Let's do what we do best and pretend that I blog like everyday and that it's funny all the time and that I don't get fucking writers block and feel like I am a worthless human being. So we're good? Okay. Let's take a moment to talk about personal space. While I will offend some people, I would like to say now, I don't give a fuck.
Here is where you pissing me off begins. When I am checking out at the store and it is my turn, I would rather not have your cart rammed up my ass. I am actually still putting my items on the counter, it's still my turn, you dumb bitch. My pin number is none of your business so take a hint and BACK THE FUCK UP. It seems to be acceptable for some people to not only intrude on my personal space but to metaphorically take a shit in it.
Let's move right along and say that I am waiting in line, but with no cart, like maybe I am at The Gap in, I don't know, Park City and I am patiently waiting my turn. Why must you stand so close that I can feel you breathing down my back? I move, you move, I throw the dirty glare, you say something to your friend that I block out because I have already decided that I hate you. I don't want your hanger poking me in the back, I don't like the smell of your perfume and I fucking hate skin to skin contact moments before I spend twenty bucks on something we both know I am never going to wear. I've got issues and you are standing too close to me and my issues.
Here is another example of too close for comfort. Here is the set up. I am out to dinner with a friend ( I know, it is shocking) and the seating arrangement is that of one long booth, many small tables and one chair across from each table. It's all very close and as we all are aware, one person sits on the booth, one person opposite in the chair and the disturbingly small table attempts to stay upright while holding a menu that gives The Bible a run for it's money. Yes, we are at The Cheesecake Factory. It gets dicey when two love birds are forced into this seating arrangement and would much rather have a corner booth with a vibrating bed and a gallon of lube. We are seated next to the aforementioned grotesque couple. He decides to take a seat next to his love on the booth which just happens to actually be my seat. His leg is touching my leg, when I reach for my water our elbows touch and somehow this guy finds this interaction perfectly acceptable. He would not move. Clearly his seat was across the table and even the waitress was confused about where to put his food. I mentally suggested his lap, his face or down his back. After several love pecks and back caresses, this jack ass finally took his rightful seat across the table only to come right back when it was time to share a piece of dessert. With his girlfriend, not me. I don't share.
Let's be clear. I hug. I touch. I even have sex. But not while buying asparagus or jeans or mediocre cheesecake. Not with perfect strangers. If I want to be touched, I have options. Let's leave the awkward closeness for family reunions and drunk Christmas parties with your co workers.
So, I would like to say to all of you who seem to be unaware of personal space....I am practicing my karate kick, I will apply for a gun permit and if all else fails, I will start dry humping your leg like a Labrador in heat if that is what it takes. I have no shame. Obviously.
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