Perhaps i reek of fresh meat. That my unfamiliar face busting down Polk Street inspires the enamor and attention of every… homeless, foreign, or 40+ man on lower Polk. But, really? Come on.
At least in New York I knew what I was dealing with… well most of the time. Not that it was the easiest train to hop on, but at least the familiarity of the blurry world of - hooking up/dating/together until something better comes along - was comforting.
But, so far as it would seem, San Francisco is a whole other ball game, pun intended. NY may have been an undefined mess in which I found myself in serious relationships I thought were casual, and actual serious relationships that bordered on mental… but at the lowest denominator, at least dudes could take a hint.
No, man in the burger place - I don’t care that you allegedly “know” the members of Testament. Nor that you met James Hetfield at a party. Why don’t I care? To start, you’re clearly middle aged with cuts all across your forehead and the start of nice shiner under your eyebrow-less right eye. That coupled with your Affliction v-neck t-shirt, gelled hair, and generally short stature can only lead me to believe one of two scenarios: A. You annoyed someone larger than you in the bar this weekend and got into a fight. B. You crashed your Vespa. Being the rational person that I am, I’m more inclined to lean towards A, due the absence of any road burn or scrapes, cuts and bruises on your otherwise very very tan forearms adorned with gold man-jewelry. Not only are bar fights retarded for anyone, they are especially ridiculous for a man of your age. As is hitting on a 25 year old girl by referencing 80’s metal bands that were last relevant when I was a toddler. (Sorry Metallica). So, while i continue to wait for my cheeseburger, (and silently pray its ready with sufficient spacing to avoid being rushed and awkward at the fixin’s bar with you) and turn my back on you to stare mindlessly at the television playing old boxing matches - that, sir, is a hint you should take. SHOULD being the operative word. Because if only if it were that easy… annoying men around the city have collectively decided to beat the bitch into me. Was it entirely necessary to then ask the back of my head “So, do you like boxing?” ? EATYOURBURGERANDSHUTTHEFUCKUP. Which is what I hope you got from me going “not even a little”, grabbing my shit and standing to wait on the other side of the room.
No Mr. “Make it Strong” Long Island Ice Tea drinker - I don’t want your phone number. I especially don’t want it when you asked for it mid-order with 15 other people standing behind and around you boring holes into my head with their beady little drunk eyes. In fact, regardless of all other factors… I don’t want to give it to you because your drink of choice is not only a Long Island Ice Tea, but, its a “strong” one. Not only are Long Island’s disgusting in general, they are offensive to my people and make your breath reek of dirty bar mat. And make it strong? Really? Does asking for a really strong drink to be made even stronger make you feel like more of a man? As much of a man as raiding your parents liquor cabinet and mixing all their shit liquor together and topping it off with some Country Time and Coke? You want it extra strong? Your overpriced shitty drink just cost you 2 more dollars. And I’m gonna put a fucking cherry in it. So, when you ask me if I’d like your number, and I immediately answer “No.” Just take it, move along, and tell me precisely how many friends you are buying vodka cranberrys for. Any added dialogue other than your drink order will do nothing but make both parties uncomfortable. The last thing that’s going to sway me back onto team “Strong Long Island Ice Tea” is asking me “Why don’t you want my number?”. Which you of course did, more than once, because you are from San Francisco and you are drinking a liquid fist-pump. To add insult to injury, the fake puppy dog eye reaction to my “because I just fucking don’t, I don’t have time for this, give me the rest of your order or move along” DOESN’T MAKE ME FEEL BAD. Well, it does. I well with pity for your lack of dignity. And for fucks sake, if you wanted to give me your number so badly… don’t ask. Just do it. Because at least I can relish the perverse satisfaction of throwing it out after your back is turned without facing the 3rd degree of “why don’t you liiikkeeee meeee :( :( wah :,(“. Drink a whiskey with a beer back and shut the fuck up.
And no, Pepe, the little French Canadian I mistakenly went on a blind date on with, I will not be going out with you again. You are so new and fresh to the city, but it seems to already have gotten to you. I drank two beers and faked a headache… is this the kind of girlfriend you’d like to have? At 35, are you not smart enough to realize that first date headaches are the “Jimmy’s World” of cutting out early. Think of all the other shit I could just make up. No, sorry Pepe, I can’t make the Curling match, I really need to wash my car. Sorry Pepe, that Poutine joint looks delicious, but I’m allergic to potatoes. My bad Peps, that Fête Nationale parade isn’t gonna work for me, my pet rock died and I’m very, very sad. So, your texts that arrive every other day around 4pm with questions like “Hi Megan! Hey i would like to party! You in?”, “hey Megan, u in the mood 4 jameson? I am!” and “Hey Megan, would you like a drink or maybe a little debauchery? Haha, just kidding…” will remain completely unanswered. Which should also be your hint to stop sending them… Please?
PS: My name is spelled Meaghan.
PPS: I can’t say Pepe with a straight face.
PPPS: You are saved as “Pepe LePew” in my contacts.
