"I just moved here from Florida."

That sentence contains at least five follow-up questions she WANTS you to ask. Where in Florida? What brought you here? How long have you been in the area? What do you miss? How does it compare to here?

She handed them to you on a silver platter. And you said, "Oh cool. I come here every week. I love this band. Ummm... pretty crowded tonight."

She smiled politely. Nodded. And never texted you back.

I was that guy for years. Talking too much. Listening too little. Panicking about my next sentence while she was literally feeding me the answers.

Then I found 22 rules that fixed the whole thing. Rule number one: shut up and listen. She'll tell you exactly what to say.

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How BPD fun ends

"She's Out of Your League"

You've said it a hundred times. Maybe a thousand. And every time you say it, you train your brain to freeze the next time she walks into the room.

Leagues are a myth invented by guys who are scared of women.

She's a person. She has bad breath in the morning. She picks songs she can't sing in the shower. She overthinks her own texts.

Walk over. Say something. The league dissolves the second you open your mouth.

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sevbucmash

Master Don Juan
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I guess the smashing was good while it lasted, but eventually he had enough.
 

Bible_Belt

Master Don Juan
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I think this happened in Evansville, IN, not far from me. Small town cops see a nice pair of t1ts and it turns all of them into Officer Saveaho. If that happened with a guy, they'd taze him and beat the crap out of him.
 
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