Dear Men of Saint Louis,
My existence on the same public sidewalk as you does not mean you are entitled to talk to me.
Do you need the time? I can do that. Do you need vague, inarticulate directions? I can definitely help. But, unless you are vaguely in my age range and honestly think that if we one day made babies they would be happy, healthy, and not dragged down to some mean attractiveness, you absolutely do not need my phone number. You do not need to tell me I’m pretty. You do not need to explain to me that you got out of that cop car on the corner because you need to arrest me for “looking so sexy.” You do not need to lie to me about some fictitious wife who is unable to satisfy your foot fetish needs, and you certainly do not need to touch MY feet.
Is this still unclear? Let me give you a few more guidelines.
Are you a better singer than anyone on my ipod? No? I probably don’t want to listen to you talk when I’m otherwise engaged in something that’s happily occupying my auditory channels. Are you an essay I must complete for my graduate degree? When I’m writing in a coffee shop, you are absolutely not worth my time. Am I on the phone? Are your fucking minutes free? I’m paying to talk to the person on the other end. I want to talk to them. Did you yell at me? Did I ignore you? Yes, I heard you. I also heard you when you came up next to me. I also heard you when you began yelling about getting my number. Consider my silence a tacit disapproval of your attention-speaking behavior.
I know how hard it is to get a girl to talk to you. I do. But me? I personally do not owe you anything just because you’ve been rejected before. My priority is always going to be watching over myself and if I’m ignoring you, it means I think you look shifty. Are you? I don’t fucking know, but I also don’t fucking care. Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’d be the love of my life. But, in my experience, funny, well-educated men who are aware of how unbearably stupid a person looks when they use “u” and “r” and “2” in written language don’t hold my feet or yell at me to give them my number. I can only talk to so many men, so please respect the fact that I’m playing the odds. Remember? Getting a graduate degree. I’m busy.
A Saint Louis woman
So…um…anyone else thinking this broad must be pretty hot?
The one thing that really stands out in this is that someone is going around St. Louis touching women’s feet!
You do not need to lie to me about some fictitious wife who is unable to satisfy your foot fetish needs, and you certainly do not need to touch MY feet.
What can I say? She’s inspired me. I have a couple of letters I need to get off my chest:
Dear Foot Fetish Guy,
I don’t know if you’ve heard, but chicks don’t like that stuff. Well some might, but I would wager that approximately 0% like it on the street from some random dude that followed them for 2 blocks building up the courage.
On the other hand, I do respect you for getting after it. Sure your idea is beyond stupid, but you know what? You thought it was a good one, probably the best plan you had, and you went for it! Good for you dude. Not many guys go there. Most guys don’t go for the “right on the street” approach because we are shy, or nervous, but you shook those feelings off and with your loose grip on reality pushing you closer to her you took the big step, walked up, grabbed her feet and yelled at her about how she needs to give you her number. Cheers buddy!
My one hope for you though is that your “technique” never works. If it does, you have successfully broken down eons of flirtation across bars and ages of sweaty palms from wooing. Also, it would probably be your first step down the slippery slope to serial killer-land.
Dear Angry Probably Hot Chick,
You sound tense. Ironically, you might just need a foot rub.