My intelligent quotient is the polar opposite of my romance quotient. If you think telling me I’m sexy is enough to convince me that you’re into me, please slide down the snake and return to square one of the game ‘Getting into My Pants’.
There’s only one way to convince me you’re interested in fucking me, and it goes something like this: “I’m interested in fucking you.” Then point just in case I think you’re talking to the unicorn standing behind me.
I might be able to exist comfortably around a million shades of grey and tell you the difference between every hue. I can pick up subtleties unrelated to sex, but asking me on a dinner date isn’t enough to demonstrate that you want to take me on a dinner date. How do I know if it’s a romantic dinner or a platonic one? Exactly. I fucking don’t.
Assumption is the mother of all fuck ups, and my shyness is the mother of all dating fuck ups. My concept of how valuable I am as a potential partner is a ball of utter confusion. Sure, I know I can be an awesome friend. I know I have some talent. I know my legs look hot from one angle, but I definitely don’t know if you’re into me. I know it’s absurd, but much as I try to change, it just won’t happen.
I belong to a dating class called “Stupid.” Explain it to me like I’m a six-year-old, because the only alternative is to relegate yourself to the friend zone alongside all the other guys I have a crush on.