How Not to Get a Man to Fancy You

I have realised that I’ve been jumping the gun. All this time when I’ve been asking ‘How to Tell if a Man Fancies You’ I should really be starting somewhere near the beginning (traditional I know) and asking ‘How to Get a Man to Fancy You.’

I’ve done some research.

Looking at some basic Newtonian laws of the universe, I have discovered this:

‘Every point mass attracts every other point mass by a force pointing along the line intersecting both points.’

Obviously points are important.
As is mass.

It goes on to say
‘The force is proportional to the product of the two masses and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between the point masses.’

So, we also discover that proportionality and distance and squares are fairly crucial.

Therefore (and I worked this out all by myself using extrapolation, logic and absolutely no calculus), according to Newton, the real trick of being attractive to the opposite mass is:

Be a large, comely ballet dancer on tip-toes and stand very near your target person holding an upside-down square.

I have actually been out in the field testing this hypothesis.

This is what happened:

I had trouble being large so I opted for being full instead. Part of the logic was that if sports people do carb loading then surely it would work for lonely people too. So I ate a large meal of pasta, roast potatoes and toast.

The comely bit didn’t come quite naturally either. Not to be defeated I settled for comedy as it was only one letter different and after all, it was possible, nay probable, that my target mass was short-sighted. Well I am anyway.

I had a tutu. Pink. Fucking spot-on perfect.

The tip-toes was slightly prohibitive because of the boots but I did my best by standing on a couple of willing molluscs.

The target bit was actually the most difficult as he simply didn’t seem to be around. This didn’t worry me because on a Newtonian Gravitational Scale nearby could be up to a couple of hundred light-years away.

My upside-down square was easy. I held, in my most sexy manner, a road-sign depicting a man with a large umbrella-shaped penis.

I waited. In the field. Wearing my tutu, my wellies, my red nose. Holding my sign. Waiting. Not very much happened aside from the snails becoming uncomfortable and deciding to go off for a bonk without me standing on them.

After a bit (about five hours) I realised what the problem was.

On a Newtonian Gravitational Scale, even if I was (and I was) stunningly attractive and exerting a quite frankly irresistible pull, the distance (which could be up to a couple of light-years away) my prospective target mass needed to travel was going to take some time. Possibly days. And that’s if he was running. Fast.

I am still waiting. But at least I’m not hungry. And the sheep like pink.