To the 58 yr-old who took the last $60 out of his account and invited me to dinner:
It’s not that I don’t find you attractive – I just don’t date guys who are more than 39 and half years older than me. That’s not even my rule, actually. It’s my dad’s… Something about he gets jealous when I date men who are older than him. I apologize.
BTW [Wait – you’re old. BTW means “by the way”.] Next time you ask an eighteen year-old bank teller out to dinner, make sure you have more than $60 to your name. Money was your only shot.
To the college kid who’s mother gave him $20 to take me out because she likes me and wants grandkids:
Where did you want to go? McDonald’s? Yeah… I really like you and everything. I’m just terribly afraid of clowns. Every time I see a picture of Ronald McDonald I pee myself. Wendy’s? Funny coincidence – red-headed girls also make me pee. So do Chihuahuas. And Oven Mitts that talk. And anyone wearing a cardboard crown. In fact, any place you can afford to take me that sells food – probably a bad idea. Why don’t we just skip the whole going out to eat thing? Instead, you can go home and get on Facebook and start liking all my pictures. I’ll go home and work on potty training. Yeah.
To the guy who hit on me while his girlfriend who I am friends with was standing about ten feet away:
You’re terribly cute. I’m just not into threesomes. Next time you want to flirt, wait until your girlfriend is out of state and then LIE TO ME. Tell me she got hit by a bus or something. Then when she calls me up crying because you’ve left her for someone else I will at least have the opportunity to tell her it’s not my fault. I thought she was dead.
To the crackhead who stays at his ex-girlfriend’s house next-door:
Two words. Find teeth. Then maybe we can talk. Or maybe not. I’m sure you will have come off your high by then and completely forgotten this conversation anyway.
To the man who started his own cult and wants me to bring a tambourine and join him while he proselytizes the good people of our city:
I am honored. Truly. Most men that ask me to dance with them do so for carnal reasons. You are the only man I’ve ever met who asked me to dance in order to spread his religion. As much as I respect and perhaps envy you for your audacity to walk around barefoot in our community, I cannot be with you. It’s not you – it’s the fleas that I’m sure live on you. Personally, I might be willing to overlook the issue. But if I brought home a man with fleas, my cat would never forgive me. It just won’t work. Oh yeah, and you think my Savior is the devil. I feel like that could also cause tension.
To everyone else:
This is just a sample of the men who pursue me. These are some of the responses I longed to express. Do you now understand why I am a Cat Lady? More stories to come… just give me time.