way down the car a group of teenage girls yelled my name (Jesus) and then rushed up to take photos with their camera phones. A girl dressed up as a referee, blowing her whistle loudly every two minutes, was next to ask for a picture. She was rather petite and I wrapped my arm around her so we’d be nice and close for the photo. Sober guys next to me gave me their respect with nods of compliment.

On my walk to the bar I had about four or five cars honk their horns. Guys hung halfway out the window yelling Jesus. I’d raise my arm to recognize their efforts to get my attention. A group of white people partying on a patio gave me a round of applause, and I blessed them with a hand motion that I practiced earlier in front of the mirror.

About a dozen or so photos were taken of me in the bar. I believe at one point a line developed. A girl I didn’t know bought me a beer, but didn’t want to talk. She just went to the bar, got my drink, and then left back to her friends. Countless Jews walked up to me, apologizing. The only time I was upstaged was when this asshole showed up in a robot costume with yellow lights and 80′s music blaring from his box head. He did breakdance moves and a crowd formed around him. I cried foul.

The attention got old pretty quick. I was just a cheap gimmick judged by my appearance and nothing else. People lost interest in talking to me if I stepped out of character.

At the next bar I gave off forced smiles with each Jesus yell. A group who wanted my photo made a demand that I pose with a thumbs-up sign. I declined. They kept demanding and I kept saying no. They made negative remarks out of earshot. Eventually I barely looked when drunk people came up to me with “JESUS.” I was much more receptive with calmer approaches like “Hey man I really like your costume. Is your hair real?”

Approaches fell into two categories: those that increased the likelihood of a conversation developing and those that decreased it. The parallel to game here was obvious to me.

I hesitated going home because I knew I’d have to walk through a sea of drunk people. The gauntlet. The attention from cars and and walking drunks was relentless. I wished I could take the costume off, or that I at least brought a band to put my hair back and be less Jesus-like. I kept my head down and avoided eye contact so I wouldn’t encourage anyone, but I still got a lot of “Hey Come here!” When I didn’t do what people wanted they got annoyed. “Jesus is drunk,” they’d say.

On the subway ride back I fell asleep, but people still tried to get my attention.

“Hey look it’s Jesus. He’s sleeping.”

There is such a thing as too much attention, especially when the attention is identical. You get numb to it, and only respond to something original or different.

Postscript: Take a look at How It Feels To Be A Fat Chick by Virgle Kent, my wingman of the night.

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- No flip flops. Not one stinking pair. The women put in effort, and they looked good. Very common were sexy high-heel boots. My lady friend wore an extremely uncomfortable pair for a couple dozen blocks including a walk through the incredibly Eurotrash Meatpacking district. She didn’t complain about her plight as a woman during the process, and neither did the men who approached her when I stepped away.

- Not as fat. Washington DC is the only place in the world where an average, plain-Jane woman with an okay body has her pick of the most desirable men. I’ve already beaten this point to death.

- A real coffee shop culture, and by real I mean cramped and snobby with passive aggressive notes about the environment strewn about, but no one in a stupid uniform asking “How are you doing?” when they really don’t give a shit. I could see it happening in one of their cafes that I meet someone in the same starving / bum boat as myself.

- Too big for its own good. With thousands of possible nightlife choices, it may never happen that I find my most fruitful niche if I lived there. Even in comparatively tiny DC it took me a few years.

- Cheap and fast public transit. Taxicabs don’t charge more for extra passengers. Taking one with a group is cheaper than the already cheap subway that blew me away with express lines that skip stops. (The subway fare is $2 for two hours.) Compare that to what I pay for a 25-minute ride from a Maryland suburb to downtown DC at 3:01pm ($4). The DC Metro system is beautiful to look at but poorly planned, and run. I’ve been on subway lines in South America that are more efficient than ours. Even the Caracas subway which appears to be modeled after DC’s Metro runs better than the Metro.

- Cuter girls. I think if DC’s girls would lose their twenty extra pounds then they’d compete somewhat well, but they won’t, and even if they did their lack of individuality when it comes to appearance and less than shoulder-length hair would always keep them a step behind. For two nights I was more inspired than I have been in nine months.

There was nothing about my visit that told me I needed to move there instead of say the two South American cities I mentioned above, but I wouldn’t mind another visit in a few months. There are plenty of dirty hostels though most seem to be located in Harlem or other undesirable neighborhoods.

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-Going to a bar or club is not really a reason to dress up. People will go out in their work clothes (and I don’t mean like “hey I’m an asshole who wears a suit to show you how important I am”) to a fancy bar or they’ll wear a basic jeans/top outfit. I once threatened to leave a cool rooftop bar if I saw any women there wearing dirty Converse sneakers. There is less concept of going-out clothes – the exception is people who live in party-heavy cities, like Barcelona or Paris.

-Eurotrash is a stereotype but it’s also true. Have you ever seen adult Americans spraying each other with champagne at a bar?

-In Europe, you do not approach strangers who are unknown to your group. Europeans in general are somewhat distrustful of people unless they have been introduced to them by someone they already know. My girlfriends and I have never been approached while out, and a stranger would absolutely never try to dance with us.

-Because bars and clubs are not limited to people over the age of 21, it can be tricky to figure out which places are legit and which are a bunch of high-schoolers trying to act cool. For instance there is one particular club I can think of that is written up in every guidebook as “posh” and very much a scene, but it’s full of 18-year-olds.

-No matter what city and what bar you go to, you will hear the song “Everyday People” by Arrested Development.

