There are effective methods of giving a guy your phone number. I'll go out on a limb here and say that the best way is to wait until he actually, you know... asks for it. However, patience has never been my strong suit.
Filling the void where patience should be, I have always possessed an abundance of craziness and awkwardness. The discomfort of people around me tends to be a direct result of the combination of these traits. With this in mind, today I'm going to tell you two stories that demonstrate how not to give out your phone number.
In the autumn of my sophomore year of high school, I was an obnoxious not-quite-sixteen-year-old. I implore you to keep that maturity level in mind as I relay to you my actions on that fateful afternoon.
Every October, the Indianapolis Zoo decorates for Halloween and puts on themed festivities. While riding the train that takes visitors around the park, volunteers will perform skits at each stop. My best friend (Mallory) and I were able to ride the train a limitless amount of times for free, one of the many perks of being a zoo intern. This was the only time that we ever exercised that right in excess, all to gawk at a particularly attractive volunteer.
The first time that we rode the train, we simply had a little time to waste. The skits were all ridiculously cheesy, but our laughter and mocking commentary kept us plenty entertained. And then... we saw him. The clouds parted and light shined down on a man so sexy, he could only be a Greek god. Or maybe he was just "the Prince" in a cheesy skit based on The Little Mermaid. Whatever. Either way, when we reached the end of the tracks, Mallory and I decided we still had "soooo much time to kill" that we might as well ride it again.
The second time that we rode the train, I shamefully admit that we may or may not have made inappropriate catcalls along the lines of "Ow OW!" There may have also been some whistling involved.
The third time that we rode the train is the reason why this story is relevant. Mallory scrounged up a piece of paper and a pen, and we wrote each of our phone numbers under the labels "Blonde" and "Brown", giggling all the while. We then proceeded to fold it up and chuck it at this poor guy as we passed. It was only after the fact that I realized: we had not even supplied our area codes.
Nowadays, Mal and I frequent Steak 'N Shake, as it is the only establishment open late at night in my town. About two weeks ago, we ended up chatting with our extremely cute waiter. It was his first day, and he sheepishly admitted that we were only like his tenth table.
Last night, we were back in our usual booth. We were seated in a different waiter's area, but Mallory kept catching his eye and smiling. When she had cleared her plate, she wrote her number on it in ketchup, labelled "For *****". We witnessed him laughing and attempting to copy it on a piece of paper as we left, but the numbers were nearly impossible to decipher.
So. Here's my advice:
a) If you decide to throw your phone number at someone from a moving train, it might be best if you include all of the digits. You should also probably avoid referring to yourself as the incorrect terminology for your hair color.
b) When writing with condiments, it's best to allow yourself enough space to actually be legible.
c) If you prefer not to make an ass out of yourself, avoid doing these things. They never turn out well.