Stop Hitting On Me While I’m Trying To Do My Job


Socializing is one of the biggest parts of college and arguably one of the most important. After all, you can’t network well if you’re a socially awkward mess. There are many ways we involve ourselves in meeting people, such as classes, the Greek system, various clubs, work, Tinder, etc. All of these are guaranteed to make you at least one (or a few hundred) friends. In some situations, sometimes you meet people and end up jumping their bones. That’s great. But some situations are just not the time to be putting in that kind of work. More specifically, while the person you are trying to get into bed is at work.

I get it, sometimes the person is just too good-looking and gawking is necessary. But when the target in question is trying to get them dollars, I promise she isn’t interested in the D. Why? Because at work, we’re sober (most of the time). I might just be old-fashioned, but I like to be somewhere between blacked out and dead before I go home with a guy. I don’t know how to flirt sober. Beyond that, I usually don’t want to. There’s a time and a place for gracing a stranger with my mediocre body, and that is between 11pm-1am Thursday through Saturday. Literally any other time and I have more important things to worry about.

Unless you intend to financially support me, your dick does not pay the bills. I refuse to try and explain to my boss that the reason I got nothing done at work today is because I can’t shut off my libido off long enough to do anything other than listen to his cheesy pickup lines. Could you imagine explaining that you can’t pay your dues because you were fired for getting it in at work? It’s especially bad if the boy is cute because then I want to flirt but I can’t.

While it is annoying when the average Joe spends way too long talking to my boobs, I get irrationally angry when I have to turn away a beautiful specimen. Of course, I would love to take you into my boss’ office and fuck you on the desk, but I’m not allowed to. So fuck you. I am pissed, and all of that hatred will be directed at you. And guess what? I will be pissed for the rest of the day because I rejected you, effectively ruining my chances. If you hadn’t flirted, I would be able to fantasize about running into you at a later time and living happily ever after.

I also worry about your standards. My time to shine is in a dark bar in a barely-there outfit talking to the guys who have a severe case of beer goggles. These guys see me in broad daylight for who I really am. Is it some sort of sick joke? I don’t wear a uniform but I’m not dressed to impress in any way. My hair and makeup routine have gone from “minimal effort” to “please put me out of my misery” by the time I start my shift every night. “You’re so hot,” they say in an effort to woo me. But am I? Am I really? Because the thin layer of dirt encasing my body and sweat stains from moving boxes all day would beg to differ. The only explanation would be if they were desperately hoping that this would be a Cinderella scenario. Maybe they’re praying that once I take a shower I will transform into a beautiful princess. In which case, do I really want to see the look of disappointment when you discover that the cleaner version of myself is still me? No thanks, I don’t want to be a walking catfish.

Besides, you probably just creep me the fuck out. The store I work at is a lot like Spencer’s Gifts, meaning that it has a sex toy section. The amount of guys that buy porn and ask if I want to watch it with them or ask me to demonstrate how to properly use a dildo is alarming. If you say creepy as fuck things like that I will automatically assume that you’re a psychopath who has never seen a boob in real life before. Do I want to come home with you? Why? So you can make a lampshade out of my skin? Um, no thanks. I’ve seen “American Horror Story” enough times to know that the only person I will be calling is a police officer. And maybe a priest, because you need Jesus.

But I do get it. I know that when a girl works in a strip club, or at Hooters, or in a sex store, dealing with thirsty idiots is part of the job description. But shouldn’t that deter guys more? If they know that the same tired pickup line has been used on a girl dozens of times that *day*, why do they still assume it will work? If you want any chance of standing out and getting a callback, you need to think outside the box. Bring me food, bring me a puppy, or bring me something sparkly. Because “suh, girl” shockingly won’t cut it.

Image via Shutterstock

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Blondie excels at being an underachiever. She is currently trying to add an extra year onto her undergrad so she can continue to down $7 bottles of wine in an environment that encourages her erratic behavior. After graduation, she has big plans to flunk out of a prestigious law school. Email her compliments and Netflix suggestions at [email protected] EDIT** if you suggest Black Mirror she's already seen it. So stop suggesting it. Seriously. Please stop suggesting it.

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