How To Kiss A Girl




Stand facing her face.


Do not tell her your intentions.


Do not ask permission to kiss her.


Look dreamily into her mouthparts.




Keep your left forepaw on the hilt of your scabbard.


This is a dangerous by-way, one never knows.


You may hold her right scallop peg in your right lobster claw, if you wish.


It is well to sigh a couple of times about this stage of the game.


Whisper softly that her rosebud lips remind you of Cupid’s bow.


“Cupid was a fag tho,” remind her.


Laugh and say you’re just kidding, you have an uncle who died of AIDS.


Cry for like 45 minutes.


She will probably drop her eyes and blush when you say that.


“Nah nah, just playing. My uncle isn’t dead yet.”


Place the cephalopod suckers of your tentacular club under her chin and pivot her spine round 180 degrees.


Draw her gently toward you.


Do not hurry.


Place the still-respectable fleshen-section of your inner thigh meat upon her mesothorax.


Initiate small talk.


“Skylar is a shrill bitch,” you say.


“Heisenberg is a badass.”


Pull up highlights from a comment thread in which you made the argument better than you can right now.


Verified commenter status.


“Nice,” she says.


Awkward pause.


Draw a sketch of how you imagine she looks naked in MS Paint.


Make the boobs look “choice.”


“I can’t help but notice how ‘choice’ my boobs look in that drawing,” she says.


“Nice,” you think, but don’t say.


“Nice,” she says again.


“I was going to be a designer lol.”




Sound a whimsical note through your trachea flute.


“Did you hear that?” she asks.


“No,” you say. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”


Not ready for trachea flute reveal, it turns out. Second date perhaps.


Lean in close.


Wait a long assssssss time.




Check your phone.


No texts.


“Doing business-man stuff for a minute,” you say. “haha.”


Fumble with phone due to baseball catcher’s mitt on non-claw hand.


“Bad reception on this level,” you say.


Scan the overgrowth for movement.


“My uncle died in the bush at the hands of a gook in Indo-China,” you say. “I made the other thing up.”


“No, you’re the racist,” you say.


Gaze deeply at the love-lights wot slumber in her eyes.


Sigh once more.


Incline your head towards hers.


No, the other way.


Aim toward the middle, Jesus.


Accidentally fucking wail your head into hers, comical-like.


“Haha, oh man,” you both say.


She was kind of into it though.


Lean in close.


Do not kiss her.


It was all a neg-hit designed to illustrate your disinterest.


“Nice air sacs, are they real?” you say.


“Your bones seem thin, hollow and very light, but not as light or hollow as they could be probably.”


“Seen hollower, is all I’m saying,” you say.


“Those are great boots. You’re the third girl I’ve seen wearing them tonight.”


There’s a skeleton inside of you.


Do not let it climb out.


Remember, a neg doesn’t work if it feels like you’re trying to get one over on her.


Instead, “Are they real?” is delivered as if you genuinely like her air sacs.


They are pretty nice air sacs.


It’s been a while…


The boot compliment is delivered in the vein of appreciating how fashionable the target is.


She doesn’t say shit.




Stand there under the stars.


Count the stars.


Count every last single fucking star as the skin rots from your bones.


Who’s kissing who now, you think.


Stand facing her skeleton.


Do not tell her your intentions.


Do not ask permission to kiss her.


Look dreamily into her mouthparts.


Spread her dreams under you.


Tread softly because you tread on her bones.



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