How-to Pick-Up Chicks
How-to Pick-Up Chicks
If you asked Stewart, the best time to pick up a woman is on the beach at night when she’s with her family. He would say, “Make sure to grab her attention as she walks by, preferably with a CD of your latest hit single, recorded in your mother’s basement.” I previously would have said, as someone who is also into women, this is not the way. But the methods in which Stewart uses to pick up women is unique to those like him, and must be studied. He would then continue on to let you know that the CD he’s just forcibly pressed into your hands does, in fact, cost. The women he is about to take home as his will be stunned by his beauty (Once again, it’s pitch black at night by the ocean) and fork over the 30 bucks he asks for.
When he tries this maneuver, the best thing to do is deflect with uncomfortable laughter. Laugh like he’s your weird, and technically not related -as he tells you every family gathering-, uncle who sits a little too close at family gatherings. Then, break out the excuses. Lucky for me, I am always on the verge of needing to pee. This excuse is good if you’re attempting to not be followed. Why would he follow you, you may ask?
Don’t. Don’t ask. It is imprudent to try to discover what Stewart’s might do. It ruins their good vibes and swanky demeanor. And besides, men make you feel safe, right? No need to cover this topic any further.
He may, if you’re lucky, follow you anyways and ‘stand guard’ outside the porta-potty. Thankfully he’s very strong, and you’re not worried at all, and you haven’t lost track of your family, and Stewart has perfectly gentlemanly motives. Turns out he only wanted to make sure he got your social media username. Now, here’s where things get tricky, so pay attention to the instructions. Although you may think that the numerous pictures you have posted of your wife (holding her hand, kissing her, and getting married to her) would certainly catch Stewart’s attention, it may not. Or perhaps it does interest him greatly, and you’ve made a critical mistake. Either way, he’ll add you and scroll through them as you walk back to your family, and of course he’ll ask how old you are. The age difference doesn’t matter to Stewart, for he’ll say his trademark “Cool, cool,” even after you’ve essentially told him he’s 20 years older than you.
At this point, I know exactly what you’re thinking: “Wow. This guy has completely won me over. I wish to be taken home and boned right now.” Wait just a moment, or you’ll miss the best part. To Stewart, this has been a successful attempt at picking up chicks, and he may go in for one final killer move, which I would call the Drive-By.
Should you have taken his trash mixtape, maybe even paid him for it, and talked with him for a couple minutes now, Stewart will certainly be head-over-heels for you. It’s easy now for him to leave and magically find you later. It’s wonderful how he will be able to pick you out in a crowd, and bounce over to make sure he’s seen again, without actually talking to you. What does he expect to happen after this Drive-By? Some have speculated that Stewart may be trying to put on a show of his attributes, in the way that a bird might show his brightly colored feathers.
Science is amazing!
If only someone had told me these rules when I started picking up chicks. The dance Stewart does around the beach at night is a replica of ones at shopping malls, grocery stores, concerts, and more. Seeing this everywhere has made me an expert. Luckily, I now have the ability to put this plan into play against women. Did I say against? I meant for women. Always I had thought that Stewart’s dance only didn’t work because I didn’t like penis. Now, I give the plans for this dance to you to entice and entrap the women of your dreams!
Forever Writing,
quill rose
More Posts from Quillrosetellsstories and Others
i love discovering the hidden gems in my city!
Watching old AJR concert is my secret to writing
Remembering the great activist & artist, Valerie Maynard (1937 - 2022)
“No Apartheid Anywhere” (1995)
River Flows in You
Bare feet slip through mossy banks
On the other side of a bubbling creek, filled with watercress,
Is a deep path
Leading to a breathtaking waterfall.
“This way,” a teacher says,
Shoving a fistful of fresh-plucked watercress into his mouth.
Students and staff follow, in order of their eagerness
The sharp snap of the plant dances on every tongue.
Hidden and rocky though the path may be,
Treasures await the fresh-faced explorers
A waterfall spills into the creek, misting the group,
As they all file into a hidden cavern behind the rushing waters.
Teachers don’t lecture the students as they fill their cupped palms and stick their little feet in,
Most never having felt such overwhelming, refreshing freedom in their short lives
Staff watches as happiness spreads across usually bleak faces,
Knowing they’re creating core memories for themselves and their students.
When I mutter, “I wish I was a waterfall, strong and powerful and cool,”
It is Mr. A who turns to me to teach the most valuable of all lessons this day
He never lies, and with the intelligence of a middle-aged man from the middle-east, replies:
“But you are, that energy flows through you, too.”
