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There I was, plastered and dancing my pants off to a Michael Jackson single (it’s like he died or something) with an ambiguously cute girl.  She seems to be having a jolly good time when all of a sudden, it explodes without warning.

“Sorry, I have a boyfriend.”

Fuck.

My attraction dissipates as I turn flaccid like a wet noodle.  Before we could engage in the standard uncomfortable and meaningless conversation, I turned and walked away without saying a word.  Call it callous, call it ballsy; I call it efficient.  There is no longer a reason for me to stick around.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the bf bomb.  The words you never want to hear when hitting on a girl at a bar.  Similar to explosive diarrhea in your pantaloons, it obliterates all chances of courting or even hooking up with said girl.  It should be common courtesy to drop it early so that nothing is left to chance.  If this girl had dropped the bf bomb within the first few seconds of meeting, I would have been forever grateful.  Here is the ideal bf bomb transaction:

Me: Hey, how’s it going, I’m Andrew. [extends hand for handshake]

Girl: I have a boyfriend. [shoots cold glare]

Me: Duly noted. [slowly retracts hand in disgrace]

Ah beautiful simplicity.  Both party members can salvage some of their time and trouble and I would only die a little inside.  No harm no foul.

Now don’t get me wrong, I realize that this girl could have been a very interesting and kind individual.  I also understand that we could have gotten along and became the best of friends.  However, when I am plastered, I don’t go to the bar/club to make friends.  And even If I were, I doubt anyone would genuinely enjoy the company of a belligerent drunk.

Another day, another disappointment.  My life is average.

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