I shake my head, almost losing my headset in the process. “It’s not that easy.”

“Yep. It really is.” Jackie holds up one hand in a circle and moves the index finger of her other hand back and forth through it. Classy.

“It’s not. Not for me. I get stuck in my head and overthink things. I get all panicked and say something stupid that ruins it. Like I’m gassy!”

Jackie lets out a quick chuckle at the reminder of my ineptitude. “That’s because you’re going out with hobbits! But yeah. Don’t say that again. You need someone so fucking hot you turn your brain off and think with your pussy for once.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means dress slutty, go to a bar, find a guy who gives you a lady boner and ride him until he’s dry.” She gives me a shoulder shrug. “Easy.”

“That’s so not me. That’s never going to happen.” I shudder, panic trickling up my spine at the idea.

I don’t do slutty.

I don’t do bars.

I don’t do riding.

“Well, I guess you’ll be a virgin forever then. Is it too late to switch your major from pre-med to religious studies? You’d make an awesome nun.”

* * * *

I hate Jackie. I mean, I love her, but right now I rue the day I ever accepted her stupid friend request. ‘Just go to a bar and find a guy.’ It’s that easy. I can walk right up to the bar and order one. I’ll have a margarita and a sexy surfer. Beer and a muscled jock. Whiskey sour and a frat boy. Nope. I’ll have a rum and cola—hold the rum—and an ever-growing sense of inadequacy. There’s a bunch of guys here all right, but they’re all chasing after the hot blonde in the short miniskirt. No one is lusting after my awkward smiles and self-conscious fidgeting.

My butt is asleep from being perched on this stupid bar stool for the past hour. I’m a complete loser sitting in this cramped campus bar by myself, sipping my soda and waiting for someone to ask me for a ride. The looks I’m getting aren’t of the come-hither variety. They’re more of the what’s-her-deal kind.

Who comes to a bar alone on a Friday night? Weirdos. And serial killers, who I guess, by definition, are weirdos. Their own species, but same family. The point is, nobody approaches the creepy loner unless they want to be chopped into little pieces and buried in the desert. That’s the level of weirdo I’m flirting with. I’m sitting alone. Strike one. I’m in a T-shirt and jeans, not a low-cut top and skin-tight leggings. Strike two. I came here to meet people, so Jackie made me promise not to stare at my phone. No selfies for this girl. Strike three. Total weirdo.

A group of girls take up residence next to me at the bar. I give them my token swear-I’m-not-a-psycho wave and get a lukewarm chin-raise in response. Sadly, this is the most positive interaction I’ve received from anyone tonight. What I wouldn’t give to teleport back in front of my computer right now, safely swaddled in my footie pajamas.