Dear Sir, Get the Hell Out of My Bubble!

Ok, unless you are my husband or my child, or there are six people crammed across the backseat of a car and it usually fits three comfortably, there is no need to be that close to me, so why do you insist, freaky man? Either you are oblivious to the bubble that is so sacredly mine that you are repeatedly bursting with your creepy closeness, or you are, for lack of a better word, retarded.

Get out! What don't you understand about my body language? Am I so out of tune with other men that you think my side-stepping, shoulder-turning, eye-avoiding and conversation-ending is mistaken as an invite for closer contact? Must you be fractions of a centimeter away from me at any given time? Must you track me down to intrude into my bubble just when I thought I've made my point, that I have escaped you??

I am aware that you think you are god's gift to women, you little troll, but you are not. You are bizarre, and beyond lucky you found a woman who may think you are at least half as attractive as YOU think you are, so stick with that. Take your sleeveless 80's gym shirt elsewhere and stop fishing for compliments and flattering yourself- believe me, you don't want to know what I'm thinking about you. Please go back to your troll world where you are the King, and get the HELL out of my bubble.

Shudder