Day 15- Go Nozzle Yourself With a Gas Pump

As can be imagined, once again my day was filled with terror, romance and desperation. 

I managed a whopping 3 hours of sleep in the past 48 hours, so I am feeling a little woozy, which is why this entry is going to be rather short.

I did not read. I did not dream. I did not soar above the mountain tops.

Of course, I was also not mauled by a bear, struck by lightning, nor did I fall into a volcano. So, the day probably evens out right? 

Thanks universe!

Today I had time with my grandma, a big loud evening of work at my first job, and then a little alcohol with my boyfriend and his best friend. Driving was very unpleasant, I was filled with terror as my eyes started bugging out from the sleep not granted them.

 

Anyway, the title of this entry is all thanks to a gas station attendant who has been pestering me at every fill up, who finally had the get-up-and-go to postulate himself to me tonight. 

 

Since similar situations have happened where I have been harassed by men- I usually just avoid the place from that moment on. However, I do sort of feel annoyed that I’m the one who has to change my behavior just to get a little peace from otherwise obnoxious males. And in this particular case, the gas station is conveniently on my way to work, the store, the bank, etc, or basically any other place I go, and also has the cheapest gasoline around. 

 

I have been politely entertaining this guy’s conversations every time I go. He wants to know where I work, why I’m dressed up, what do I do? One time he even asked if I play basketball… for no apparent reason… 

Now all this sounds harmless enough, I figure the guy is just talkative and I shouldn’t jump to conclusions, but come to find out, he is quite familiar with my gas buying routines, the direction that I usually enter the lot from, how often I buy, how much I buy, and then started asking me quite specific questions about where I plan on going for the evening, how many people will be with me, or if I’m just going to stay at home, alone. 

 

I guess I could still be jumping to scary conclusions here. I often fill on edge around men who are strangers when I am by myself. There’s nothing I can really do about that. It’s just a reaction, like I’m preparing to start swinging or running. So I realize I could just be creating a danger in my head that isn’t actually there.

 

Anyway, gas-station-guy-giving-me-the-uber-creeps after asking me all the above questions, then asked me to go out with him tonight to get drinks. 

I politely declined, saying, “oh sorry, I actually have a boyfriend.”

He asked me four times if I was actually serious that I actually had a boyfriend. 

Then he finally said, “Okay, but you’re so cute though.” 

I said “thanks,” and then drove off as quickly as possible.

Now I am feeling a little annoyed, and I’m not exactly sure if it was that guy himself that did it, the fact that I didn’t tell him to cram it rectally, or just the idea that I seem to invite come-ons just by having a conversation with a person. 

I am not pursuing said conversations.

I suck at small talk.

I don’t give a shit about the weather.

I only care about how your day is going if you’re making my food. 

I don’t want to talk to you anymore than I have to. 

So why then, am I always at the mercy of men and whatever pick-up lines they have in store for me? Why do I have to feel ready to defend myself at a moment’s notice; and why do I have to feel bad for their poor egos when I shoot them down? More importantly, after my first declaration of  having a boyfriend, is it absolutely necessary to keep prying me like some sort of Russian “vee haf vays off making yu talk,” spy movie? 

When I am getting gasoline, or groceries, or I don’t know, buying a fucking zebra for my exotic underground aquarium zoo, why the fuck do I have to fucking talk to everyone just because they want to put a fucking baby in me?

And I know, “well you never know, unless you ask,” and “there’s no harm in asking,” and every which way of “you-should-be-flattered- he-thought-you-were-pretty,” but I am a little sick of it. Let me go about my fucking business without pestering me. Shit. 

On more than one occasion at my place of employment, men have asked me for my phone number, a date, a variety of sexual favors, and have explained to me my personal favorite: “you only got this job because you’re pretty.” 

Well darlings, you only get to breathe this communal oxygen supply because I haven’t found a loophole in physics for me to rip my ovaries out and strangle you with them. 

I also lack the upper body strength to rip your arms off and beat you with them till your skull caves in and snaps off your neck.

And so, to the gas station attendant that has made my simple task of putting petrol in my car an uneasy, annoying, and distasteful experience: GO NOZZLE YOURSELF WITH A GAS PUMP.

 

*Ahem, tomorrow I will hopefully resume my 100 banned books reading.* 

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