Friends, I pickup where I left you but moments ago. As previously mentioned, they didn't shut up. Literally. It was two dude forms of Six from Blossom (which may be an antiquated reference, but I refuse to part with the 90s. I JUST REFUSE.) And that's never okay.
It turns out that the bald one was half-Honduran. Or something. And from California. Or something. Because strangers often feel compelled to share with me their life stories. And I often feel compelled not to care. So he spoke to me in Spanish. A LOT. He kept telling me that I spoke Spanish really well. I kept telling him that yes, that tends to happen when you're fluent. And then he'd tell me how well I spoke it. Again. I guess "fluent" is one of those words that is easily lost in translation. Or stupidity.
Either way, he then proceeded to attempt to unzip my boot, asking why "all you New York women wear boots." Well, compadre, here are some facts that might help you:
1) It's November. Flip-flops aren't generally practical footwear for 40 degree nights in a city.
2) I'm not from New York. I'm from Jersey. You're lucky I just smacked your hand away and said "Don't touch the boots." I could have gone native style and told to "Get your fucking hand off the fucking boots before I have Uncle Vito make YOU a new pair of boots. Of concrete." I don't really have an Uncle Vito. But it's New Jersey. I'm sure someone in a 10 mile radius does.
3) You're an idiot.
And then, we left. The moral of this story is that men are idiots and tact is dead. And more importantly, don't touch my fucking boot.
Fin.
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