http://www.scottaaronson.com/writings/selfdelusion.html

"This is kind of awkward, but, um, I've been noticing you in class—and, like, I'd really love to get to know you better, and I was just wondering"—his voice cracked—"if maybe this weekend you wanted to go see Hamlet at the Repertory Theater with me?"

Leaning against a locker with one hand, I chewed the thumbnail of the other, gazing at the blue-and-white checkered tiles on the floor. Despite his verbal ineptitude, at six-foot-two Eric is one of the more desirable seniors, and many sophomores would, I suppose, have been flattered by the attention. Removing my thumb, I replied—not, I don't think, with any malice in my voice, but genuinely, inquisitively, because I was seized by the problem and wanted to know the solution—"What you're saying is tantamount to saying that you want to fuck me. So why shouldn't I react with revulsion precisely as though you'd said the latter?"

Eric's cheeks reddened and his hands trembled; it was rather cute. "I just wanted to have a good time, just as friends!"

"You're asking me to accept that a first domino will be knocked over yet a hundredth will stand. Do chess masters continue playing when they see a mate—get it?—twenty moves ahead?"