“A witty saying proves nothing.” — Voltaire.
I keep listening to Sky High. Over and over again. ALL THREE REMIXES.
Obviously, I need therapy. So I went to Hooters for lunch. It wasn’t my idea. But WHAT THE HEY, they have hot wings. Mmm, hot wings.
Now bear in mind, I have a very tight definition of “personal space”. That definition is “STOP TOUCHING ME“. I don’t like strange people touching me. Even attractive women. ESPECIALLY attractive women. It makes me …jumpy.
I’m sitting next to two – very single – male coworkers. The waitress brings our drinks… and brushes against me. I grit my teeth and (hopefully nonchalantly) move a little to the right after she leaves. I’m probably in her line of fire for delivering stuff.
She comes to take our orders. And brushes against me again. A LOT. As in, “mm, freckles there?”. I start to get REALLY DAMNED UNCOMFORTABLE.
This KEEPS HAPPENING. My companions begin to notice. The two – very single – male coworkers I’m sitting between are starting to get jealous. I start to get ruder and ruder. “Would you like to pack up that salad to go?” “No.” “It’s cold now, but it can be heated up and last a really long time!” “NO.”
By the time we finally leave I’ve been labelled the Casanova of Hooters. I’m REALLY INSULTED. I figure that I was labelled the most pathetic male specimen there, and that some REALLY HOT CRACKLING SEXUAL TENSION would bump up the tippage.
An alternate theory a friend postulated makes more sense. You see, Hooters girls are like strippers, except they get paid less and aren’t actually technically naked. But the same core interaction of scantily-clad women and slavering men still applies. And we all know that while in movies, strippers have hearts of gold and are just trying to pay the kids’ college tuition, in real life, they really hate you, they’re probably lesbian and not the kind you watch on Cinemax, and, well, they really hate you a LOT. Because you don’t bathe enough, if for no other reason. The theory, then, is that I was picked as the one person who would be uncomfortable with this attention, while my companions would be uncomfortable with NOT getting enough attention. In other words, people are broken. You read it here first.
Or maybe I just blew it all out of proportion. Telling me a lie! Without a reason why! I’ve blown it all sky high!