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1. Lack of originality. Men who look as generic as possible with jeans and stripped shirt uniform. Women who stay on top of trends spoon fed to them through advertising.

2. Bad hair. Men who dip their heads in buckets of pomade wax. Women who don’t let their hair grow out to proper feminine length (small of back).

3. Feminization of men. Men who are clean shaven in an attempt to have smooth skin like a girl instead of a rugged ugly face like a real man.

4. Bad time management. Men who waste time on girls who obviously are not going to bang them. Young man in the photo is sinking time into a girl who is about to get married. He’d have better luck trying to convert a lesbian. Single girls in picture are not making flirty eye contact with other men even though they are single, lonely, and most likely desperate.

5. No concept of respect or commitment. Bride-to-be allows a strange man to rub his erection on her ass a day or two before exchanging vows to another man. Leads to….

6. Perverse idea of marriage. Doing it just to do it, not because you want to spend the rest of your life with someone. This marriage will not cross the three year mark.

7. Attention whoring. Women who get off on attention, no matter how negative. Bride-to-be on a mission to specifically get drunk and arouse strange men because of bachelorette party “custom.”

8. Insecure about place in society. Middle class individuals spending 15% of their take home pay on overpriced table service to feel special, cool, or exclusive (bottom left). Leads to…

9. Perennial debtors. Does not understand the concept of saving or living within one’s means.

10. Lazy. Obsession with ugly, cheap Target flip flops that display an unwillingness to make sacrifices and go the full mile (girl in black dress).

11. Poor social skills. Use of alcohol as a crutch for social situations. Girls are stiff like soldiers unless numbed by a drug (double fisting girl on right). Conversations with both genders are often painful because of constant self-referencing and use of filler words such as “like” and “you know.”

12. No rhythm or dancing skills. Look at the young man with his awkward lean move.

13. Nosy and interfering. Girl in black dress is getting a kick that her friend is getting grinded on but will soon “save” her. Even if future bride wasn’t getting married, the cockblock has a 90% chance of occurring.

14. Approval seeking. Bride-to-be is looking at her friend to see if her behavior is deemed acceptable or not. She doesn’t know how to act or think unless she gets cues from girls she knows, or celebrities she reads about in glossy magazines.

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It’s all nice and good until you get to the patrons: 75% guys giving way too much power to the few girls, most of them were average at best. The hottest ones were dancing on couches with their hands on the fuselage shaking their asses for the men and their fresh barber cuts in the economy section. I noticed everyone is still taking cues from US Weekly and MTV on how to dress, look, and act, and other than my wingman there was no one I wanted to talk to. There wasn’t a single girl there who was worth my opener, something that takes motivation and follow through.

One woman pulled me aside and asked if I was a soccer player. I went along and we talked for a couple minutes, but even in the dim lightning I could tell she wasn’t a day younger than 35. There was nothing wrong with her, but come on. I’m in my prime I shouldn’t have to converse with that. She should just grab my hand and lead me to the bathroom and be done with it. During the day time when the advantage is out of her favor I wouldn’t even notice her existence, but here she is getting plenty of attention.

I end up in Adams Morgan for a while until I decide to have a jumbo slice instead of the usual falafel. It’s been a year… and I see why: it was shit. The cheese came from a crate rejected by Papa Johns and the sauce was a sprinkling of the pale colored juice you drain out from a cheap can of tomatoes. This is the worst pizza I’ve ever eaten in my life. Even worse than the pizza in Bolivia, a place which doesn’t have a single Italian or whoever invented pizza to pass on critical pizza-making knowledge to a generation of pizza makers.

I’m alone and two girls share a table with me, savoring every bite of the worst pizza is the world. They kept saying how good it was. One of them has a look like she’s about to puke on my face and the other has a blob of grease on her half covered breast. Grease breast chatted with me for a couple minutes and asked me how it’s possible I’m single. Because I refuse to go out with girls like you. I felt like a jerk for even thinking it.

Everyone else is shoving dough in their mouth with eyes half closed and loving every minute of it. As I step outside I’m saved from stepping on a gigantic pool of red vomit, a waste of what I’m sure was a fine pasta meal. Twenty minutes later on the subway ride back home I hear a splash and turn around to see a man slumped over three seats away vomiting all over himself. A stupid slut I picked up in a club years back did the same thing but in my car. I remembered looking back and seeing a fountain of pink vomit eject from her mouth and land on her chest and then trickle it’s way to my seat. Americans are fucking disgusting.

I had to take a cab the rest of the way home. This driver was a talker. He asked me about my night and I told him how it’s getting harder to go out. You never think at 22 or 23 you’ll get older and become that guy that rather sit at the bar on a weekday and stare at the wall. Drinking some gold cachaca in a shot glass, making my own personal music mix and maybe getting an hour or two worth of work done is starting to seem more appealing. He asked me if I was an artist.

We talked about girls and he put me on the spot. He asked me to give him one tip that would help him out. It’s been two months since he’s even talked to a girl, and he told me a typical story of a girl he liked that he bought gifts for eventually getting into a relationship with someone else. The pressure was on to help this guy out, and I thought about it for a minute before I answered.

There has to be a point where you’re talking to a girl or interacting with her and you’re about to do something or say something and think… ‘I’m going to lose her.’ But you do it anyway.

He thought about it for ten seconds and thanked me. I hoped I made a difference, but I don’t know for sure. I doubt it.

I had conversations with maybe five girls during the course of the night. But the one with the taxi driver from El Salvador was by far the most interesting and the only one that put a smile on my face after it was done. I shook his hand and wished him luck.

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