I can’t remember the last time someone normal hit on me.

When I say someone normal, I’m only referring to someone within my generation, vaguely sober, and without potential restraining orders.

There was the infamous DP Incident of several months ago in which a gentleman approached me at the bar to compliment my “beauty.” I’m still not entirely sure what happened between his Mad Men introduction and the five minutes that followed, but by that point, he and his friend had re-approached me to inquire about my stance on following them home for some double-penetration. I will always remember this night fondly in my heart, for it was the night that I subsequently decided I was never going to leave my house again.

Then I realized I would have to leave my house again because a) I have a job and b) there is no underground tunnel system leading from my apartment to my two favorite stores, Auntie Anne’s Pretzels and Sephora.

This realization no doubt led to the misunderstanding between myself and a customer at work. He mistook my kind customer service skills as romantic advances; I mistook his daily patronage as his dedication to our espresso. (We pay $10/lb. That’s wholesale! It is REALLY good espresso.)

After two weeks of him asking both me and my coworkers what my schedule was and me flattering myself with the thought that he just liked my lattes the best, it all came to a head one morning. After getting his drink, he awkwardly handed me a napkin. It was really sweet for the two seconds it took me to realize that even though I always feel like a 10-year-old, that ship has sailed, docked, sailed again, and sank somewhere. I am not 10, and this shit is weird.

“This is so you can write your number down so I can take you out sometime,” he said. It’s worth mentioning at this point that he appeared to be at least a Teen Mom older than I am.

“That’s… nice,” I said, “but I have a boyfriend. Sorry.” Also, I made a promise to myself that I would do my best to not die this year.

And this is where it should have stopped. Instead, he said, “Well, so do I!” and laughed at his own joke. Again, coulda, shoulda, woulda stopped. He pushed the napkin closer to me. “Write your number down anyway,” he said knowingly.

Excuse me.

Long story, but I later found out this particular dude was also infamous for stalking the girls at a restaurant across town. Charming and not at all unsettling!

Then there was a few weeks ago. During this time period, I was doing something different with my hair, which I think set off a beacon to those who are currently splashing around in the mid-life crisis pool.

Like, I was trying to complete a transaction at the gas station and a man hovering around the counter stared at me until he finally told me, out of nowhere, the things he would do to me if he were 25 years younger. That’s what he said: “The things I would do to you if I were 25 years younger.” As if his unfortunate date of birth was the reason why he and I will never do all of the things.

There was also the grandfather who told me he’d rather have me for dessert than his actual dessert, and the middle-aged on-duty police officer who asked me if I fooled around on the first date. You don’t understand how much I wish I was lying.

I’m not dying to get hit on. I don’t even like getting hit on. Truth be told, I would be entirely satisfied if no one ever even spoke to me again in any context, period. But why do I only attract the drunk, the creepy, and the elderly (and usually a weird, lethal cocktail of all three)?

To quote Björk, there’s definitely (definitely, definitely) no logic to human behavior. And to quote myself, fuck this shit.