The Anatomy of a Sociopath With a Drinking Problem
Listen broad, there is obviously something wrong with you if you don't respond to my charms.
I mean, look at this.
What's your problem?
Are you blind?
I don't see a walking stick in your hand or a guide dog in the vicinity and I certainly am not blind.
Are you deaf?
Perhaps you don't hear this charming and witty banter coming out of my mouth.
You're speaking normally, so that can't be it.
Maybe it's too loud in here.
If I talk loud LIKE THIS do you hear it properly now?
Oh, that isn't the problem.
I sure as hell know it isn't me.
Your panties should not only be dropping at my feet, but you should probably thank me for even coming over here to begin with.
I mean, you're cute, but you wouldn't have a shot in hell if the lighting was better in this place.
I only date 10s. You're a 7.8, tops.
There's no ring on your finger, so it can't be some sort of moralistic nonsense.
I've got it, you must be one of those broads who requires a man to buy you a drink.
It's OK, if I wanted a straight-forward transaction, I would have picked up a hooker on Santa Monica.
I like the challenge of trying to figure out what's going on in your tiny brain. Let's do some shots.
You don't like shots? What the fuck are you doing in a bar?
Fuck, I know what the problem is here. I've seen this before – you're just stupid.
No problem, I won't want to see you again after we have sex, anyway. Hell, I won't even ask for your number and you can leave tonight.
Then I can sleep in tomorrow and save a few bucks on breakfast. Perfect!
I'm starting to like you better all the time.
Ha ha. I was only kidding.
Where are you going?
God damn it.
Hey you, nice nail polish. You wearing underwear?
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