All this time, after all of these years that I've been trying to figure out just how a guy like me, happens to have girls like them("them" in a collective girl-I've-dated sort of way) find interest in me, I finally realize what it is that girls want. Hold on, you don't get the goods quite yet.

You see, it's much easier than I ever imagined. Girls aren't that tough to please. Men, you don't have to drive a Bentley. You don't have to even be all that attractive, which can be proven by all the couples I see walking around Uptown, and all I can think is "Aw, the poor blind girl doesn't know she's holding hands with a hideous He-beast." If you were to pick one average guy and one average girl and put them in a locked room together, you can be sure that the man would think "Ah, I've seen better", while the girl will say "He'll do."

So, if it isn't looks, and money isn't involved, what's the key? What's the key to nailing chicks? Well, I'm here to tell you.

Last night, I was sitting at home playing poker on my naked lady machine(which is weird in and of itself because I always assumed that the naked lady machine was to be used solely for looking at naked ladies. Who knew?) and chatting with some online poker, uh, peeps. I'd just gone through a fucking fabulous run of cards where I made more money in an hour than I do in half a week at my 'real' job, which understandably put me in a good mood. You know how at the end of a porno when the girl gets a facial and seems happy about it, only to have her mood sour when she gets painted in the eye? No? Liars. I could've been shot in the eye by easy money and still would have been in a good mood. Yeah, I'm easy money's dirty, dirty whore.

So, it's too early to go to bed, I'm up a few hundred dollar and not yet drunk. Oh yeah, and happy. What's a guy like me to do at a time like that?

Off to the bar!

As amazing as it sounds, I, Chad, haven't been to the bar all that much lately. The Hell, you say! No, really, I'm telling the truth. Outside of a few hours--or a few happy hours--here or there, my time spent inside drinking has been limited. So sad. Not to fret, though, because I'm sure I'll ramp it up once the weather turns to shit and I get my new laptop. Hopefully the laptop comes before the bad weather does.

So, I jump in the shower, scrub myself up and down with Eric's buffpuff, get dressed and head out to the bar. Wait, shit, I forgot my phone. Gotta unlock the two locks on the outside door, trudge up the stairs, unlock the apartment door, and then down the hallway to my room to grab my phone. Great, got it. Let's go!

Back down the hallway, locking the apartment door behind me, almost falling down the stairs, then finally locking both locks behind me on the outside door, and then finally on my way to bar. That is, after a quick breath check into my cupped hand, which I should know better than to do when I really don't want to go back upstairs.

But, rinse, wash, repeat to get my gum, and then I'm finally off to the bar. I swear, this time it's true.

I lied.

You see, I have a problem with sitting at a bar by myself with nothing to do. Normally I'd bring my laptop along for the adventure, but I just didn't feel like packing it all up in the super backpack, only to have the bar's wifi connection crap out on my like it always does. In place of the laptop, I grabbed a small pad of paper avec pen, should the inspiration choose to grab hold while sitting with a pint attached to my lower lip. It rarely does, but hey, you never know.

The first bar was dead. No whoores, no hussies, fuck, not even any dudes that dig dudes, and in my neighborhood all three factors combined are a strong indication that somebody, somewhere, is about to load the pig cannon. There was, however, a guy in a motorized wheelchair that sped in, downed a beer in less than a second, burped in my general direction and then left just as quickly as he'd entered, but that didn't quite justify another liter of beer on my part. Off to a different bar I go.

The next bar, my bar, was just as dead, but I figured that I'd have one more pint, maybe write a little, and be home in bed by midnight. Little did I know that I was about to discover the answer to one of life's greatest questions: "How do I get a girl to like me?"

I mosied up to the bar and before I even had a chance to sit down, the bartenderess mouthed "Lite?" and I agreed with a nod and a smile.

Gotta love being predictable.

While sipping on the beer, I pulled the notebook out of my back pocket and set it on the bar, not because I felt like writing, but because it just wasn't that comfortable sitting with a pen jabbed in my ass. To some of you this called foreplay, but to me, it's just sick.

Ah hell, the notebook needs lovin', too, and it is right there in front of me, I might as well write about my night of poker, right? Right. Just as I began waxing retarded about a card game, a girl came up to the bar to order a drink. I didn't pay much attention, as there was nothing out of the ordinary about her. Sure, she had tattoos and all that jazz, but she was just your average girl out for the night.

A few seconds later, a guy entered the bar, walked right behind the girl and goosed her. Well, I think he goosed her. I really wasn't paying that much attention, and a little embellishment never hurt anybody. So, he goosed her, and more importantly, it appeared that they knew each other well. I assumed it was her boyriend and went about my business of not writing.

As I'm about to close my notebook and head the to bathroom, I heard the girl say something to the guy to the effect of "Holy fucksticks, this guy sitting by himself, writing in baby blue notebook is Jude Law hot". Ok, so she didn't say those words exactly, and I may or may not have added the part about Jude Law on my own, but she did say something about me specifically. This I know. I'm sure I was not supposed to hear this, but the specifics told me that he was not "with" her.

I returned to my stool at the bar with the girl saying "Get out! LITERALLY" to her friend, which must have been his key to leave so that she could talk to me. So crytpic and sly, this one. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that she was trying to get my attention. Nope, none for me thanks. I'll just act like my beer is amazing the fuck out of me, like it's the best lite beer on earth, all the while not trying to make eye contact.

And than I did something stupid: opened my notebook and started writing.

"So, what are you writing? Lyrics? Are you writing lyrics?" she asked. For every guy that likes to write, there's a million girls that think he's writing lyrics to some gay song.

I.Am.Fucked.

"I, uh, no. Just some random crap." I stammered. It just sort of spilled out of my mouth. Why? I have no idea.

"Are you writing a book? Is it..." she questioned again.

"No, and it's not poetry, either" I interrupted her before she even went that route. Trust me, she was headed there. They all are.

"Well, then what are you writing about?"

This morning as the water splashed over my face and ran down my body, I still couldn't figure out why I answered the way I did. I wasn't drunk, and I wasn't all that nervous, but there's no logical thought process that fully explains my response.

"Uh, ok. This is going to sound really geeky, but I'm writing about poker. I have a bunch of poker friends online that I talk about poker with, and I was just jotting down some topics that I could bring up at a later time". I said.

Where in the fuck did that come from? Not that I had any reason to lie, but surely I could've come up with something better than "I'm a geeky poker rube". Lying would've been so much better. The truth has escaped from my mouth before my brain had a chance to filter it.

To say that she became completely disinterested would be a gross understatement. It was as if someone removed her battery and she just sort of powered down right there at the bar. Not that I really was out to talk to her in the first place, but damn, game over.

"Uh, oh. That's...cool. Well, it was nice to meet you." she said as she looked at her watch and quickly walked away.

What did I learn out of all this? I discovered the answer to "What's the key to nailing chicks?"

Don't act like me. Don't imitate me. Don't emulate my actions. I clearly do not know what I am doing.

Seriously. That's my gift to all of you. Lie if you have to. Tell them you're writing poetry about kittens and how you're finding your way in life, or some shit that women are likely to be interested in. Tell them you're writing a novel about the black market on Kate Spade bags. Hell, if you're really all about getting laid, just don't open your mouth. It adds to the mystery.

But don't, under any circumstance, believe that they'll be impressed when you tell them that your little notebook holds topics on a card game. It will not work out in your favor.