An Open Letter to the Pretty Girl to Whom I Have No Idea what to Say

Animals have it really easy. Dogs sniff each others’ asses and know enough about each other to start a family. Garter snakes in Canada come out of the ground when the frost melts and have massive, violent, competitive mating orgies. Male peacocks strut their feathers around and the female picks the suitor whose tail catches her eye. Things for us are just a bit more complicated because we have a more elevated thought process. We have language that gives more depth to “happy” and “sad,” we have conversation that convolutes what, when it boils down to it, is just another mating ritual in a universe full of strange versions of living organisms trying to get some. As Jeff Winger, played by Joel McHale, says in one of the greatest TV shows ever, Community, “Conversation was invented by humans to conceal reality. We use it to sweet-talk our way around natural selection.” Whenever I find myself thinking about relationships in general or a woman in particular, this line crosses my mind. I would like to think there is more to it than that; I would like to think that there is a such thing as an innocent, spontaneous conversation that leads to a date which leads to another and then maybe the realization down the road that we love the person sitting across from us and want to spend our lives with them. However, there is another part of me that realizes I know nothing about you, and that this attraction is completely superficial. A part of my brain programmed so deep I don’t even realize it is operating says, “hey she has a symmetrical face and curvy hips, you two would reproduce lovely, hardy, handsome, smart little fuckers to perpetuate this ultimately pointless, self-consuming cycle of humanity.” That subconscious statement in language so primitive I understand it more on a primal than logical level sets off a series of chemical reactions similar to those occurring in the brain of a cocaine addict. Studies have shown that infatuation causes similar neurological activity to that of someone skiing down slopes of some pure, Columbian snow. Talking to you is completely a biological gamble, it’s me hoping the primal part of your brain gets a metaphorical whiff of my ass and our pheromones match up. It’s me taking the chance that nature thinks we would make children capable of surviving this harsh, cruel, doomed world. Assuming this is the case, nature has done its job. However, we as humans have managed to meddle with nature’s work in the field of mortality and live a lot longer. I don’t think nature necessarily intended us to tolerate each other past the age of fifty, and that is a generous estimation. So, that being said, would you like to have coffee with me sometime?

Sincerely, the guy standing at the other end of the cereal aisle

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