Autumn is a fickle bitch. Yeah, there’s football, The World Series, and ample opportunities for you to absolutely crush your fall wardrobe. But there’s also devastating pitfalls like pumpkin-spice-everythings, Summertime Sadness, and the shitty, cold weather that dampens your spirit and your social life.
Think about it–it’s a mid-October Saturday evening and the temperature has finally gone from “where’s my pullover?” to “I’m not fucking going outside in this sideways rain so I can spend $6 on a Budweiser.”Then your friends are all like, “Yo, let’s go out.” and you’re all like “Ehhhh” and they’re all like, “You just gonna sit here with your dick in your hand?” and you’re all like “It’s cold, there’s football on, it’s cold… and there’s football on. Can I wear sweatpants to this bar?” And then they’re all like, “Bro, take your dental dam out and lets go to the damn bar,” before you finally throw your hands up and say, “Fine, fuck it. Let’s go.”
You show up at the bar, take off two-thirds of your flannel/fleece/wool layers and you order that motherfucking $6 Budweiser that’s been plaguing you for the last 15 minutes. Then you do a frat lap around the bar to survey the talent, only to see some birds just littered in infinity scarves and chunky sweaters. You have no fucking clue what they’re working with. It’s all smoke and mirrors, and honestly, you’re not sure I feel like gambling on what’s underneath. I mean, you can roll the dice and hope you’re hitting on hard-bodied little biscuit, but at the end of the day, you could also be spitting game at something much worse.
But then, you see some girls across the bar that make you think, “What dealbreaker do these chicks have in their arsenal that causes them to all be here alone?” You’re making eyes at them, they’re making eyes at you. Normally? You’re proooooobably swiping left. But it’s cold, it’s the end of Cuffing Season, and frankly, you’re not really sure if you want to go through the arduous process of cashing out, layering up, and enduring the wintry mix on the way to the next bar just to see if you can upgrade from a 7 to 7.5.
Let’s call a spade a spade here–it’s fall. You’re not looking for dimes. You need to resolve yourself to setting at this point. As Kid Rock eloquently said, “Skinny models, you can keep those. I like big corn-fed Midwestern hoes.” Straight up, you gotta embrace that mentality or else it’s going to be a looooong winter. I mean, on the Binary Scale? These are ones. Roll with it.
But hey, you start making some headway. You head over, drop your best line, and overstate how good your job is in order to sound like you’re a functioning member of society, even though you’re still hoping your parents transfer you some grocery money next week. But things are looking up and you and your Bros are really wow’ing these broads.
As the night rolls on, you’re getting into “Jesus Christ, I wanna get out of here”-mode because let’s face it–it’s dim, your Bob Seger just stopped playing on the juke, and you can barely see the girl you want to hit on because you stupidly paired up to be shuffleboard partners, which means you’re shoved at the opposite ends of the table. Obviously you win the game on a sick hanger shot before heading to the bar to pay for the drinks of the girl who you just managed to not talk to for the last hour.
And like, what’s your closing line at this point? “Yo, you can barely walk in those stilettos as it is. How am I supposed to expect you to tromp through wet leaves and/or black ice? I’d get us an Uber but my phone is dead because I’ve been refreshing ScoreCenter all night to see if I hit the over on the Arizona State game.”
At that point, you just realize – “No, you know what? Fuck it. It’s cold and there’s still some Pac-12 second-halves on. I’m not going out until it’s White Pant Season, I’m tan again, and I have the guarantee that I won’t be waking up with a 5 who wooed me with her mediocre personality while I was mentally weak.”
“Guys, I’m out. Sweatpants, let’s do this.”