Dear Creepy Guy in the Airport Bar,
I’m sure you’re a fine human being—no better and no worse than me. But your repeated attempts at talking to me while I furiously stab at my keyboard don’t make you likable—quite the opposite, in fact. The harder you try to engage a disinterested woman, the more you become less of a fine human being and more of a gremlin. Your face has quickly warped from generically good-looking to toad-like. The way your beady, glossed-over eyes try to penetrate my concentration doesn’t do you any favors. The face you made as you leaned over and slurred, “What? Ahhre you writing youhhr book?” is disgusting.
By the look of the ring on your left hand you are a married man, and I am a twenty-something who doesn’t want to hear about your golf outing in Columbus, Ohio. I don’t care that you spent $2,000 today on a work outing. I especially don’t care that the sandwich you ordered is burning your mouth. You really nailed it when you described your mouth as muy fuego.
Normally I wouldn’t dissect a stranger’s actions, but since you refuse to be a stranger here’s some advice: Most women aren’t interested in the drunk guy at the airport bar. Most women are immediately disinterested when the bartender wishes the drunk guy a nice trip and he says, “Fat chance—I’m going home.” Most women would feel sorry for the wife you promised to be faithful to. Most women would find your disinterest in your own children to be repugnant. Some women may appease you because you’re drunk and irritable, but I am not one of them. I’m thrilled at the way you clench your fists when I ignore your dumb-ass one-liners. The outward aggression you display when you don’t get attention shows me who you are. You are a pathetic little man.
It’s not my job to entertain you. You sat down next to a stranger who’s glued to a laptop; social cues would indicate I’m busy. The way I didn’t look up when you sat down isn’t personal, it’s professional. I meet men like you all the time. Men who sit next to the single woman, thinking he’s going to inspire some brief chemical sexual explosion. The only explosion is my mind being blown at your complete lack of self-awareness. I’m not dense enough to think it’s about me; it’s not. I’m OK—nothing to write home about—but you decided I’m the hot girl. Now you have an angst-fueled flashback to the hot girl who ignored you in high school and college. You’re so blinded by your own insecurities you take my disinterest as a personal attack. But the real attack is you, a married man, trying to chat up a woman young enough to be your daughter. You’re attacking the security you promised your wife and children. You’re the emotional Unabomber attempting to blow up your life by having a tryst with a beautiful stranger.
I feel sorry for your wife and children. Your ruddy red cheeks aside, you’re not my type. I wouldn’t dare consider dating the kind of guy who drunkenly accosts a stranger in an airport bar. The way you feel entitled to my attention makes you the most unappealing thing in this airport, which is an impressive feat. Bravo.
Generically Good-Looking Girl