Forever Writing,
quill rose
“you gotta love yourself, baby. if you don’t, who will?”
— sharon g. flake, the skin i’m in
The First Day
For the past nine years, I've forgotten November first.
Seriously, the entire day. Something in my brain has allowed me to completely skip past the day for years, shown through every November writing project. November is National Novel Writing Month. Since 2013, I have participated in NaNoWriMo, a month dedicated to the completion, however roughly, of a piece of writing. Every year, I miss the first day of writing, which always sets me behind for the remainder of the month. Occasionally, I have even forgotten to write until halfway through the month, leaving me scrambling to come up with 30 thousand words in a couple weeks.
This year, I'm prepared.
On the second, of course. I forgot about yesterday.
This year my goal is 50 thousand words. As I start each day, I'd like to begin with a quick post depicting my process and process. And of course I wouldn't be an author if I didn't add: Look for the first volume in the Otherworld series, coming 2023.
Forever Writing,
quill rose
Excerpt from Otherworld: Volume One
Cluck. Jo looked down, one foot raised. Underneath sat an orange and white chicken. It tilted its head at Jo’s foot, blinked beady black eyes, and clucked again.
“Is that-”
“Roast!” A deep voice called. Surprisingly, the chicken answered. It flapped its wings as it went running down the path. The chicken named Roast squeezed between two fence posts to dutifully return to its owner.
“Sorry, we’re just passing through,” Jo called to him.
He put his hands to his pointed phyrra ears and yelled, “What?”
Jo walked closer. “We’re just passing!”
“Oh, well welcome. I’m Kho, this is Roast.” Taller than most phyrra, Kho was only a couple inches shorter than herself. He had sandy chin length hair, honey colored skin, and dark freckles dotting his face. A wispy beard decorated his chin and jaw. His clothes were dirty and patched over, and his hands were closed around a pitchfork that he set to the side to scoop up Roast. Kho lifted the chicken’s wing gently, waving it up and down.
“Hm,” Maven grunted over Jo’s shoulder. “Never seen that before.”
“Her brother Toast should be around here somewhere.” Kho looked around the yard, shading his eyes against the sun.
“Toast,” Lola echoed over Jo’s shoulder.
Cluck.
A brown and black chicken looked up at Lola from behind her. Toast drew back his head and pecked at Lola’s ankles with all his might. When she shrieked, Jo had to cover her mouth to avoid laughing. Not everyone else on the team had the same courtesy. Kho looked between them. “Where are you all… from?”
“We’re… well…” Jo trailed off, unsure how much to share with this random farmer.
“We’re headed from Lekonis,” said Lola carefully, “towards Ipbo. We hear they’re debuting airboats for the holiday.”
Kho looked between Glade sweeping their tail behind them to ward off attacks from Toast, and Iila, who was trying on her most winning, and most terrifying, grin. “Alright then.”
The sun beat hot on the farm. Animals were sheltering under woven awnings and lapping at water gratefully. Jo thought about her own empty canister. “Would you by chance have water for some friendly passersby?”
Kho looked apprehensively at the weapons at their belts and slung across their backs. He shrugged and waved them forward. “Thought you wouldn’t ask.” He didn’t sound happy; in fact, Kho’s voice was trembling.
Follow my social media @https://linktr.ee/rose_tells_stories for more
Amelie
In a cinderblock bathroom an hour’s bus ride out of the inner-city, there’s a full-length aluminum mirror hanging by two screws. Unrelenting rain pounded on the roof as a girl, twelve, peered into it. Her arms shook, weak from the exhaustion of pulling her way up cliffs. Amelie was on a hiking field trip with her quirky charter school, who believed that traipsing through forests during a spring rain storm was more of a teacher than a chalkboard. The laces of her only pair of tennis shoes lay untied, dripping with mud, but her fingers had grown too icy in the rain to tie them up again. The hem of her jeans was torn where another student had stepped on it while Amelie helped them up a ledge. Her only jacket was dripping onto the floor and torn in several places from burrs and the scrapes of passing sticks. Luckily, Amelie’s shirt was unharmed, but was too flimsy to stop the creep of cold from chilling her to the bone. Her stringy curls would certainly take hours to untangle. Amelie shivered, and looked into her own eyes. Truly the star of the entire appearance was Amelie’s wide grin and the bright, wild look in her eyes that only true adventure could bring.
Forever Writing,
quill rose
