(My husband and I are hosting a get-together of his friends and mine in our new apartment. He is introducing me to a friend of his who is a huge book nerd.)

My Husband: “I think you’ll like [My Name]; she’s a bibliophile, too! She just started reading Hannibal.“

Friend: “Ugh, I hated that book. Doesn’t it seem so forced that Clarice runs off with Hannibal in the end?”

Me: “…”

My Husband: “What part of ‘just started reading’ did you not get?”

Friend: “But… but it came out years ago! There was a movie!”

Me: “’JUST STARTED READING,’ [FRIEND]!”

Friend: “THERE WAS A MOVIE!”

Me: “This book is useless to me now. You should just eat it. EAT THE BOOK, SPOILER DEMON!”

Friend: “I’m sorry! My book nerd hatred for a bad plot overcame my book nerd hatred for spoilers!”

(I’m at home in my room with my sister. She pulls out a bag of beef jerky and looks at one of the pieces before taking a bite.)

Me: “That beef jerky looks like a cremated squirrel.”

Sister: “Haha, yeah…”

(We both pause for a second, actually processing what I just said.)

Me: “Well, not all the way.”

(I am looking at some small items on a lower shelf in a craft store and am therefore leaned over pretty far to get a good look. Suddenly, I feel a heavy, sharp blow of the back of my head. Slightly dazed, I look around and see a package has fallen from peg on the shelf above where I was looking. Picking it up, I see it’s a package of several dozen thin sheets of copper-meant for embossing projects; it’s heavy and with a sharp, small edge. I take the package to the front of the store and approach a cashier.)

Me: “Hi, um… This fell off the shelf and hit me in the head. I wanted to tell somebody that you need to hang them differently or something.”

Cashier: *looking at the package skeptically* “You’re saying this fell on you?”

Me: “Well, yeah, I was leaning over looking at something. See? It has a hanging tag on it, but a little tag like that couldn’t hold all that weight. It’s ripped in half, see? It ripped off under its own weight and fell.”

Cashier: *blank stare*

Me: “I just think they shouldn’t be displayed like that. Someone could get hurt. I mean, I got hurt, but someone could get really hurt.”

Cashier: “Hey, team lead!”

(The team lead walks over:)

Team Lead: “Is there a problem, ma’am?”

(I repeat the story, holding the package and lightly tapping it on the counter to show that it is, in fact, heavy, sharp sheets of metal. Both the cashier and team lead step back.)

Team Lead: “Ma’am, I’ll get the manager, but you need to calm down!”

(Baffled, I stand there while the cashier glares at me and turns her register light off. There are no other lanes open, and a line is forming. The team lead comes back and stands with the cashier. Neither moves to open another lane or ring up any customers. Thinking I’m in the way, I scoot a few steps back.)

Team Lead: “MA’AM! You need to wait here for the manager!”

Me: “Look, I was just trying to tell you guys that there’s a problem. How long do I need to wait?”

(The team lead stomps off and returns with a flushed-looking older man.)

Manager: “Ma’am, I’m sorry you’re upset, but…”

Me: “I’m not upset. I’m just trying to tell you guys you have a safety hazard in your store.” *repeats the story*

Manager: “And you’re saying that this fell and hit you in the head?”

Me: “Yes.”

Manager: “Are you bleeding?”

Me: “No, just a sore spot.”

Manager: “Do you need me to call an ambulance?”

Me: “No.”

Manager: “Then I’m not sure what you want from me. I’m not giving you that for free.”

(He grabbed the package and stormed off, muttering about me “wasting his time.” Baffled and ticked off, I went about my day. I was in that store again a few weeks later and, of course, they hadn’t moved or changed how they displayed those copper sheets. But there were several on the floor, leaning against the shelves, with the same torn hanging tags as the one that hit me. Here’s hoping no one gets really hurt.)

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(My roommate’s best friend recently had a nasty breakup, and moved in with us until she can get back on her feet. I don’t really like her; I think she’s kind of petty, and she’s constantly getting angry about things that I consider pretty inconsequential. When this happens, she claims it’s because of my white privilege, no matter what the issue is about. We’re both Caucasian and female, and after a month or so of this, I’m so sick of it that I usually just leave the room. At work one day, I go to pull my lunch out of the fridge, and sigh.)

Coworker #1: “Dude, what’s wrong?”

Me: “Oh, I picked up samosas for lunch, and I was really looking forward to them, but [Accidental Roommate] was guilt-tripping me about it earlier, that it’s not my culture and I shouldn’t be stealing someone else’s cuisine and traditions.”

Coworker #2: “F****** seriously? Look around you!”

(I do… at my Hindi coworkers eating pizza and pasta, my Filipino coworker eating hummus and pita chips, my black, Muslim coworker eating tacos, my Native American coworker eating fried rice and egg rolls, etc. I have to laugh.)

Me: “Okay, fair point.”

Coworker #3: “Seriously, f*** that. Other than [Native American Coworker], everyone’s family came here from somewhere else. They were looking for better lives for themselves and their kids, which includes better food. Tell that b**** to find something worth complaining about.”

Coworker #4: “Plus, I think a lot of businesses would go under if no white people ever shopped there. My mom runs a cafe, and she always said Americans make the best customers because they don’t know how the falafel is supposed to taste, so they aren’t constantly comparing it to their mom’s and grandma’s the way all of her Middle Eastern customers are.”

(I had to laugh, and I enjoyed my samosas a lot more after that. My accidental roommate is moving out in two months, and my coworkers have preemptively started a countdown.)

(I’m a female in my mid-twenties, and have just started a new job. One of the upper managers, who is in his early sixties, has come over to my desk to introduce himself. Somehow we get on the subject of football. I’ve been watching football with my dad since I was ten.)

Manager: “You watch football?”

Me: “Yep! My favorite team is [Hometown Team].”

Manager: “So, if you know football, tell me about [My Team’s Quarterback]. What do you think of him?”

(This happened several times at my previous job; guys don’t believe that a girl can like football. I feel an evil grin spread across my face.)

Me: “Well, I think he should stop throwing to [Wide Receiver] in triple coverage. That’s just asking for an interception! We’ve got so many great wide receivers, and he never uses them. Maybe his judgement has been clouded by the number of hits he’s taken. I guess that’s not his fault. The offensive line gets overrun by opposing defenses on every play. But I don’t want to talk about our offensive line. It’s the worst.”

(The manager is staring at me, open-mouthed.)

Manager: “Um, hmm. I, uh, don’t actually know that much about football. So, I guess I can’t comment.” *walks away*

(I told my dad the story a couple days later. He got a good laugh out of it.)