It’s 2am, and the club has closed. Outside, while everybody else is walking to their cars, my friends decide to join a swarm of horny and expectant guys mobbing two incredibly hot chicks that are shamelessly enjoying the attention. Yes, the girls are hot, but they’re obviously stringing the guys along because it’s fun to be worshipped for having a nice ass. So I pull my usual “aloof, too good for your meager human games” routine, as I stand aside and watch in silence. I act bored, but I can’t deny that I’m at least a little interested in what’s being said. The chicks are apparently older than my friends and me, and they affectionately call us babies. Then they somehow get onto the topic of astrological signs, and I suddenly want to do nothing more than to shoot myself at this moment. One of the chicks eventually takes notice of me, the silent friend, and she feels me out.

Hot Chick: What sign are you?
Kevin: Does it really matter?
Hot Chick: ::shrugs:: Well…
Kevin: I’m a Taurus.
Hot Chick: Oh.
Kevin: ::turns to walk away::
Hot Chick: How old are you?
Kevin: 22
Hot Chick: Oh.
Kevin: ::walks on::

Yeah, that’s probably one of the more asshole-ish things I’ve done in a while, but it was satisfying beyond belief. And yet, the sad thing about this entire affair is that, had she asked me for my number, I wouldn’t have hesitated to give it to her. The lows that women can get men to stoop to are unbearably tragic. Women will be the end of me, my friends. I can feel it. But until then, here’s to small victories.