I love bookstores. It’s a safe place where the desperate housewives can hide at “erotica”, the trekkies and D&D lovers at “fantasy”, and the broken-hearted at “self-help”. We don’t judge one another, we’re each just looking for our own flavor of escapism. I also love how we almost all enter the library as singles. Who goes to the library in a group? It’s like the anti-club for the typical-clubber, or the club for the cultured. There is no music, there is no eye contact, and the closest to liquor is a Starbucks. Ironically, I have more hope for a future in a bookstore than at a club. Hopefully we’ll both be reaching for the same last print of Kafka only to find our fingers intertwine and fall forever in love. Maybe that’s where my real future is. I should go to the bookstore, follow hot guys, and run up to them and reach for whatever books they reach for and feign serendipitous innocence. That, my friends, is how to go about ensnaring men casually in flirting-purgatory zones.
I hope nobody actually tries my flirting tips. Taking flirting and relationship tips from me is like taking driving lessons from Lindsay Lohan.