So pretty and witty and gay.

I've come to regard the UCLA campus much like a city: where its' inhabitants come and go as they please, occasionally once in a blue moon seeing a familiar face. There's a local food market, a gym, a swimming pool, cafés, etc. People walk their dogs, take their children around, hell, I mean there are tourists on campus snapping photos of unsuspecting passerby. In such an atmosphere it's customary for me to shove in my earphones and tune out. Literally. I retreat into my own isolated world and I don't come out until I reach the doorstep of my apartment. Now, my world is a world that doesn't like to be disturbed. I don't like to be bothered with the plight of orphaned children in Saskathana (is that a real place?), get your type 39 Alzheimer's cause out of my face, and no, I do not want to donate to Calpirg.

Don't these people know that I am BUSY with WALKING?! Don't they know that I can't be inundated with their disturbances? What, do I look like a friendly person to talk to or something? Do I look like a sucker who will fork over money? By now I hope that you've caught onto my sarcasm. I would love to help orphans and diseases, just not while I'm zoning . . .because then I have a just-woke-up sensation.

This morning I woke up baggy-eyed, freezing cold, and out of sorts. I stood. Staring at my closet for about, oh, 7 minutes. Staring. By the time I realized I was 10 minutes late, I shuffled something onto my body and headed out the door. After class I made a trip to the gym. So here I was, sweaty, probably smelly, probably looked like death from lack of sleep, and frustrated because I had dropped my ipod in the locker room and it was making some ticking noise like it was going to blow up in my face. In my periphery I see some stranger's face saying some words to me. Taking out my earphones, I give him a look of surprise. He had jolted me out of my world. Within 2 seconds, I had analyzed this stranger. He was about my height, curly hair, mid-20's, sallow eyes, with a printed article in hand.

Damn it, I don't have money, mister.

Since I was right outside of the lesbian, gay, and transgender center, I somehow assumed that he was fundraising for some cause and that he was gay. I don't know how I came to that conclusion, but then he spoke.

(Conversation not verbatim, but the gist)

Man: "Hi. Um. . . my name is _____ and I'm a grad student here."
Me: "Hi..."
Man: "Yeah, I never do this, but, I felt like I just had to."
Me: ". . ."
Man: "Um. I think you're the prettiest girl that I've ever seen."
Me: ". . . oh. Uh." (insert nervous chuckle.)
Man: (briskly) "Don't be alarmed! I'm normal, I swear. I'm not a creep -- but I was wondering . . .if it's okay with you, if I could have your number? We could get together sometime just to hang out?"
Me: ". . . uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh"
Man: "You could give me a fake number if you're not interested."
Me: ". . ."


Gee mister, thanks for the ego boost. I salute your balls, for they are substantial. I find it funniest that he made it a point to assure me that he was normal and, "not creepy." What makes someone creepy anyway? Is it just a strange man or is it an ugly strange man? I'm more inclined to believe that a guy is more creepy if he's got the face of an ass. A beard doesn't help either. Also, any sort of strange prop in hand (an axe, for example.) However, you wouldn't necessarily call someone like oh, I don't know, Jim Sturgess, creepy, you'd just call yourself lucky, if there was ever a situation where Jim Sturgess stopped you on the street and asked for your number.

Bottom line: Guys, grow some balls, and if you're lucky and not ugly, you may get the girl. Otherwise, you're just shallow and creepy.