Titties on display = rejection cure?

I think I am in heat.

You know those movies where the guy gets bitten by a werewolf and he only has five minutes until he turns into one himself? And his girlfriend is crying over him and he’s all like “Go, go, save yourself,” but she is clearly deaf and just stands there? And he is screaming “RUN,” and she stays just a moment too long and he rips out her throat? This is how I feel. These are those five minutes, and I am warning you.

I’m not the only Jekyll hyding on this campus. The women are talking. Men are being evaluated like sides of meat and no one is safe. Just don’t be offended, because at this point they are all grass-fed premium grade beef.

Like you, I am taking Sex, Evolution and Human Nature. But I must have been napping when Laurie Santos said that, in order to make human women constantly desirable and consistently doable, we can’t tell when they are in heat. Had I heard that, I would have jumped right up, claiming “Objection!” Just like I did when I saw my midterm grade. I have generated an alternate theory I like to call, Previous Theory Wrong, otherwise known as Santos Clearly Not in Heat, or more colloquially as I Am Tired.

Does spring increase desire, or does it just provide the opportunity to display it? On my latest walk home from TD past Toads, I accidentally wrote a song. It is called “Titties on Display.”

But not all displays are so blatant — I have designed a nail polish system that operates in a way similar to a traffic light. Red (who wears green, really?) means go, black means wait, gold means either floor it or just stop altogether. One of my friends wears pink, which I believe means please love me.

It’s usually the people who claim to have no game who actually have it. So let me tell you truthfully, I have mad game. I am teeming with it like buffalo to the ancient plains.

We’re all working on our seduction strategies. As a former WWF fan, I like to refer to this as laying the MACK-DOWN. It can involve spandex, but not quite so much blood or profanity. Here is something that you should NOT do when attempting to lay the mack-down: eat too much and get sick. This is an example of the anti-mack. The anti-mack is like anti-matter, in that it sucks the mack potential from all around it. Avoid this person, unless you are this person, in which case meet others of your own kind and create the most powerful black hole this galaxy has ever seen.

A friend recently gave me unsolicited advice to use for getting the men. He said to “play it hot and cold” because apparently guys love that shit. What does this even mean? Is it as simple as looking really good one day and horrific the next? Maybe he just wants abuse, in which case I can give it to him. But not just half of the time. I am not for playing games — I am more for sitting in my room watching “X-Files.” As soon as Mulder and Scully get lucky, so will I. So that means once, in the seventh season.

Besides, I don’t need advice. I have my ideas for meeting new faces, which I encourage all to try. These include walking around wearing something distinctive, then perusing craigslist missed connections. Another idea is following around the FedEx man with the rolled up sleeves and the spikey dino hair. But don’t do this. He’s mine.

Creating those hot and cold personas seems likes a lot of work. Almost more exhausting than keeping up witty banter for more than five minutes. Why can’t we skip the witty banter stage and go straight to the comfortable silence/bored stage? Can’t I just tell you that I have the potential to be witty if need be, and can’t you just believe me? Granted, participating in witty banter is a lot more enjoyable than observing it. When watching, you are usually in an elevator or a bus, those closed yet moving spaces, conducive to either sickness, silence or banter.

Even if you have mad game, problems persist. I am constantly hearing about men not calling, texting, e-mailing, messaging, posting or poking. Even if they do respond, it is rarely up to par — a par set by, depending on taste, “Titanic,” “Garden State” or the “Chronicles of Riddick.” For example, a friend who texted a guy saying “Wanna have sex?” received the response “ok.” I can sympathize with this man, because I too am an incompetent texter. I primarily communicate with parents — who far outshine me. My father’s first ever text to me read, “(Pa be textin) Yo!”

I find it easier to believe that guys who don’t call me back are either gay, injured or in jail. I guess it was worse though, when I got that call from jail.

As my suitemate sobs silently into her wasabi roast beef, I wonder — how dire is the situation for us ladies? Miss America Lauren Nelson recently went undercover as a 14-year-old girl, as part of an “America’s Most Wanted” sting on sexual predators. She said of the experience, “I got to chat online with the predators and made phone calls, too.” Yippee!

So what to do? Oprah would say national dialogue, road trip with Gayle, school for underprivileged African children. Cosmopolitan magazine would say to eat a doughnut off your man’s cock. Carrie Bradshaw would say something witty and thin, and Dane Cook would say “I am lame. Please remove me from your IPod Shuffle.”

I’m with Dane.

But I’m not with him with him. Because I’m alone.

Molly Green is wearing red nail polish.

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