Leave the baristas alone. We will never fuck you.
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Stop making CONSTANT awkward conversation about absolutely nothing at all. Stop standing there smiling at us as we enjoy a mutually uncomfortable silence. Stop staring at us from across the lobby when you think we can't see you. Stop coming up with utterly transparent excuses to be on that side of the building. Stop pretending like you're looking at the food when we all know you never buy anything.
It's not that you aren't pleasant, well-meaning fellows. We can tell you're just lonely and bored and, on the whole, probably not creepy rapists. I'm sure you do very well with the girls in bars. But we aren't girls in bars. Most of us have degrees or are working on degrees. We didn't take this job because we're retards who can't do anything else and will fuck the first man to make us feel good about ourselves.
Nota bene: Most girls who work in coffee shops love nothing better than to sit quietly -- that means NOT TALKING, and especially NOT TALKING constantly and almost without stopping for breath -- with an equally quiet activity. A book. A crossword puzzle. A journal. The Internet. We do not enjoy being stared at during or unnecessarily interrupted from these activities.
We certaintly do not put the "bar" in "barista."
In accordance with this:
I am not impressed, Mr. Security Guard #1, by the fact that your anthropologist sister is pre-med -- well, she was, but she changed her major, and then she left school and then she went back to school and decided she wanted to be an anthropologist after all, even though there aren't really any jobs for anthropologists, but she's an anthropologist, and she's pre-med... Oh, and also, her husband, he's a dentist, he went to Dentistry School because he's a dentist, and the reason this even came up at all is because you're pleased that you happen to know where the library is, and you learned that I, too, know of the library and the wonders contained therein, though as soon as I dropped, with the most artfully subtle emphasis, the word "boyfriend" into the sentence "My boyfriend and I went to the library the other night for this sci-fi book club," you complimented me on how smart I look, followed by an immediate and thorough inquisition into the student status and/or occupation of the aforesaid boyfriend, and where I met the boyfriend, and, oh, it's cool I met him in college, your sister, she went to college, too, she's an anthropologist...
THIS WILL NOT MAKE ME FUCK YOU.
I will NEVER fuck you. And there is nothing you can do to convince me. My Boyfriend? The one you were so eager to learn about? His name is on the same lease my name is on. It's also on the same joint bank account. And the same renters insurance policy. His penis and my vagina often occupy the same physical space.
Thus, you cannot woo me, Mr. Security Guard. And please convey the same to Mssrs. Security Guards 2, 3, 4, and so on, and to the minute handful of male, non-security employees to whom this memorandum might be relevant. In particular, convey this to a certain jolly Baby Boomer who used to be a favorite of us all, until he approached my female coworker once she was alone and wistfully declared how he wishes he was a little younger and she, a little older. I'm sure she would like him to know that she, like I with you, was not impressed. NONE OF US ARE. Not my coworkers, not the trainees, not my supervisor.
We are aware that we can't report you for sexual harassment because you don't touch us, you don't talk to us while we have customers or otherwise interrupt business, you don't directly come on to us in any discernable way OTHER than your sauntering, your chattering, your appraising eyes and crooked, approving smiles. Unfortunately, being creepy and inept is not a crime. But we are still severely disenchanted, nonetheless.
So please, please: Do us ALL a favor. Relocate to an actual bar, where any one of the female denizens will be suitably wasted and vacuous enough to appreciate the enthralling plethora of inanities you will so ingeniously weave for her. She will surely find it deliciously cute that you pronounce the "th" in "smoothie" as a "v." She will be enraptured by your latest treatise on the current state of the weather. She will find your bafflement and awe at the sublimity of touch-screen monitors, such as the one we use at work, marvelously quaint, for she, too, will not know quite what year it is.
But we DO know what year it is, Mssrs. Security. And we know much more beyond that. And we implore you: for the preservation of your egos and our sanities, invest your time and efforts elsewhere. Your cock is blocked; you shall not pass; we are not the droids you're looking for. And you, Mssrs., are definitely not our Jedi.
Couldn't possibly be more sincere,
The Misanthropic Brunette, on behalf of her look-but-don't-touch-and-if-at-all-possible-don't-even-look coworkers.