You’ve been eyeing me from the corner since you stepped into the party with your homeboy. Your head turns as I shimmy and shake, mix and mingle and play pranks on the party hostess, who has already passed out. You're clearly interested, but instead of coming over to make intelligent conversation, you feel compelled to call out my every move like you’re a sports announcer.
Like when the drunken munchies hit at midnight and I grab some snacks, you yell, "Damn, someone's hungry!" No, really?! When I’m dancing, you holler, "She's dancing! Look at her get low!" And when I spit out the entire rap to Tupac's "I Get Around," you remark, "Oh man, she knows all the words," when actually I made some of them up on the spot. Thanks for the play-by-play, Harry Kalas. People are starting to stare at you strangely, but you keep announcing what I'm doing as I'm doing it to the point where I stop doing anything so you'll just shut the hell up.
Only at the end of the night as I’m slithering into my jacket do you speak directly to me: “You leaving?” Nope, darlin', I'm just cold. Too bad that you could have been the one to warm me up had you not been so unbelievably awkward.