Bitch, please… (post dedicated to things for which I no longer have any patience)

CROSS THE FUCKING STREET ALREADY
Yes, I realize that it’s a tall task to pick your pants up from around your knees whilst clad in a puffy down jacket in the middle of a 80 degree day, keep them semi-anchored in the vicinity of your rear end with one hand, and yet continue to gesticulate sweet nothings to the homies you’re leaving behind on this side of this immeasurably wide city street. I dare underestimate neither the gravity of this urban form of conduct, nor the fact that you may need to stop halfway through the street (regardless of the color of the traffic light), ponder the state of what-the-fuck-ever, and then proceed at a glacial pace while grinning & wiggling your eyebrows at me. It’s so charming that it almost makes me regret that I have to rush to work to pay taxes that subsidize programs that allow you to do exactly this. So get out of my fucking way in a hurry or this very sequence of events you just subjected me to will be history.

STOP BEING SO RIDICULOUSLY WHOLESOME
You (female): skinny jeans, layered top look (ranging from asymmetrical cutting-edge to granny-chic), appropriately dreamy/wispy hairstyle, beret.
OR
You (male): skinny jeans, layered top look (ranging from asymmetrical cutting-edge to granny-chic), surfer dude hair OR slightly mussed up side-swept longish hair (plastic framed glasses must accompany latter).

Me: grumpy immigrant in her mid 30s with a curiosity or craving for whatever you’re hawking.

Let’s get this show on the road. Understand this basic capitalistic efficiency model: once I’ve pointed to, and asked to be given, something, don’t do a retarded-ass, belated sell attempt on me. It’s a gross waste of time. I don’t CARE that the cacao has been harvested by wood nymphs, packed by unicorns, and fair traded to you & you alone from Narnia so that I may consume this overpriced item. You have goodies. I have the required currency for this exchange to take place. Stop blinking vapidly at my apathy, and give me my change. Reserve your energy for tonight’s “saving the heart of "insert third world country here"” meet where your white guilt can be better articulated over kombucha cocktails & fluttery hand movements.

GET TO THE POINT
It can’t be easy to engage someone in conversation at bar or club. The chances of rejection & ridicule are high. Rate of return on time, effort, and financial investment is low. I get that. So, if you have managed to look past the generally disheveled appearance and stoned vacuous stare, and decided to make a move regardless, I implore you: please make it a pleasant transaction for all involved. Some of us are of a generally awkward social mindset and pretty much only come out to be with friends. This means that opportunities for conversations are likely limited, and should be dealt with efficiently, and in a manner befitting the circumstances. If it’s a place with music, chances are that it’s loud and your sparking personality may not get the air time or appreciation it deserves. So… first, declare your intent. A simple “hi, my name is so-and-so and I’d like to chat you up” should suffice. Honestly, not everyone may understand that you’re not really tapping them on the waist only to squeeze by enroute to a better dancing spot, or you don’t actually want to know if this band is on every Thursday at this location. Some folks just don’t dedicate enough brain power to this stuff. Second, keep it brief. I paid to see the band. They are why I come here almost every Thursday. Either get into this vibe with me, and we can bond, or wait till after they’re done. I can’t hear you OR the band properly while you make lame conversation about your only other Indian friend (seriously, in the bay area?! And, no, I don’t know him. There are a billion of us).

STOP TERRORIZING OTHER FOLKS USING PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION
The phone fairies: Are you the lifeline for a group of retarded chimps playing “who wants to be a millionaire” and the topic is SF streets? Are you keeping cartographer friends who are plotting the streets of SF on some continuum based on how long the bus takes to get from one block to another? Or are you simply demented and like to call out to your phone buddy the name of every single street the bus passes, interspersed with detailed discourses about issues with your ex? At the volume of 11. You are uninteresting & dull. Nothing except turning into Mary Louise Parker can compensate for this. Please keep your lackluster problems to yourself and use the phone only for periodic check ins, etc. Maybe the ex was right after all.

The profuse compliment givers (compilation from more than one object of affection): You know they’re high; they know they’re high. They’re also most likely homeless and smell like the inside of a port-a-potty. Just the sort of person you’d love to get a compliment from.

“you’re beautiful”.
“um…thanks, that’s very kind of you”.
“could you tell that I was looking at you?”.
“yes, the hairs at the back of my neck have been standing up so long they’ve become horns”

“you’re real purty… like the lady on the hair color box” (hopefully not the “before” specimen!!)
"hmm"

“you have lovely toes” (appropriate nervous tic included)

STOP DRIVING. JUST. FUCKING. STOP.
You know who you are. Get off the fucking road. Who gave you a license, for fuck’s sake?!?!?!?! Pick O-N-E lane, and drive in it. Or change fully into another lane and drive in that. This isn’t a country road and you’re not in a goddamn tractor… get a fucking clue.