(I’m a six foot tall black man and am dressed casually, but nothing dirty or torn. I pull up to a gas station to fill up my car and notice that my windshield is somewhat messy. I get a couple of paper towels and the squeegee and begin to clean my windshield. There’s another car parked next to me with a young guy pumping his gas. I’m minding my own business. A girl comes out of the gas station, then starts to wander in my direction.)

Girl: “Hey, you in the hat!”

Me: *glances over at her*

Girl: *in an incredibly condescending tone* “You wanna washa my window for two dolla?”

Me: “Hmm. I have a better proposition. How about I give you $20 to s*** my d***?”

(I notice that the other customer is now paying attention to this girl and me.)

Girl: “I’m not a prostitute! I’m insulted! I’m a—”

Me: “—it doesn’t matter what you are. Just like you’re outraged to be called a prostitute, I’m insulted to be called a $2 window washer. So if you don’t want to be insulted, maybe you shouldn’t insult others, hmm?”

Girl: “It was just a joke!”

Me: “The joke, my dear lady, is you.”

Girl: *storms off*

(The other customer doesn’t say a word. He just walks over to me, holds up his hand for a high-five. I give him one, and then he gets in his car and drives off.)

(I’m not getting married, but my friend is known to have a crush on my boyfriend.)

Friend: “In 10 years I’m going to go to your wedding and sing ‘Speak Now.'”

Me: “Why? What wedding?”

Friend: “Yours. You know the song, right? You are not the kind of boy who should be marrying the wrong girl! Don’t say yes. Run away now. I’ll meet you when you’re out and they said speak now.”

Me: “Yeah. Okay, then.”

Friend: “I’ll get a whole team of people.”

Me: “Well, maybe we won’t tell you the location.”

Friend: “We both know you’ll post it on Facebook and boast about it all over the place.”

Me: “You’ve got me there. I would boast the hay out of that.”

Friend: “You’re going to elope now. Aren’t you?”

Me: “Well, if you plan to bring a posse of wedding ruiners. It’s either that or we bring guns.”

Friend: “Too bad. I wanted to ruin a wedding.”

Me: “How about you just break into a church during one and randomly sing. Just to see how many grooms actually go to the back door with you to run away from their brides.”

Friend: “Good plan.”

(I am about seven years old and not a very social child. I have passed all of my tasks except for a ‘sewing meet’ that all of the girls are required to attend. The project is Barbie clothes.)

Me: *picks up blue cloth to sew a skirt*

Girl: “Ew! Why would you pick such a boyish color? Your Barbie is going to look so ugly in that! Girls should wear pink or purple! Blue is for boys!”

Me: *looks at the pink mini-skirt the girl is sewing* “Better my Barbie looks like a boy than a slut like yours.”

(My mother couldn’t stop laughing. While I passed, I wasn’t invited back to the sewing meet.)

(I attended several different high schools. My senior year, I received a copy of my class schedule but noticed it was marked that I was a sophomore. Concerned, I scheduled an appointment for a review.)

Secretary: “Yes, that’s correct. You’re listed as a sophomore.”

Me: “But I’m a senior.”

Secretary: “We requested your records from your old school multiple times and they never sent them so we can’t credit you for those classes. You’ll have to take them over.”

Me: “You’re saying I have to take two additional years of high school because someone messed up and didn’t send you my records?”

Secretary: *looking smug* “It appears that way.”

(She picks up a folder and something falls out onto her lap. She glances down and gets a strange look on her face.)

Secretary: “Oh… These are your records from your old school. Seems we did get them and just misplaced them.”

(The records were still incomplete: I had to take extra classes that year just to earn enough credits to graduate on time. It still bothers me that the school was willing to make me repeat two grades rather than make sure they had the transfer information. And in my senior yearbook, I’m listed with the sophomores.)

(I am in college, studying computing. A friend one year below me is trying to cheat on his computer hardware assignment.)

Friend: “You did this assignment last year, right? Can you send me what you wrote for your description of a CPU?”

Me: “Uh… Sure.”

Friend: “Great! That would be really helpful.”

(I check my computer to find a file I’d written months ago just to entertain myself in a moment of boredom. The file was half a page of Star Trek techno-babble nonsense. I prefix the nonsense text with ‘A CPU can be described as…’ and send him the ‘CPU description.’)

Friend: *glances at text* “Thanks! That’s an awesome description!”

Me: “No problem.”

Friend: *looking proud* “Hey, [Teacher], can you check out my CPU description to see if it’s okay for the assignment?”

Teacher: “Okay.”

(About thirty seconds of silence pass as the teacher reads the ‘CPU description.’)

Teacher: *slowly mumbling* “I don’t think the CPU has a quantum singularity warp core.”

(The friend didn’t try cheating from me again!)

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