Creeply

The most depressing place in the world to pick up women is at a bar. There is no arguing about that because it is true. No, stop thinking that you can. The bar scene is specifically designed to create an invisible forcefield around female genitalia. Correction, the bar scene is designed to create an impenetrable forcefield around the genitalia of the “good ones” and to give the shit ones a fighting chance in the low lighting of not so instant gratification. The unfortunate thing about yourself is that you belong to the type B bar goers. There is nothing a type B bar goer is going to get out of the scene other than some laughs. Type B bar goers sometimes find a way around vagina shields but they aren’t even really looking too. It is like one of those optical illusions for type B. As soon as they stop paying attention to that really dark and artsy and hot bitch in the corner she walks right in to interrupt some typical type B conversation, which is probably thick with sarcasm and directed at one of the shit women in the bar who is so inebriated that she strikes up conversation about how she really has to piss.

“Hey! Steve is that you?” says the girl from the corner. “Oh my god, no way. Sarah?” you hypothetically say. You then address the drunk slut bag who has to pee, “I am sorry to cut our convo short but I just ran into an old friend who I thought was dead, thanks for the interesting topics though.” The woman, who is sufficiently pink not from her alcoholism but from her superhuman ability to hold her piss, leaves. “Oh my fucking Christ, thank you so much for getting me out of that slut trap of a conversation.” The new woman, dark and artsy and wildly beautiful, tells you not to worry about it. “I am Michael.” “Camille.” ( The thing about this whole situation is that it, without fail, happens every time. It just so happens that you have been eying Camille the entire night, from the moment you walked into the bar, but you knew her type. She is the hard to get type. The type that comes to a bar and doesn’t really want to meet anyone, the impenetrable vagina shield. She is a type B bar goer. She looks for people to play the indie game with, people who can humor her sarcasm and pretentiousness but more accurately can fall victim to it. She seeks out the frat boys and the drunk engineers only for the sake of playing games with them. She drinks slowly and with class, making sure that she is always a few notches more sober than the idiot courting her.) Like an optical illusion, when you thought nothing could get worse than a conversation about human excretion and all hope lost, the girl comes to you. A savior, (from a night of watching cartoons and eating dry cereal) the most self confident, least neurotic, and strikingly intellectual woman in the bar has decided to talk to you.

The amazing thing about this is the difference between type A and B men versus type A and B women. The type A man is easy to place. This guy is the overly confident jerk. He has one goal in a bar and that is find the one he will court and take her home for a one night fling. What society doesn’t tell you, and what type A male bar goers figure out during the lowest point of their alcoholic future, is that this sort of thing is extremely hollow and might create awesome stories to tell to their other type A jerk friends but will ultimately end in an STD or regular visits with a parole officer. Type A women really enjoy humoring the type A guys, but genuinely so. The type A female bar goer is an embarrassment to all woman. She is desperate, she has no self confidence, she probably wears too much makeup and too much perfume and not enough clothes, she is easy. For a type A woman the goal is objective enough, get laid. Bars are a wildly unfortunate place in this regard.

What lies just under the surface of this AA universe of fantastical bullshit is where bars get really interesting, and probably the only reason they are worth writing about. The type B person goes into a bar as a skeptic. They hate bars but maybe they had been dragged there by their friends or something like that. Type B people are in no way entertained by the superficial “show” that goes on between the A’s and the A’s, and occasionally the A’s. Type B puts up the wall, sticks to a very specific area of the bar and is usually consumed with themselves. You are a type B. Characteristic of most type B’s, you came to the bar with the intention of being a type A but that dream sure as shit died as soon as the door swung open. Your friends are too A-like for you to even try to be like them, the sad truth is that you were brought in to be that comparative loser to make your loser friends look cooler.

So the type B bar goers tend to accept the fact that they are in a type A bar goer’s universe and that always ends with getting trapped by type A women with bladders of steal. The type B women just laugh at the type A men that try and trap them, unless of course their type A friends are retarded, which happens, and they get trapped by type A men who’s fingers stick to the small of backs like electromagnets. So the type B boys and girls just lose any hope of enjoying the night unless they can just swim in the sarcasm of their selves, which is what you did. You shut out the type A universe, just as Camille, and started swimming in the fantastic world of sarcasm. It just so happens that skinny dipping is more fun with two people.

“What in the hell was that woman talking about?”

“To be honest I only caught bits and pieces of what she was actually saying because her tits were totally about to fall out, but she kept complaining about the line at the women’s restroom.”

“That line is quite unbearable. I think some girl is really sick in there and all her equally plastered friends are trying to help, quite a disaster.”

“Story of her life I am sure.”

“It’s not like she will remember it.”

“True”.

“So what’s the score”.

“The score?”

“Of the game idiot”.

“Oh, you know I have no idea”.

“That’s what I thought. Why are you even in a bar like this? You are easily the smallest guy in here”.

“I will try to see that as a compliment. You see the broken chair just outside?”

“Yeah”.

“My friends 21st”.

“Are you with those guys that spilled four pitchers back over the bar a little while ago?”

“If I said yes would you still hate me?”

“Of course”.

“Then yes.”

“Okay then. I can see then why you are alone, not enough cheap beer.”

“I would never, haha. How about you? Why are you here?”

“Well that’s because I am ugly and desperate of course”.

“Oh, duh. I could obviously tell by the fact that you are wearing more makeup and more perfume than any one in here.”

“I actually don’t wear mak…Oh. Haha”

Being a type B bar goer has it’s perks. There are many more complicated cultural dimensions of a bar but going into them now would be impossible. You have met Camille, and completely forgot about the type A universe that you have been forced into. You are not seeing the surface anymore. You are looking through the photograph of the bar scene and quickly, experientially, a new image has arisen.

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