"I'm Not Looking for Anything Serious Right Now"

When a woman says it, guys hear a confession. A heads-up. A scheduling conflict.

Here's the translation: I don't feel anything. Right now. With you.

Watch what happens when a man triggers actual attraction. The busy career, the recent breakup, the "not in a place to date" — all of it evaporates instantly. The same woman who was guarding her freedom is suddenly free every night.

The "22 Rules" explain why. When the right switches flip, her timeline rearranges itself around you.

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What if Your Son Was Like Magic Johnson's "Son?"

Maximus Rex

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Bruh, shakin'-my-muthaf*ckin-head. There are few things that rank worst than this f*ckery concerning a man's son. This is some sh*t that you only wish on your worst of enemies. It's bad enough that your son, (and in this case Magic's namesake,) sucks d*ck, puts a rubber on a muthaf*cka's d*ck, then jacks him off, is into booty bustin' and kisses on and gets in the bed with dudes, but this muthaf*cka takes it to unnecessary extremes. Is all of this extra sh*t really all that necessary? Seriously, what does all of this extra sh*t have to do with being a faggot and suckin' d*ck? Rex just understand, then again, I really don't want to.

Also, I really have a hard time believing that Magic is cool with this sh*t. Sure, in public Magic will say that he loves and supports his son, (he has to or else it will f*ck his money up,) but if you were cool with Magic and had his complete and total trust, I'm sure that he would reveal to you that this sh*t hurts him down to his soul. Sure, Magic played for the faggot ass Lakers, but Magic is arguably the greatest player in the history of that franchise and one of the greatest players to ever play the game. EJ should have a bit more respect for his father's name and legacy. Sh*t is f*ckin' sad mayne. If this, (God forbid,) was my son, I'd have to disown him.
 

"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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