I'm walking up, and I can see in your eyes that you're already judging me. I'm approaching you, and that puts me in a certain class, a reject class. The sort of guy who'll buy you drinks until you give me the brush-off, despite the fact that you never even feign interest -- just hoping, just wishing.
You've already got a half-dozen of those sorts of friends, don't you? And here I am, a stranger, and you're slotting me in with them. A stranger's just a friend that you probably won't like. Another hanger-on, a walking ego boost for you; a guy to sigh and laugh about when your friends point out my crush.
Joke's on you, sweetheart. I love the confidence turning to confusion in your eyes as I say, "Pardon me, you're blocking the bar." I get my drink and leave, never looking at you, knowing that your eyes are on me. Not a clever opening, not an excuse, just a denial of your worth. You have your games, and I have mine. You're the sort of person I like to feel superior to.
