I must be listening to Skid Row's "I Remember You" and it must be opposite day today, because I honestly do not recognize you. And, here's the embarrassing part: I've hit on you roughly once a season for the past two years. To put it in on a Britney Spears' timeline, I've been consistently hitting on you since she went insane and shaved her head.
For some reason, I never remember that I've already hit on you until you explain to me that we've met before. Then the lightbulb goes off over my head and I remember how you've already rejected me SEVERAL TIMES.
"Ahhhh! Right! We exchanged numbers two winters ago and you blew me off. Did you do something different with your hair? Did you shave your beard off? That must've been why I didn't recognize you. Yes, yes, I remember you now. Nice seeing you again!" Then, I slink off into a corner and crumple into a ball of hot, shameful tears with my fist clenched toward the sky, cursing the Gods of Hooking Up.
Ok, the first four times it happened, it was totally my fault; I'll give you that. But the last three times? That's all on you, Bucko. The more I think about it, the angrier I'm getting. You really need to start differentiating yourself for me. Have a knife fight and get some guy to slash your cheek. Get neon eyeglass frames. Get an earring. I'd totally remember a guy with an earring. Do SOMETHING so that you'll stand out. What, I'm supposed to keep track of which generically good-looking guys I mack on? I don't have time for that. Besides, I always see you in dark places and everyone knows that I have terrible night vision. Your inability to stand out coupled with my optical shortcomings are the real culprits here.
The only good thing about all of this is that it confirms that I have a specific type because every time I see you out, I kick you game. So, there's that. Yay?