Not every rando is in love with you, ya conceited broad

The cashier at Rite Aid is into me and it’s makin’ it real difficult to buy lady products.

I can tell he digs me by the way he hands me my change. There’s a moment of painfully direct eye contact followed by fingertip caressing as he beams and says, “Have a wonderful day, miss!” The one time I told him, Nah, it’s cool, keep the nickel, his face crumpled in a display of pathetic only those stuck spending their day selling condoms and cheap liquor to college kids can muster.

Yeah, OK, Katie. So he gives you correct change. That’s his job.

But it’s not just the coin exchangin’/pupil banging (although seriously, do you know how difficult it is to purchase tampons when someone is trying to impregnate you with their eyes and eliminate the need for plastic applicators all together?). I can tell by the way he follows me around the store giving his opinion on the best granola brands, and the way he asks so sincerely about my weekend plans; the way he laughs outrageously when I look down at my sports bra and six pack of Shock Top and say “Uh… this.”

He could just take customer service very seriously. Maybe he wakes up every morning thinking Today is the day I will change the world by offering 2-for-1 Colgate deals to all! Maybe he’s genuinely friendly to every person that walks through those automatic doors. And so the other day, as I watched him assist a crotchety old man with the same amount of kindness, I realized…

For a girl with small tits, I sure try to compensate with big sass.

It’s like small-penis-big-truck syndrome. It’s this strange sensation of being the stereotypical young female level of insecure while simultaneously being vain as hell. I pinch my underarm flab and wish for breasts that didn’t resemble mosquito bites as much as the next chick, yet I assume every dude I meet must somehow be interested in me because I have different orifices than they do.

I play into a lot of the male behavior most women put down. Not because I’m “asking for it” or trying to get some, but because—let’s be honest—I like the attention. Some of my friends complain about getting catcalled, but instead of thinking, Ugh, is respect, like, so much to ask for? I secretly think, Fuck yeah, I am rocking this floral ensemble, thank you for noticing, strange hobo man. When I put on a tight dress, it’s partly because I feel good about myself and am miraculously not sporting a food baby that day. But it’s also because I know I’m more likely to be treated favorably by the opposite sex (i.e. free drinks, corny compliments I can laugh about with my friends, etc). I may not always appreciate the crass delivery of some of these advances, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a lil flattered.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being confident, because really, what kind of twat discourages loving yourself. But there is something wrong about gaining such confidence solely from male attention, just as there’s something wrong with assuming all men are trying to hit on you if you exchange more than two syllables of conversation. It’s tough making guy friends when you think any kindness is code for let’s have bebes. A guy will ask to borrow a pen and suddenly there’s sexual tension because obviously that means he wants my hand essence to touch his hand essence and that’s so incredibly dirty oh god. That’s probably why all my current male friends are already coupled up or into The Peen. I have no idea how to interact with men even if they are simply interested in something platonic.

It’s also confusing sustaining yourself on self-deprecating humor and sarcasm and then having to look in a mirror and have no idea if you actually like what you see. I swear every other minute I’m either overly conceited and stalking my own Facebook profile or huddled in a corner weeping over the three gray hairs that keep growing in the middle of my head while worrying about how I have no friends. This whole FML I’m a helpless twenty something who am I what is life where’s my alcohol blankie thing is exhausting.

If I can skip around with the mentality that wearing a short skirt doesn’t automatically make me a slut, I can’t assume any guy who is nice to me is automatically a horndog trynna get up said skirt. I’m obviously not going to discount the possibilities of stranger danger, but it’s about time I start giving & receiving kindness without freaking out—to randos and to myself. Next time Rite Aid dude laughs a little too enthusiastically at one of my jokes, I’m gonna try not to read anything into it. Because after all… I’m hilarious.


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