So I had this interesting theory that drinking excessively whilst sick would clear out all the organisms causing my illness from my system. Considering I woke up today feeling like I tried to swallow a porcupine last night I think I can safely scratch submitting that theory for a Nobel prize. Last night’s Dhamaal event left a tad bit to be desired and begs the question as to whether there are any good looking brown girls in San Francisco? Everybody there (with one or two exceptions) was either dorky, ugly after six drinks or had bad breath, like this one Fijian Indian chick I got taking to. I almost offered her a Listerine strip but she looked like she could crush my head between her thumbs if I got cheeky, so I thought better of it.
 

That gripe aside, Vodka, RedBull and cold medication when mixed produced a very odd kind of buzz for both me and R. I was a bit better than him and considering our other companion A, my flatmate has a fair inability to chat up (read, no balls) I was pretty much flying solo. Hooking up in clubs is not a game I really like playing anymore, mostly because of the fact I’m on the run down to 30 now and my SL mind-fuck has made me want to at least attempt to behave. I try it on and off here simply because there really is no alternative. We never seem to meet cool people who are our ‘dial’ to hang out with, much less attractive, fun girls to profess our undying affection to (or something to that effect). So trying the hook/chat-up game is usually the only option left this side of the Indian Ocean to at least keep ourselves entertained on a night out.

Now the ‘game’ is essentially a numbers one, both in terms of volume of girls approached and dialing digits obtained. Getting numbers is actually pretty easy (or used to be at least) as my overstuffed contact list on my phone will attest to. The problem is actually remembering who the hell the numbers belong to visually. Was it the big brown eyed girl or the horrendous fugly friend is an eternal question I face the next morning? Thus I actually rarely call girls back when I get their numbers, its usually more entertaining to go out and get some new ones. Getting laid is a whole other equation and this is where volume really comes into it, I figure a hit rate of about 5% for the first step in hooking up assuming you are somewhat picky. If you are willing to stick your tongue down the throat of the nearest rhino regardless of the chance of catching herpes then your batting average will be significantly better, but assuming you have some vestige of self respect this really shouldn’t come into the equation, OK, occasionally you can take one for the team, but only once in a blue moon! 

Anyways back to the numbers, so for every 100 attractive girls you approach, five should give you some kind of action on first contact. Around 50-75 will give you their number/email address of which maybe 10 will return your call. I figure this is because when they sober up they really can’t remember which one of the umpteen guys who hit on them you are. The numbers aren’t pretty, I’m assuming having a Ferrari, a bank account the size of Sri Lanka’s GNP or looking like Brad Pitt helps, but I’m just an average guy and it can get frustrating.  You just have to first grow some monster sized balls, learn the gift of the gab, know what shots to order and get ready to deal with rejection. Trust me it never gets truely easy, but getting shot down always makes for some good laughs the next morning, while the opposite, well is quite nice.

Here’s the thing though, I used to be fairly decent at this enterprise but recently my mojo seems to have deserted me. I approach, engage the gift of the gab and get good responses but for some odd reason I actually FORGET to get a number. Last night I chatted up around three, one of whom seemed to reciprocate interest, one looked straight through me and the other giggled shyly and averted her gaze (this being an Indian party I figured I’d give that one a wide berth). With the one who was interested I vaguely remember a confused look sweep across her face when I begged her leave to head back to my mates. Now if this was a one-off I wouldn’t be too worried, but I’ve been doing this consistently for the last few months and I’ve just realized today that I’ve seen that look of confusion all too often. All in all not a good trend to forget something so BASIC in the game, even if it is on some level done consciously. I think I’m going to make getting Sasha’s (I’m really hoping that’s her name) number my number one priority for next weekend, Sip here I come, to find my mojo.

P.S. The Lovefest event itself rocked, await pictures on Flickr when I go pro, hopefully this week.