The Diary of Queen Mothy |
No Easy Target written @ 5:35 PM on February 01, 2004 I don't think I ever wrote about this, but I sure as hell bitched about it to a lot of people. Chances are you might understand what I'm talking about. Last semester I met this guy named Mike, surname Malicious, who, after knowing him for a full ten minutes, made me want to castrate him and remove him from the human gene pool. Mike gave "sexual predator" a new definition. What's worse is that he's a dance major, hence his right to strut around the theatre department at school. The general consensus about Mike is that he's "creepy." I've taken it a step further and warned every female I've come across who happened to ask about him that it was best they kill him for me and grant him the mercy that I wouldn't spare-- if I should run into him again. Well, it finally happened this week. Christine and I got onto the elevator in the Fine Arts Center, and he stepped on after us. I stiffened and set my jaw, stifling my urge to go banshee and draw my trusty Gerber from my bag. Christine gave me a funny look when she saw my face, but there was no way I could tell her without drawing unnecessary attention that one of the devil's minions was among us. On Friday I reached the theatre lounge early before class, and I sat down in the big arm chair to relax a little. I was wearing a gray t-shirt under my sweatshirt, which I removed because it was too warm. All of a sudden, I heard someone purr, "Ahh, the I-just-threw-myself-together-this-morning look. How I love it." I looked up and there was my nemesis, the human conglomeration of men's worst qualities manifested in physical form before me. I glared at him, suppressed the urge to shout, "Fuck you, asshole," and busied myself writing in my day planner. My friend Chad was there, and he said hi as he sat down on the couch. I smiled and returned the greeting. "Wow," crooned Mike, "you're actually kind of cute. It must be the hair. And the smile. What's your name?" I glared again. "We've met before," I said coldly. "We have? When?" "Last semester. Under the tree outside," I answered gruffly. He smirked, not unlike a snake. "Under the tree, eh? It must not have been that memorable." I picked up on the innuendo immediately. "No," I declared sharply, "believe me, it wasn't." "Do you get that often?" he returned. "Nope. Just you." "Awe, I can see you're bitter about this." "Clearly you're not getting it," I hissed. "Can I make it up to you? A date maybe?" "Hell no." "Dinner?" "Nope." "Not even coffee?" "Let me think!" I proclaimed theatrically, and I gave a long pause. "Nope. No, not even coffee." "Damn..." My other friend-- who happens to be named Mike and I call M&M after his initials-- was watching this exchange in the background, and he dropped in just in time and said, "Dude, Sam is my girlfriend. Still on for that date tonight, huh, sweetie?" I smiled falsely at him and said, "There's my knight in shining armor come to rescue me." M&M sat down on the arm chair and cuddled with me. Gotta love the training that comes with being a theatre major, eh? Smarmy Mike backed off, holding up his hands innocently. M&M had to leave a few moments later for some errand, convinced that smarmy Mike got the hint that I wanted to be left alone. Except that Smarmy Mike would not be deterred. As soon as M&M was gone, he slipped from the couch and sat on the other arm of the chair. I promptly began packing up my notebook, pen, and day planner and rose to leave for class. "Hey, hey, where are you off to?" Smarmy Mike crooned. "Class," I spat. "But you just got here!" "It's almost eleven o'clock." "Don't leave," he whimpered. "Too bad." "Why are you leaving?" I wasn't about to play his game. I didn't reply and swept from the lounge, the cold, frigid bitch that I am and proud of it, thank you very much. God may have said to respect your fellow man, but He never said anything about the stupid, ignorant, and predatory ones. I thanked M&M for rendering his service later, remembering privately that M&M had a thing for me last year, and now I suppose you're wondering what the moral of this story is, besides the easy "avoid all jerks" lesson. My message is thus: If you happen to see me in the papers sometime soon about committing homicide, you'll fully appreciate why. To quote "The Cell Block Tango" from the musical Chicago, "It was a murder but not a crime." Uh-uh, Cicero, Lipschitz. Actually, this little happening reminded me of something Christine's "beau"-- if that's what you can call him-- Chuck said to me on New Year's Eve. Granted, he was drunk off his ass, but I noted it anyway. He said, "Sam, are you afraid of me?" "No. Should I be?" I answered, raising an eyebrow. "I don't think you're afraid of me. I can tell by the way you are looking at me. But you come off as a victim to an outsider." "I do?" "You hold your arms across yourself, and you stand back as if you're afraid of being approached. And you don't like being touched." "Chuck, we're standing outside on Christine's porch in twenty-degree weather and neither of us are wearing jackets," I said. "It's cold, and I'm wearing uncomfortable shoes." "I know, but you were doing it that day at the movie theaters, and it was still warm then." "So how am I a victim?" "I'm not saying you're a victim. I'm saying to a stranger you come off as one. An easy target." "An easy target," I mused. Christine came out sometime in the middle of all this, and she added, "Don't worry, I come off as a victim too." I narrowed my eyes that she just accepted that judgment freely. "I am not a victim," I affirmed. "I know," she said. "But we appear to other people as that." After that night, I began studying my actions a little more carefully. And I recalled this small bit of conversation after this thing with Smarmy Mike took place. Do strangers see me as a victim, as an easy target? "Christian," I said to my friend at dinner that Friday, "do I come off as an easy target to you?" He laughed mockingly. Perhaps he was not the best person to ask such a thing, especially in light of the fact he's been trying to get me to go out with him since September. "No!" he said, rolling his eyes, "believe me, you're not." "Not even a victim?" "Nope. Why do you ask?" I paused and thought of a way to rephrase my question. "Even when you first met me?" He grimaced. "You're the most difficult, stubborn girl I've ever met. No." I gave a small, triumphant smile. Next time, I thought, I will give Smarmy Mike a real piece of my mind if he ever approaches me like that again. And anyone else if they don't give me my space. "Yeah," I said aloud, "I didn't think so either. They're wrong when they say that."
A Bit of History ~ And Onward! L'Amour Toujours! - August 08, 2005 |
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