Flirting - My Disaster

I'm on campus all day, sleepwalking from final to final, and I decide TODAY is the day to get Gaucho Deli. Fine sanwiches, great soups, even better salads. Grab a Barcelona Wrap (the rice was bland, not very Barcelona-ish), and Senor Suavemente that I am, find an empty seat next to a pretty blonde girl, who's got "shiksa-no-way-in-hell-we-could-ever-have-kids" written all over her tanned forehead, with a face full of pigment I'd kill for. Can't ya spare any for the SuperJew, m' lady?

She's studying from a gigantic reader. Human Reproduction. Here's the dialogue.

For finals?
Yeah.
Oh, um, what year are you? You a fourth year?
I'm a third. (Goes back to reading. I'm reading notes for Anti-Semitism class, by the by.)
Anything interesting in there?
Well, mostly about malnutrition and Indonesia. Grand. My favorite.
Yeah?
Teen moms getting pregnant, having babies one after the other-
Like in Monty Python?
What's Monty Python?
Nevermind. Go on.
They can't produce enough milk so they babies go hungry, they got potbellies. Like here. Look.
Nice.

Human Reproduction? Can we perform a demonstration? It'd help you for the final. That's what I'm thinking. Baby.

You girls need to grab life by the beitzim. Use both hands. You girls need to say SOMETHING, ANYTHING, that shows us that you're interested. Tell us you hate the food, you hate your life, you hate me, just initiate some form of conversation besides "malnourished babies in the East Indies." Because if not, shit, I'm gonna pass you by. Then you get reduced to nice hair and a pair of tits, a brain-dead that doesn't even compete with my five year old cousin. You can ask him anything. He'll even tell you about cells and blood and the function of the liver.

Girl from Gaucho Deli-You should be a comm major.