Dear Gross Guy

Dude, what's your deal?

From the moment I sat down on the bus this morning until the time I stepped off you did not stop staring at me. Your eyes bore into me like lasers, and I was highly uncomfortable. Don't tell me you were "Struck by a thunderbolt" like you're the Michael Corleone to my Appolonia, 'cause you're not that smooth, and I'm not that special. I realize I was particularly radiant this morning. I was wearing a new(er) dress. I dried my hair rather than let the exhaust particulate-filled Seattle air do the job as I normally do. Overcompensating for the pimple on my chin, I even wore some make-up. So I appreciate that you noticed, but not that you stared.

Prudence dictates that it's perfectly acceptable, even polite, to make eye contact with a stranger. But when, for the entire duration of the ride from Ballard to Queen Anne, I can look over at you and guarantee your eyes would be fixed on me, a lesson in manners is called for. If you're so smitten with me then place one of those "I saw you" ads in The Stranger or something, but stop ogling me. Occasionally you would grin at me as though we were sharing some kind of secret. Get a life.

Yeah, there you were, gumming dried Cheerios one by one, perched on your dad's knee, staring at me. It was pretty gross, the way your whole hand goes in your mouth just to put a single Cheerio in there. You're not even my type. You've barely grown any hair and you have about as many teeth as a meth addict. Plus, I'm at least 22 years older than you. I have no interest in fulfilling your Older Woman fantasy.

"Ooh," you say, "I can't place a personals ad because I'm pre-verbal." Well, I'm really not interested in teaching you the ABCs. I bet you don't even have a job. Oh, and I can tell you didn't get a bath this morning. There's some Gerber dried on your cheek. It looks like vomit. That's disgusting. You are a little pig. If I catch you staring at me on the bus again like that I'm gonna spray you with mace.

Give it up, you greasy perv.