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This past weekend at a loungey club I attempted a number close at the end of the night when the staff was flipping the lights on and off to signal closing time. Acting quickly before a gang of dangerous hipsters in white Hanes t-shirts and superbly chiseled body fat hustled me out I moved to wrap up the conversation I was having with a slightly above-average girl. It went like this:

Me: We should hang some time. Let me get your number. Here, type it in.

Her: Sure, sounds great! [types her # in my phone and hands it back to me]

Me: [looking at the number with no name attached] So… how do you spell your name?

Her: How do I spell it? It’s a simple name, there’s only one way to spell it!

Me: Yeah, but you may spell it the hippie way, with extra vowels or something. Maybe your parents were hippies.

Her: You forgot my name, didn’t you?

Me: Well, hey, I bet you forgot my name too, so we’re even.

Her: No, your name is [my name].

Me: Hm, wow, that’s pretty good. But actually I think I told you my name was [minor variation on my name].

Slightly above-average girl walks off without giving me her name. Mission unaccomplished.


This is a prime example of what can go wrong during a pickup when the girl you are talking to is not hot enough to keep you mentally focused on the task at hand. You get sloppy and let your mind jump ahead to thoughts of mashing her tits together. Had she been better looking I would not have forgotten her name. But even if I had, I would’ve answered stronger and saved the number close:

Her: Sure, sounds great! [types her # in my phone and hands it back to me]

Me: I have a confession to make. Our conversation was so intense and I got so into the things you were telling me about your life that I forgot your name.

Her: Ravage me!

If you are constantly forgetting girls’ names, you are probably aiming too low.


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