And I'd do it all again..

Every time I talk to a girl I still get the same adrenaline rush that I did back in year 8 when a brief second of eye contact would warrant a fifteen minute epic retelling at the next sleepover. Hell, even 4 years ago in 2002 the vague expression of some level of attractiveness required at least thirty minutes of dedicated fabling using a variety of conspiracy theory big foot sighting metaphors to pass any possible lessons on to peer generations.

There's no doubt about it. I cherish every second of girl talk, be it a sideways glance or a three month relationship, with the same giddy panic that I always have. I always believe that it could be the last moment of girl interaction I have. What the past year has taught me, at least, is that just because a girl is currently interested in you that interest could last merely a fraction of a second. In return, there's no real value in trying to invest in it when your stock could crash at any minute.

If there's one thing that being a dork has taught me, it's that being funny won't get you laid. It might get you friends and it might get you attention, but on the dance floor or in the coffee shop there's a completely serious, alpha male intent that, if you lack it, only female insecurity will win you a date. What being funny will provide you, though, is guaranteed entertainment in the place of unpredictable sexual conquest.

"Do you have any friends? Because that guy over there is my wingman and he's going to divert them while I dance with you."

"I can't hear what you're saying; I'm assuming you're asking why my wingman isn't helping me out. He's pretty distracted at the moment. We're new to this and still trying to work it all out."

"You're from Holland huh? The land of windmills? That's me trying to be both funny and meta again. You should probably just ignore that and I'll grab your ass."

Remarkably, this level of funny will get you a dance because it is accompanied by confidence. Alcohol fuelled confidence, but nevertheless when you break up a dancing girl square and start a conversation, there's no doubt that word spreads.

But time has a habit of out-sprinting your unfit, thumping heart and when it's apparent that your humour isn't backed up by a killer drive/a rugby player like instinct to tackle everything to the ground the dance floor moves away without you and you're left dancing to Maneater on your own like a 6 foot 6 totem pole of grinning idiocy.

But then your wingman finally comes back and says "Brad, you listen to me. You go hook-up with those Irish chicks and don’t let a god damn thing stop you!"

"Irish, they're from Holland. Ah fuck it, it's all the same continent".

Today's Lesson: Trying to pull off an Irish dance to 'SexyBack' will not impress two girls from Holland and one girl from Germany. The very image may make the cab driver laugh as he drives you home alone, but that's the point. It's funny. If you can’t help but be stuck in year 8 you may as well have a laugh.