There’s got to
be a way to work my right bicep into this conversation, I know there is. Just
have to think. What’s she talking about, her cat. Maybe ask if the cat is
heavy, heavy equals lifting, lifting equals bicep. No, can’t just ask her if
her cat is fat, some people get sensitive about that. Remember that girl who
used to live upstairs, with the real fat cat, I mentioned how cute and
roly-poly it was once and she got all bent out of shape. Cat was the shape of a
frozen turkey. I’ve been kind of brushing my bicep with the fingers of my left
hand, hoping to draw her attention, but I don’t think it’s working. So think of
something else.
It’s got to seem
really natural, and like I’m joking. Like, if somehow we started talking about
strength, and then I were to flex and say, oh yeah, I’m a tough guy, or
something…that would give me the chance to make sure she saw my right bicep
without making it obvious I wanted her to notice it.
Hold on, she
finished talking. She’s waiting for me to say something.
“Wow, that’s
crazy.”
Okay, that did
it. She’s off again. Think, think. I should have worn short sleeves. I knew I
should have, too, but like an idiot I went fancy and put on a long-sleeve
shirt. Even with the sleeves rolled up you can’t really make out my biceps,
because the roll stops right around my elbow and obscures everything. Maybe I
can roll them up…no, you know what I’ll do? Oh, hold on…
“Oh, no way.
That’s so weird.”
I’ll fake an
itch. Fake an itch on my right bicep, even yelp a little, and that’ll give me
an excuse to hitch up my sleeve, flex, everything. The itch’ll have to be on
the inside of my arm, so I have an excuse to turn it and show her the whole thing.
God, yes. Okay, here we go…wait, why would I suddenly have an itch under my
shirt? She might assume I have bugs, that I’m not clean, that I’m infected with
fleas or something. She might be into fleas, actually, what with all she’s
talking about cats…no, can’t risk it. Can’t risk it. She’ll think I’m dirty,
and then when I invite her back later she won’t come.
You know what I
should have done, I should have gotten a tattoo. An anchor or something, on my
bicep, and then I could have been like, you mind taking a look at this and tell
me if it looks whatever? Better idea: figure out what date likes prior to
hanging out and apply temporary tattoo appealing to their interests before
picking them up. Man, that’s actually pretty smart. Only way that could go
wrong would be if they wanted to see me again, or if we ended up seeing each
other long term. Which, lets face it, is unlikely. Due to the way I am. Dirty.
Dirty and weak. Pathetic, even. Like my dad said, worthless. Worthless and
small, and weak. My dad, he’d
“Oh, wow. What
did she say?”
know what to do,
how to get her to notice his bicep. Had a way with the ladies, didn’t you Gary.
Yeah, the ladies man with the lazy son, right? Isn’t that what you used to say?
Right bicep.
Right bicep. I command you with my mind to notice my right bicep. C’mon. It’s bulging!
Bulging for you! Bulging for you sounds like the title of a KISS album. Fuck
you Gary.
You know, what I
should do really is work out both arms, not just the right one. Double my
chances.
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