Women like it romantic and the like. Apparently it causes their amygdales and limbic systems to cook their frontal cortices in pungent hormonal soup. Simple enough. However, it seems that throughout the course of history I've had to explain the propositions to women after I've made the propositions to said women. True stories:
She has a four letter name. I convert that to ASCII (the capital), I convert those 8 digits to Binary, I convert that Binary to a 'how many ones and zeroes' number. I further convert that number to hex. This leaves me with 9B7623BBA8F5733E. And a very befuddled young woman who didn't talk to me for the rest of class. The lilac smelling page I wrote this on notwithstanding.
She likes Shakespeare. Cleopatra to be specific. Or so I can derive from her facebook profile. So I send this to her:
"Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale;
Her infinite variety, other women cloy.
-Signed, Salad Days."
And while I understand this sounds like a glorified 'Wanna make frandship?' request, why do people lie about liking Shakespeare?
She hasn't replied yet. But I assume that's due to the vernacular of having called her an old woman.
I walk up to a girl in the library. Simple enough. Sample the following conversation.
Me: I know you don't like me. But do you like me?
Me: Stop being dumb. You understand what I mean.
She: How am I supposed to like you? As a friend, or...
Me: You're such a tubelight.
She: (desperately) Do you like Mahatma Gandhi? Here's a nice autobiography.
Me: I get the point (wench).
I'm proud of this one. Doesn't reek of dysfunction. So I says to her, "You're a vision in red. Poetry has been written for much less." "Really?" "Yes."
Cue burly boyfriend with huge mobile phone. Burly boyfriend says hi. I wish someone would let loose rabid attack dogs. I'd point out that his phone is using ye olde Android 1.6, but I stop... there are women present, after all.
Sigh. Where are the sexy cryptologists and single language experts in LBD's? Life's not fair.