i love game, let's play game.

I have to admit: I love playing the game. There is no greater thrill than walking into an establishment, calling dibs on someone, and leaving with a phone number (or a Facebook friends request... shut up) in the end. I love using fuck-me eyes to my fullest advantage, I love having boobs that will make men buy me drinks. I also love using unconventional tactics to call attention to myself and entrap my prey.

DANCE FOR ME, PUPPETS, DANCE!

It's all incredibly enthralling. The fleeting glances; the smug shit-eating grins; the grinding on old, married men and pretending nothing happened and playing dumb when they feel your thigh on the back of their legs and spin around to catch the culprit (and now this is reading like a bad porno... wonderful). I'm guilty of it all and I'm not in the least bit ashamed... I unabashedly enjoy myself and it shows.

Even more exciting than the easy catch (AKA the dudes that fall victim to cleavage) are the ones you have to work for. If I'm at 90% of my game, the guys are at 100%: it never fails. We all love the game - why the fuck else would anyone go to a bar otherwise? I enjoy the old "kill the friend with kindness and take the hot route to the one you want" routine... but sometimes the friend is completely oblivious (or clinically retarded) and just. doesn't. get. it. So then I switch gears and take alternative approaches, like striking up conversations about ridiculous minutiae of everyday life.

Because pickup lines don't work and I won't try them.

(Except that sometimes I make trivial jokes that turn into really bad pickup lines.)

And sometimes the game works... like maybe 60% of the time, every time. The easy catches are the most disappointing, because what's in a meal if you don't have to work for it? The tough ones are more confidence-boosting, obvious reasons notwithstanding. But the most exciting - and most rewarding, in my clearly humble opinion - are the times when you have to steal what you want out of the grips of another woman.

And they're obviously inferior women if they can't manage to snare it and keep it on the freaking line.

Now I know I'm not the chick with the hot body and perfect face and hair... I'm kind of a fatty, I have to buy my bras at fatty stores (hello Target? Please stock higher than a D-cup... thanks), and I can't squeeze my ass into the perfect size 6. I even enjoy watching Biggest Loser and eating potato chips because I'm an ironic asshole with no heart. But I've come to peace with my body and I'm not going to change it to nab some dudes at the bar... I haven't had any trouble, so why fix what's not broken? What I lack in muscle definition I make up for tenfold in boobs, brains, and self-fucking-confidence.

But still, it always delights me when I'm able to snag a guy that some other woman's been talking to all night. Most of the time, they don't know how to play the game - they set about their course meekly and it's evident. (I want to go all Gordon Ramsey on their ass and shout "HAVE A LITTLE FUCKING CONFIDENCE, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!" in a British accent but fear that might be creepy as balls.) So I sit and I wait for an opening - maybe the chick's gotta leave to pee, maybe the dude looks like he's going to pass out from boredom and needs to be rescued, maybe the cougar just got a little too friendly and barfing is imminent... that's when I move in.

Once in a great while, I'll get gut rot from the guilt of doing this, but let's be honest - IT'S A GAME. If you don't play defense, you're not going home with the win so you best put on your big girl panties and give it a fight.

Last night's effort (imaginatively dubbed "Amanda's Return to Singledom") wasn't fruitless... Came, saw, conquered, now have plans for next weekend. Breaking up fucking sucks - and playing the game is more of a distraction than anything serious - but it's nice to know that I haven't lost my edge.

Or my push-up bra.