-Sorry about the old material, I just got a computer and just got settled in. I'm bringing in some classic Trig for your enjoyment, so enjoy dammit! -Trig
(Written 7-13-2009)
So I went to the nearest mall yesterday and decided to work on going direct. I haven’t gone direct, and it sucks because it seems like the really good looking guys use direct openers, and for some reason I don’t. I’m a good looking guy, I’ll just plain come out and say it; I’m good looking.
I just got some inspiration from another PUA by reading his field report. In his field report he goes direct, and everything else smoothly masterpieces itself itself together. So I went to the mall with the aim for going direct.
I got to the bookstore, saw a friend, didn’t see any targets.(there usually isn’t anyone sarge worthy locally) A friend pointed me out, so I talked for a bit, seemed like an ass, and left. She didn’t care. Everyone who puts up with me already realizes that my human nature is asshole-ish. It’s not. But I wouldn’t tell them either way, I like the freedom to say bullshit and then blow people’s minds with ethical philosophy.
Anyways, back to the story.
I ended up sitting with that friend girl, and I saw this one asian chick, HB>7, and I thought okay I’ll sarge her, and see where it goes. I get up, she turns into the magazine section, and I lose her. Freak’n 50 yards away, and I lose contact. Damn.
I end up walking around the fiction area, and a random girl wearing a skimpy skirt and black stockings passes behind me. I barely catch her face. I could see her body posture. Slouchy. Hands dangling in front like a T-Rex. Glasses. Mad scientist projected personality.
I didn’t see her face, but I already knew she was a total nerd.
This morning when I saw the field report, and the picture that was in it, I realized something. I should stop trying to pick up weird girls, nerd girls, and girls with very limited social ability. Every time I pick up an HB8 and up, everything runs smooth. Too bad, locally, we don’t get much of those. I’m just getting into bars now.
Anyways, back to the story.
I hover behind a book aisle maybe 2 aisles away from her. I fucked up the 3 second rule, so now I’m behind her silently mouthing what a direct opener sound like, y’know, vocally. I’ve moved up from opinion openers, to perching myself on situational openers. Direct openers, were way out of my inventory.
I come up to her, pass her aisle frantically, and come back.
Fuck the direct opener! She’s a nerd, I don’t think she’ll buy it either way.
I come up to her. Don’t touch her. And game begins.
Trig: Hey are you an art student? (3 feet away)
HB: . . . . . (obviously flabbergasted)
Trig: Yeah, you kind of have this whole art thing going on. Are you an Art student.
HB: Well I’m an art student, but I’m not an Art student per say.
Trig: So you go to Academy of Art?
HB: No. (She talks in slow stretched out segments) I actually go to a community college.
Trig: Cool! (I could feel the foreplay of silence overbearing on my shoulders) Yeah, I just saw you from over there, and I thought you were cute so I totally had to talk to you.
HB: . . . . (awkward. Anyways it could’ve been my hypothesis, or could have been my deliver, either way, it was not amusing.)
Trig: So what are you doing here.
HB: Well I came here to look at books.
Trig: So you’re really big on books (At this point, I understand that my nature melted down to asking rather consecutive screening questions. I use to be so much better.)
HB: Well no, I don’t usually go to bookstores, but I actually went to Borders already.
Trig: Hold on, you’re a Capricorn aren’t you.
HB: Why do would you say that?
Then I splurge into a shitload of routines. None of them work.
Some examples:
Me: Pick a number between 1 and 10.
HB: I don’t want to.
Me: Let me see your hand. (Palm reading) Okay so this is.
HB: No (Takes hand away.)
Me: Okay, so Imagine yourself in a strawberry field.
HB: I don’t like strawberries.
NOTHING! NADDA! No hope what so ever.
This is what saved me. . .
Have you read this book?
Target stares at me as I pull a book off the shelves. She says she doesn’t like poetry. I pull a book by Ernest Hemingway off the shelves.
“I don’t like Ernest Hemingway,” Target says, “All his books are about the same thing; immasculated men.”
A lot more of this stuff for the next 45 minutes. A lot more books, authors, titles. Jane Austen, Brave New World, Anne Rice. She pulls out books that have everything to do with depression and severed limbo.
“Here!” I say pointing to a poetry book.
“Yeah I like John Keats.”
I feel like I’m slowly turning her page. I kinda realize, I’m constantly just pulling in a push pull objective. In other words, I’m failing miserably gamewise. But hey she isn’t HB qualified. I figure, the longer the set takes, the more underlying comfort I build anyways.
She’s a weird chick.
Weird chicks aren’t exactly game linear.
