And what's worse? These fucktards come in brands.
THE METRO CRUISER
You, fucking stop stalking me on the platform of the Metro. Your creepy beady eyes and crazy half smiles that you think I'm coyly reacting to by looking away tenderly. I'M NOT. I'm looking for the nearest escape route. Yes, there's a reason I've now walked three cars down to join the most crowded car with the most angry, sweaty passengers. Because their midwestern, inbread tourist sweat and anger is more pleasant than what I'm about to experience with you. But you follow anyway, don't you? Yes, the car is verrry crowded, thank you for pointing that out to me. Where do I work? Why, I work for the government. Do I really? No, but if I'm lucky, that will be a good enough answer for you and you'll shut up. But do you? No. "Oh! What exactly do you do?" Now, I pull my book out and engross myself in it. "Great book!" You say. "Thanks," I reply as though I wrote Catch 22. I bury myself in the corner between the Metro doors and the glass partitian, and put my book over my face. He finally gets the picture. But ten seconds don't pass before I hear "Wow, heavy bags ya got there. What do you do?" float annoyingly over my book. Another woman has fallen victim to this dickhole. Go away, fuckwit.
THE GUY IN LINE
Stop looking at my groceries. Just becuase we passed each other several times in the grocery store aisles does not mean that you have happened upon your future girlfriend. Oh, what a coincidence! You're RIGHT behind me in line, too? Crazy little world, isn't it? I try to read a magazine or survey the candy selection with no success. Please don't point out how much you love the pita bread I picked out. And for fuck's sake, please don't rush your payment and walk down the street with me. That's creepy, man.
STUCK IN THE ELEVATOR GUY
Only when I'm on the parking garage level and riding allll the way to the top do you join me in the elevator. Stuck. Stuck in a four by six box. "I'm always scared that elevators will get stuck," you say. Fucking perish the thought, I think to myself. Jesus, please don't make me have to envision that. Your breath. Your breath is bouncing off the walls and I get every whiff of that unfortunate, rancid sinus breath smell. God, I'm gagging. As you ask me where I work, and I prepare my "for the government" speech, my gag reflexes are going wild and I fear that I may vomit on your shoes before I get to my floor. "Hey, well this is my stop. Here's my card, how bout lunch?" Fucking GIVE me the card and get out! OUT!
Christ guys, I understand that it feels like going out to a bar is like going to a meat market and the competition can wear you down, but for the love of fucking Christ, please stop turning my *life* into a singles bar. Don't you get tired? Yes, you may meet The One in the supermarket, or even on the metro. But there's a reason they call that a "chance" meeting. If I may invoke the memory of the beloved and almost now forgetten cicadas once again: This, fellas, is what ya look like. It ain't pretty, is it? Remember how they buzzed about, running into everything, trying to fuck whatever they saw? On the street, in the park, on that guy's back as he unknowningly acted as their personal love boat while walking down the sidewalk. If one little lady cicada turned the cold shoulder, no worries. The boy cicada just ambled on, trying to fuck whatever came its way. YOU, are that cicada, guys. Stop the madness.
this is in or around 24-Hour bar scene