Bank on it

I think my bank teller was hitting on me the other day. She was pretty cute, but naturally I ruined any opportunity by coming off as a curmudgeon.

Teller: Oh, you’re from Wyoming? I know someone from there.
Me: Actually I’m from… wait… really?
Teller: Yeah, I don’t remember what town she’s from though.
Me: Interesting.
Teller: So what are you doing for the concert and big [Colts] game on Thursday?
Me: I’m getting out of downtown as quickly as possible.
Teller: Oh.

Yeah, it’s called momentum, Casanova. Strong work. But look, I love the Colts and I love football. I even love Kelly Clarkson. But I need to be around thousands of drunken Hoosiers at a free concert about as much as I need to be around... well... thousands of sober Hoosiers at a free concert. And that ain’t much. If I hear the phrase “Woooooooo Hooooooo!” one more time, I might actually assault someone. Also, there's only so much feathered hair and acid washed jean shorts a guy can see before he just gets sad inside.

And as far as the bank, the other teller next to this one was pretty cute too and has been kind of flirty with me before. In my head, they had a big fight over me after I left involving mud and pillows and someone had to be fired. Sorry ladies, I can't turn it on and off, you know.