Here's something you might be interested in.
I went on what I thought would be a lazy Sunday stroll to Starbucks this morning; what I got was verbal abuse from three strangers on the downtown streets.
The first interaction wasn't so bad. "Got a cigarette?" a man sitting next to the downtown Ross asked me. "I'll pay you!"
Pay me for a cigarette? Not sure what the retail value is on that, but if he can afford one, surely he could walk into the nearby CVS and buy a pack for himself? I guess that puts a different spin on the meaning of "lazy Sundays."
The next encounter wasn't as harmless. "Girl! Wait a minute," a man said, as he intersected my path towards Horton Plaza. "Weren't you the cute girl in the elevator last night with the wobbly knees?"
"Uhhhh, no," I quickly responded, having to crack a smile because the question was so bizarre. That response clearly wasn't good enough for him.
"Let me make this easy for you," he yelled, as I booked it down 4th Avenue. "It was you, wasn't it?"
I admittedly psyched myself out and had to stop a second and think about it. Was it me? I was definitely drunk last night, after three glasses from a $6.99 Livingston bottle I downed at home. I went out for more wine-themed fun at Vin de Syrah but never was I in an elevator, despite my probably wobbly knees. No, definitely not me.
The last man I met was the most persistent of all. Taking one (too) long look at my neon orange bikini top peeking out of my dress, he insisted on finding out about my plans for the day. "Girl, you going to the beach today?" I responded via a shoulder shrug accented by a head tilt.
"Which one? Mission? PB? Let me know, I'll meet you there!"
I thought about shouting back a "meet me at Mission at 1:30," thinking about how crazy (but cruel) that would be if he got there and I was a no-show. Talk about spicing up a lazy Sunday.
I went on what I thought would be a lazy Sunday stroll to Starbucks this morning; what I got was verbal abuse from three strangers on the downtown streets.
The first interaction wasn't so bad. "Got a cigarette?" a man sitting next to the downtown Ross asked me. "I'll pay you!"
Pay me for a cigarette? Not sure what the retail value is on that, but if he can afford one, surely he could walk into the nearby CVS and buy a pack for himself? I guess that puts a different spin on the meaning of "lazy Sundays."
The next encounter wasn't as harmless. "Girl! Wait a minute," a man said, as he intersected my path towards Horton Plaza. "Weren't you the cute girl in the elevator last night with the wobbly knees?"
"Uhhhh, no," I quickly responded, having to crack a smile because the question was so bizarre. That response clearly wasn't good enough for him.
"Let me make this easy for you," he yelled, as I booked it down 4th Avenue. "It was you, wasn't it?"
I admittedly psyched myself out and had to stop a second and think about it. Was it me? I was definitely drunk last night, after three glasses from a $6.99 Livingston bottle I downed at home. I went out for more wine-themed fun at Vin de Syrah but never was I in an elevator, despite my probably wobbly knees. No, definitely not me.
The last man I met was the most persistent of all. Taking one (too) long look at my neon orange bikini top peeking out of my dress, he insisted on finding out about my plans for the day. "Girl, you going to the beach today?" I responded via a shoulder shrug accented by a head tilt.
"Which one? Mission? PB? Let me know, I'll meet you there!"
I thought about shouting back a "meet me at Mission at 1:30," thinking about how crazy (but cruel) that would be if he got there and I was a no-show. Talk about spicing up a lazy Sunday.