Well hello there, pretty lady on the bus. You’re looking quite… pretty. Sorry, I’m a professional writer, but I usually have a thesaurus. Anyway, I’ve noticed you don’t look angry or bitter. Perhaps you haven’t been hit on by a creepy stranger yet today?
Excellent! I love being the first! You may be wondering why I approached you. Well first, I’m looking to bang. But more importantly, I’ve noticed you have one eye that’s twitching and weird. I figure this flaw knocks you down at least two or three points on the social scale, causing general anxiety and low self-esteem. This may drag you down into my league.
All my life I’ve dreamed of meeting a beautiful woman with a lazy eye. It’s like finding a used car with a manual transmission or cans of food at the supermarket with dents in them. Better suitors are scared away by these noticeable flaws, but not me. I’m out hunting for a bargain!
M’lady, perhaps you would enjoy accompanying me to a low-priced restaurant that has tepid ratings on Yelp? Or maybe we could go to the supermarket and buy sandwiches, and then sneak them into a second-run movie theater? Wear a thick sweater! We can pretend the sandwiches are your boobs! The manager will not suspect us.
While we’re in the theater, I’ll claim to spot a nickel on the floor and use it as an excuse to touch your leg. If it works, I will repeat this gesture five or six times over the course of the film, placing my hand higher on your leg each time. Then I will pretend to yawn, and when you lean back to keep me from putting my arm around you, my hand will accidentally graze your left boob.
After the movie, we’ll go for a seemingly endless stroll around my seedy neighborhood. It will last hours, because I’m too cheap to take you somewhere interesting but too old-fashioned to try to bang you at 9 p.m. Once the conversation has become awkward enough, I’ll invite you to have a drink with me in my apartment. I will tell you that it doesn’t smell like dog pee, even though it totally does.
Once inside, you’ll marvel at my large display of Japanese toys, opining that these items I paid hundreds of dollars for look like “lizards made of poop.” I will chuckle quietly, hiding my great anger at this ignorant statement and refraining from giving you a 45-minute lecture on the long-term investment potential of my Rainbow Bemon and Nagnagnag Four Eyes Boryoku Genjin, because I’m hoping to get laid.
After enjoying a drink that is way too stiff for any reasonable person, I’ll reveal to you that today, May 4, is actually my birthday. And since it is my birthday, would you mind taking a shower with me? I’m 35 years old, so it’s not like I haven’t taken a shower with a beautiful woman before! Wink! Nudge! Wink! Nudge!
You will reject this suggestion, because while your lazy eye is weird enough to get you to agree to a date with me, it’s not noticeable enough for you to put out. If you were missing an eye and wearing a patch, or if one of your legs were shorter than the other and you stomped loudly everywhere you went, only then would I have a chance at a first-date shower.
I will offer to read you poetry, and you will sprint to the door, desperately trying to leave before I can serenade you further. I will give chase, and shout the poem at you as you scramble down the stairs, nearly falling and breaking your neck. After telling this story to your friends, you will discover that I have plagiarized the poem from Andrew Dice Clay’s standup comedy routines.

Mere hours after our date has ended, I will begin a series of text messages that will number in the hundreds and last months. They will only stop when your dad, who is 66 years old, comes to my apartment and attempts to beat me to death with a tire iron. I will ask him for his permission to marry you, and he will spit in my eye.
I will learn and become a better person through this experience. I will laugh about it later, and call you up to reminisce, clearly violating the restraining order. We will laugh about how foolish I was to put so much love into one person who does not have a wooden leg or one of those digestive problems that makes them more flatulent than a normal person. Then we will bid adieu, and you will call my probation officer to complain.
But that’s love. Some people want presents or celebrations of friendship for their birthday. Not me. All I need to be happy is a beautiful woman with a crusty eye or dead legs or terminal cancer or tiny Tyrannosaurus Rex hands or a thin mustache she thinks is invisible but is actually quite noticeable in direct sunlight or a bald spot or hair that smells like tartar sauce or someone who thinks the Holocaust didn’t happen or is allergic to both latex and birth control pills or who kisses my dog on the mouth and then tries to kiss me (what the hell is up with that?). And if this gift could be wrapped in a nice bow, that would be just great.