The first time I went into Grand Central with my wingman, this girl gave me a smile. She wanted me to approach but her appearance was disagreeable. Thirty minutes later she gave me another smile but I still didn’t bite. Finally she decided to take matters into her own hands when she slid up next to me at the bar. I was more intoxicated by then and open to talking to her, but no way I was having sex with her.
She gave up after a while because I kept giving one-word answers to her questions. She went to sit down next to her cuter friend, who VK took a liking too. Thirty minutes later he told me he wanted to get the friends number real quick and then we could leave. I tagged along and sat at the table.
The girl who liked me was half German and half Japanese, but unfortunately she was born in the United States so there was no flag consideration. Her face was all sorts of bad—she didn’t really have a chin and I couldn’t hold eye contact for more than three seconds. This would be like a negative notch.
I was being a good wingman until my beast said to me, “God you’re so hot I just want to kiss you.” Fellas, if a girl tells you that you’re hot, you are way out of her league. Only “cute” is acceptable. I knew this but earlier in the day I checked my budget spreadsheet and saw that my cost per notch was just above my $50 goal for the year. If I bang this beast tonight, mission accomplished. So I banged her. I put a Turkish flag on her face and did her for my Mom’s country.
After the deed was done, I looked at the clock and it was 1:30. My ride, the Metro, closed at midnight (it was a weekday) so I was stuck until the morning. I got up at 7am, looked at her face, and felt like dog shit. And I’m not being dramatic—I had to think of all the pretty girls I’ve dated to make myself feel better.
I stopped by McDonalds for a post-celebratory bang treat of a Sausage, Egg, and Cheese McGriddle. It was tasty and took my mind off the beast bang (the maple syrup is built right into the pancake buns), but I remembered why I stopped going to McDonalds during each of the three times I visited the toilet that day. I deserved loose stools after what I did. At home I couldn’t even look my little brothers in the face.
I stooped low just to say I accomplished a goal that was experimental in the first place. The only thing a low CPN proves is that you are dirty and can get one night stands. But I already knew that about myself in the first place. Getting laid on the cheap is nice, but where’s the emotional connection? Where’s the passion? Where’s the game growth? Where’s the self-respect?
My CPN for 2007 will stand for eternity at $45. Its neon yellow box has been deleted from my spreadsheet.