On When I Met the Random Big Bill Guy

This blog has turned into a case study of the people in my city. I'm so awkward socially that I feel the need to post any outside-of-work interactions.

I went to a gas station close to my house in the wee hours tonight. Pull into a space, put it in first, pull my brake then, well... roll down my window and open my door from the outside because I'm twenty-three and have a car with random broken things. I've told the Internets, time and time again, how poor I am!

Anyway, there's a guy coming out of the gas station...

Let me just say it is not a well respected gas station. I live on "The West Side" which is mostly housing developments and old people and Parent Teacher Associations and Home Owners' Associations and good schools and day cares.

People move to "The West Side" to raise kids. Three car garages and kids named Skylar and Bryton.

(Both of which Google Chrome decided are not words. lol)

So, this particular corner of the city block has a gas station, a liquor store, a pawn shop and a car wash. There are some shitty apartments nearby... And last year someone was partying at those apartments, drinking booze from that liquor store, and died from a stab wound in the car wash. True story.

So... Not the classiest of joints. Although, in the same city block there are three schools, a public library and like seven churches. Wichita is ridiculous.

Anyway, back to that guy coming out of the gas station.

He asked me, "You got change for a hundred? Some twenties?"

I told him no, then as I was fishing in my wallet inside the gas station, I realized I had two fifties. That's almost the same, right?

So as I walk to my car, I tell him this. Cause I'm nice and shit. Also, I've had two glasses of wine... Which brings me to Normal Midwestern Friendly Level.

He then says things like:

What you doin tonight?
Whachoo do for fun?
You got a boyfriend?

To which I say, respectively:

Catching up on my Google Reader.
I work a lot.
Yes.

He then asks:

You ain't allowed to have friends?
We couldn't just hang out?
We could party?

NOTE: This whole conversation, he is looking me up and down, and licking his lips. Not in an LL-Cool-J-Romantic-Comedy kind of way. Also, I was not wearing a bra under my tank top, but I figured my cardigan did the trick. He noticed, WTF.

I jingled my keys, as he asked me if I live alone (rapist much?), then got in my car and drove off.

What happened to, "That dress hardly does you justice. Let me hold the door for you, Miss"?

Any time I get shouted at, I merely put my middle finger up, not looking back to whoever it was, and walk away, shoulders high. I am not here to get you off.

Do these people not have mothers?

They must be wired wrong to think that these tactics will get you laid. My self esteem is lower than normal, but JESUS.

Aaaaand, Fin.