Without a job or any contacts within hundreds of miles, I have little motivation to leave the apartment. But hermitude inevitably leads to cabin fever, so I force myself out. The Strip is too expensive, so typically I find myself at a little divey punk bar called Double Down. The patrons are mostly pop-punk retards, but the jukebox has both Evil Beaver and The Butt Trumpets, and best of all, it never closes.
It can be an imposing place to hit on women. Most of the time, they're gay or their scary PCP-popping boyfriends are just using the restroom. But what the hell, right?
There I was, talking to my beer, working my way through a pack of cigarettes at 3AM. In walks this girl named Sarah, a student. She sits down beside me and compliments my tattoos. I appreciate the attention and begin rattling off my explanations, only to realize she doesn't really care. Then came that period of infinitely long silence, during which I built up the courage to deliver my tried and true pick up line, "Do you like horror movies?"
Laugh if you will, but that really is my pickup line. Rather, it is my pre-pickup line. Everyone requires some degree of commonality in a companion, right? The criterion are always superficial: music, style, race, age, etc. Well, I simply cannot seriously love a woman who will not sit down and watch Last House on the Left with me.
Go on, laugh away.
Needless to say, this question is so ambiguous and unusual, nobody ever understands what I'm working toward. If a girl does end up going out with me, she laughs when I confess its purpose. Oh well.
It is probably also worth pointing out that my tattoos really are solid black. Evidently my minimalistic style has been in place for many years. And as has been repeatedly brought to my attention, they won't wash off any time soon.