Slim Pickens

Men who have hit on me in the past six months:

1.  The mentally handicapped man who sat down at my table at the bar and told me that he was a bag boy at Kroger and lived right around the corner, and “Where do you live?”  While staring at me with the same level of intensity that I sometimes stare at pictures of food on the internet.

2.  The drunkard at another bar who decided to pop by my table because “Ah’ve bin admirin’ u for about an hour now and whaaat’s your name?”  He was missing his two front teeth.

3.  The drug addict in downtown Nashville who had a very funny idea of personal space, got about 1 inch from my face and asked ” Do you like country muuzaack?”  “Where’d u get those red sunglasses? You look just like that artist.  You know.  The one that died.”  To which I responded, “Yeah, I think you mean Aaron Neville.” 

4. The fourty-something year-old at a party I attended.  The one my brother specifically pointed out and whispered to me not to talk to because he looked like a pedophile.  The one who asked the hostess of the party for my number the next day.

5.  The homeless man who said “hey sexy, I love you” as I got off the Marta train downtown.  Hey, I love you too.

6.  The Afghani man on St. Patrick’s Day who repeatedly told me he loved me, “I like really love you.  No, I mean it.  I want you to know I love you.  I don’t normally tell women this the first time I meet them.  But, I love you.” The same man who told my best friend that he was infatuated with me, but that he also had an uncontrollable urge to call me a bitch. Welcome to the club. 

And, just so you don’t think that this is a random occurrence of the last 6 months: The mentally handicapped boy at the bowling alley when I was eight years-old who asked me if I wanted to see something.  To which I replied, “yes.” To which he took his dick out of his pants and shook it at me.  Thanks, for getting the balls rolling.