Dear Men On The Streets,
Please stop referring to me as being “alone” when I am clearly walking in a group, simply because I am not attached to a man.
“Why are you walking the streets alone?” he asked as I trollop-ed down the avenue, clearly asking for trouble.
“Good sir, your phrasing is atrocious,” is what a streetwalking vagrant might say. But no, you fine gentleman. I am not a streetwalker, nor am I alone. I would be glad to point that fact out for you, but a woman correcting a man is highly frowned upon in civilized society.
Sure, I should realize that wearing a short dress out after dark gives you permission to approach me and comment, but my fragile demeanor and weak spirit cannot take the heartbreak of admitting that I am not currently under the love spell of a man at the moment. I know that you have taken time out of your busy weekday night to follow me a block down the street and make your inquiries, but alas, I am already on my way home from bar dancing with a flock of people. A flock.
As a woman, it is customary to feign disinterest, as you may know. So if I continue to walk away and tell you that I am simply on my way home and therefore am not available to be courted in Downtown Oakland, it is only natural that you should persist. Please, tell me again how I am beautiful so I can owe you more of my time.
True, as far as men on the street go, you are far from the most disorderly. However, you happen to have caught me at a time when I was waiting for an encounter like this to occur. Many apologies. I must be about to start my period and am thus more prone to erratic behavior.
In conclusion, I am aware of my status of invisibility until recognized by the superior sex. However, please allow this lapse of my polite facade to pass unremembered in your long term memory as to not bruise your peachy pride. While the apron of my soul may be stained by this indiscretion, I beg all future street courters to look blindly upon the blotches I have soiled my good name with. Allow me the opportunity to be seen despite my lack of intimate escort.
Yours Truly,
Are you fucking kidding me? Go home, bro.
