“The Rapists” for 1000.

It’s not that often that my day starts right off with something blogworthy.
This morning, after peeling myself out of  bed, drinking a big enough cup of coffee to make me twitchy, inserting myself into a thoroughly bland secretary outfit, and carefully negotiating my way into my car (while in Uganda, some bird with diarrhea decided to make its favorite hangout right over the front driver’s side door handle of my car. Poor Silver has been pleading for a bath for a year, but this might do it), I had left my neighborhood and was sitting sleepily/twitchily at the intersection of Thunder Hill and 175, listening to a story about a french supermarket cashier who had made it big as a blogger, a red SUV pulls up to my right. A sincere-looking African-American fellow was gesticulating for me to roll my window down, so I did so, turning the radio off, and fully expecting him to tell me I had yet another flat tire.
Guy: “You’re a very attractive young lady.”
Me: “What?”
Guy: “I said you’re a very beautiful young lady.”
Me: “Uh… Thank you!”
Guy: “You’re welcome. You have a blessed day.”
Then he rolled up his window and took off down the right turn lane, while I sat there trying to decide whether to be flattered or frightened. I went over the options in my head (immediately dismissing the idea that he’s a perfectly normal human specimen who was simply so captivated by the entrancing beauty of my ponytail, which is likely all he saw of me before he decided to pull up next to me, that he couldn’t live without making sure I knew):
1) He’s a well-meaning fellow who gets his kicks out of stopping random people and saying nice things to them.
2) He meant to ask for my number after sharing this info (as I’ve learned that African-American culture includes much more forwardly interested behavior from males, though I won’t pretend I’m used to it) but saw my ring after I rolled down the window.
3) He is a card-carrying sociopath with a carefully engineered front of polite normalcy, who has been tracking my schedule for the past three months, figuring out the perfect moment and location to stop me and say something endearing while snapping a picture of me with a camera concealed in his class ring that he will use to make a face for the robotic girlfriend in his apartment.
Opinions?
I’ll write about Joberg later… I’m going to spend some quiet time with Opal and make sure I still have all the keys to my apartment.

It’s not that often that my day starts right off with something blogworthy.

This morning, after peeling myself out of  bed, drinking a big enough cup of coffee to make me twitchy, inserting myself into a thoroughly bland secretary outfit, and carefully negotiating my way into my car (while in Uganda, some bird with diarrhea decided to make its favorite hangout right over the front driver’s side door handle of my car. Poor Silver has been pleading for a bath for a year, but this might do it), I had left my neighborhood and was sitting sleepily/twitchily at the intersection of Thunder Hill and 175, listening to a story about a french supermarket cashier who had made it big as a blogger, a red SUV pulls up to my right. A sincere-looking African-American fellow was gesticulating for me to roll my window down, so I did so, turning the radio off, and fully expecting him to tell me I had yet another flat tire.

Guy: “You’re a very attractive young lady.”

Me: “What?”

Guy: “I said you’re a very beautiful young lady.”

Me: “Uh… Thank you!”

Guy: “You’re welcome. You have a blessed day.”

Then he rolled up his window and took off down the right turn lane, while I sat there trying to decide whether to be flattered or frightened. I went over the options in my head (immediately dismissing the idea that he’s a perfectly normal human specimen who was simply so captivated by the entrancing beauty of my ponytail, which is likely all he saw of me before he decided to pull up next to me, that he couldn’t live without making sure I knew):

1) He’s a well-meaning fellow who gets his kicks out of stopping random people and saying nice things to them.

2) He meant to ask for my number after sharing this info (as I’ve learned that African-American culture includes much more forwardly interested behavior from males, though I won’t pretend I’m used to it) but saw my ring after I rolled down the window.

3) He is a card-carrying sociopath with a carefully engineered front of polite normalcy, who has been tracking my schedule for the past three months, figuring out the perfect moment and location to stop me and say something endearing while snapping a picture of me with a camera concealed in his class ring that he will use to make a face for the robotic girlfriend in his apartment.

Opinions?

I’ll write about Joberg later… I’m going to spend some quiet time with Opal and make sure I still have all the keys to my apartment.

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