How to Meet Cute Boys Read Online Free PDF

haze of happiness to clear like perfume left over from a wish-fulfilling dream. But then I realized,
     instead of another failed attempt at meeting someone, I actually had something to be excited about. I said his name aloud
     to my empty bedroom: “Max.” It sounded good.
    “Max,” I sighed to myself as I brushed my teeth. “Max,” as I washed my face. “Max Max Max Max Max,” as I fought off Freak,
     who was clawing himself up my pajama leg.
    The week I moved in, Freak was conducting World War III in the alley behind my place—trash cans banging, screeching fights,
     feline yowling that sounded like howler monkeys. A neighbor threatened to call Animal Control, so I tempted the feral beast
     inside with a plate of chopped-up turkey hot dog. I figured Freak, with his bitten ears, scratchy whiskers, and bowlegged
     stance, lent a certain flair of authenticity—if you’re going to be a single girl living alone in a one-bedroom apartment,
     you gotta have a cat.
    Freak was like every guy I’d ever known. Aggressive when he couldn’t get your attention, disdainful if you appeared even the
     slightest bit needy.
But surely Max will not be this way,
I mused as I went to pet Freak and he slinked off into the living room with his mangled tail in the air. Surely Max would
     be a non-commitment-phobic male with no skeletons in his proverbial closet, no girlfriend he was cheating on, no past relationship
     that had scarred him for life.
    Max
…
Max
…
Max
… I sipped my morning diet Coke and spaced out with the Sunday paper spread out on the coffee table in front of me. In my
     reverie I was off in an imaginary gold Mercedes convertible, cruising the PCH in Malibu wearing oversize sunglasses in a sort
     of seventies Julie Christie homage. Max was sitting next to me in his zip-up nylon jacket, and I was grinning at something
     he’d just said. Cut to, me running down a hallway in a T-shirt and his blue boxer shorts, laughing uproariously, with Max
     chasing me with a bottle of Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup because I was being a grump at breakfast. Cut to, me crying. Just breaking
     down on a rainy street corner in some totally justified paroxysm of pain and frustration and anger with the world, and, for
     once in my life, the guy I wanted to be with putting his arms around me and saying the perfect thing while he stroked my hair.
    Of course, I used to visualize montages like this about Jack, of all people. Before I got too caught up, I decided I needed
     more information.
It’s the age of the Internet,
I thought.
The only responsible thing to do is look up my crush in cyberspace
. So I did a search and found a link to the Super Very Good Web site, where Max (Max!) hawked his clothing. It was very cool—hyperstylized
     and heavy on the Japanese pop-culture references. By ten-thirty, I’d ordered two pairs of pajamas that they offered to monogram
     with my initials, a navy hoodie, five pairs of sweat socks with the Super Very Good logo on them (no idea where I was going
     to wear them since I hate the gym), a pair of hot pink fishnet stockings (endlessly more practical) and three tiny T-shirts.
     Then I decided the insanity must stop and logged off.
    Oh no, what if Max was trying to call? I checked my voicemail, but no. Well, no, of course not. No self-respecting guy would
     call the next morning. No self-respecting girl would, either. Not that I had his phone number. All I had was his name, $250
     worth of merchandise being FedEx’d my way, and a serious jones. I wondered if that afternoon I should drive around Silver
     Lake, see if we ran into one another. Maybe, I thought, I’ll do some shopping on Vermont, or get coffee on Hillhurst … Wait,
     I was starting to act a little creepy. And while I’m being honest, I thought, it might do me good to ponder another cold,
     hard truth: I was pretty smooth picking up Max at that party the other night. But I’m woefully unlucky in love.
     
     
    1. The Actor: Ready for his