After about maybe eighty something books, she said she wants something cold. Jamba Juice. I haven’t really kino’d except for some light, very light, pressing on her epidermis (very boring touching.) I haven’t gotten a number either. I really don’t feel like pushing a number close on a girl that’s pushing away a comfort invite.
“I think I’ll go to Jamba Juice.”
I don’t reply in anyway except for trying to keep my cool.
“You could come if you’d like.”
YES! Some compliance!
As we walk out I ask her if she’s going to kidnap me. I forget what she said, but it was witty. We go to Jamba Juice.
We go to Jamba Juice, I order a sandwich wrap. And as we head back to the car, I tell her to walk over to some arbitrary tree. She shrugs restlessly. We walk to the tree. As soon as we get to the tree, she says, “Is there a reason you brought me to this tree.”
Nope. We walk back to the car. We talk for a few minutes. I find myself building some sort of comfort, its not poster comfort but it does okay. I number close her using a PUA tactic where I just pass her my phone and she’s suppose to know what to do. I get, “why are you giving me your phone?” I explain to her that the invention of the telephone was to correlate numbers with a specific code, granting me linear privilege to speak on relative terms. I tell her that I want her number, and I want it now.
We head over to a High School to walk on a trail. She’s reluctant to get out of the car. Her car. She ends up getting out. We walk into the campus first so I could use the bathroom. We walk around the school. We walk we walk. There’s a dried up creek and we walk on that. Walk walk walk.
I take a drink at the tennis court, and she waits for me.
“....Hey so are you an Art Student?” I say nostalgically playful, I could feel her find the glitch in the matrix. “Because you look like an Art Student with all the black. Yeah so, I just saw you from over there and I just couldn’t resist talking to you.”
“Repetative are we?”
“Absolutely.”
Dusk falls on top of us. We’re sitting in the car again. She says, where to now? We head over to hillsdale. We’re at another bookstore. She buys a book. We stand in line. Buys the book. And then I tell her to sit down on the café chairs for awhile. She reluctantly comes. She tells me she’d rather sit in the car, as we drive home. I’m whatever.
We get on 101 North.
This is where things get Juicy!
She asks me, so what year did you graduate from Highschool? We went to the same high school. I say, 2005.
“Oh so I was a freshmen when you were a senior.” Her.
“Yeah.” Me.
“So you know my sister.”
“What’s her name?”
“Nina. . .”
It takes me a second. I use to like this girl named Stacey. Stacey hung out with a girl named Nina. They were both in Drama class, for stage crew. Kate, the target, was in stage crew too. I use to hit on Nina back in highschool, way before the game, way before normalcy. Today I’m hitting on the same girl. Same blood. Different girl.
For awhile I reply with, “That’s cool.”
Then I realize something, this is the only topic where we can overlap history. Overlapping history to women, is like the color red to Tuscan bulls. It's why James Marsden loses to Ryan Gosling in The Notebook. It's the underlying tone to most greek tragedies. I expand on her sister being her sister. She doesn’t like her sister because of some random driving incident. And for a minute, I comply with her.
But Eureka moment!
Boyfriend destroyer.
I pull the boyfriend destroyer theory on the target. Instead of a boyfriend, it’s her sister. We build a lot more compliance. We finally get to the parking lot where we met so I could switch over to my car, and we end up sitting in her car for hours, and I tell her basically my life story. (I know bad. But I also know, not the usual girl)
How I met her sister. How I know Stacey. How I use to like Stacey. How everyday I wanted to blow up my middle school so parents would have to pick up pieces of their children. She gets a kick out of it, she’s a weird girl. How I joined sports. How I’m super cocky. She’s a weird girl. I go through stories and stories over stories.
Are you listening? I could leave if you want me to.
No, I’m listening. It’s fine, she says, the raw hope of a smile lining her lips.
I build a lot of kino. A lot! FYI: she has never been kissed. She’s not ugly, not ugly at all. Just hasn’t been kissed. Just weird. I start doing things like wrestling her hands Pushing her as she pushes me back. Hands intertwined. There’s a time where I actually spend like 13 minutes just caressing her ear. No talking; just quiet touching of her ear.
We argue about her smoking. I don’t smoke. We wrestle for the lighter.
A lot more other random crap happens. I try to waltz with her. It’s horrible. I force her to do a twirl, and it looks like it's breaking her arm like a pro wrestler trying to do a move.
By 11:56, she kicks me out of her car. I give her a one handed hug, and force a kiss on her cheek. Twice. She squeals disgustedly of course. As I walk I could feel the particles of moist nightly air while I watch her car skiddattle.
