I really don’t get my life. It’s confusing, it’s weird, and quite honestly it always smells slightly like beef lo mien.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. Well, I’m not complaining at this particular moment, but I just have to know… am I alone in this situation?
For example, the amount of male attention I attract just does not equate with my physical features. Okay, maybe it does a little , I’m pretty fucking cute, god damnit! Then pair that cuteness with some assholey snarkiness and a well-tailored lime green mini-skirt sans underwear and that shit has the gentlemen douches coming out of the wood works.
But I’m a dick. A lady douche some might say. Yet, this always seems to have the adverse affect on the unwarranted attention from the male specimen I seem to constantly attract.
My favorite part of this situation is how this never happens when any normal human being would expect it too. Oh, no. no. no. no. no. Why should I be hit on in a normal situation? Like that one time I had that great conversation with that hedge fund analyst at that bar? That would have been a perfect opportunity for some normal hitting-on occurrences to well…occur. But, it didn’t.
Oh. No. no. no. no. no. I don’t get hit on in normal social situations, why should I? That luxury is left for the normal ladies of our society, and we alllllllll know I don’t exactly fit into that category.
So instead, I get hit on at seven in the morning while waiting for my manager to open the store by this ridiculously drunk dude telling me how he’s an “artist” and how his brother (or brother in law? I don’t remember honestly) produces the show Jackass, but of course, he had to ask me first if I had even heard of the show.
“Have you ever heard of the show Jackass?”
“Yes. What asshole hasn’t heard of the show Jackass? Jackass.”
Oh, how he laughed and laughed while simultaneously staring at my tits.
Maybe I should just stop talking altogether in social situations. My mouth seems to be part of the problem, well that and these dudes inability to not say something unbelievably douchy and retarded for me not to come back with some asshole comment.
“I just wish I had a magic carpet to take me home.”
“They ‘re called taxis.”
Maybe it’s not me. Maybe its my surroundings. I do live in New York City. This isn’t exactly a “normal” place to live and I fit in a little too well in this “not normal” place. Or maybe I should just lower my standards and start giving these drunk douches a chance.
Oh, and what happened to that seven am drunk douche you ask? Well he tried to get my number after my manager finally arrived, obviously I said no. But I told him I’d take his website, and supposedly he wasn’t lying about his “artist” shit. But I’ll let you decide.