(I am fourteen years old but look like I’m nine. My computer teacher at school puts a cloth over everyone’s hands to practice touch typing. I do this while typing up an assignment in the public library. A stranger pulls the cloth away.)

Stranger: “What are you doing?”

Me: “Homework.”

(She looks over at my screen, and I block it because it is not her business.)

Stranger: “That’s not homework. You’re covering up because you are doing something bad. Why else would you cover the screen and your hands?”

(She chucks my cloth elsewhere.)

Me: “It is my homework, not yours, and the cloth is just how we were taught to touch type.”

Librarian: “Ma’am, please keep your voice down. Sweetie, is she bothering you? Where are your parents?”

(You have to be twelve to be here alone. I now see that the stranger is looking at my screen again.)

Me: “Hey!”

(The librarian turns off the monitor.)

Librarian: “Ma’am, please just go mind your business.”

Stranger: “She’s hiding something bad! A child doesn’t mean innocent.”

(A second librarian has arrived and is escorting her away. I turn back to the first librarian.)

Me: “I am fourteen, here alone, and I’m only doing homework. That stranger thought I was up to no good because I had that cloth over my hands, and it got worse when I covered my screen when she stared at it.”

Librarian: “I see. Let’s pick up that cloth she threw over there. Ignore that woman. We’ll keep an eye out.”

(I found out later that she has harassed others for various reasons.)

(I work in an adult store as a second job. We are a higher-class store that deals with more high-end stock and customers. We do work for commission, but we really don’t like to act like salespeople. I am a Pagan, but I generally don’t wear any showy jewelry as a personal preference. My husband bought me a beautiful pentacle pendant for our anniversary and I have been wearing it proudly for several days. The customers are monthly regulars and the wife is notorious for being rude.)

Me: “Welcome back! What brings you in tonight?”

Wife: *looks at me* “We don’t need help. Leave us alone.”

(She turns away from me as the husband nods agreement. We are currently having sales, and corporate demands that we inform the customers.)

Me: “Just so you know, we are having sales ri—“

Wife: *furiously* “We don’t care!”

(I just smile and walk away. We are supposed to stay within ten feet of the customers in case they have any questions. I stay further back as they wander our toy section until a different customer asks where a certain toy is. I walk her over and overhear the couple whispering.)

Wife: “I don’t think it’ll fit.”

Husband: “We can try more cream.”

(I don’t bother to ask if they have any questions and walk back to our checkout. About ten minutes later, they come up and put a bottle of vaginal tightening gel and the BIGGEST realistic dildo on the counter. It is a duplicate of the famous 70s p*rnstar John Holmes, nicknamed “The C**k of Legend.”)

Me: “Did you find everything all right?”

Wife: *sniffs* “Where is the other salesgirl? I want her to ring us up.”

Me: “I’m sorry, she is on lunch. I can get you rung out.”

Wife: “Fine, but don’t talk to us.”

(I am very annoyed at this point, so I ignore her and ask our standard questions as I ring everything up.)

Me: “Now, are you well stocked with lubricant and toy cleaner? This guy requires a lot.”

(At the same time, they both reply.)

Wife: “I SAID DO NOT SPEAK TO US!”

Husband: “She doesn’t need lube; she needs more tightening gel for it.”

(I barely hold back a laugh and I hear the other customer in toys laugh aloud. The wife is bright red and pissed off.)

Wife: “IT IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS, YOU FILTHY HEATHEN! I DON’T WANT ANYTHING ELSE! DON’T TRY TO SELL ME ANYTHING! YOU ALL ACT LIKE WHORES IN HERE, TRYING TO SELL STUFF!”

(I take a step back, actually shocked by what she said. My manager has just come out of the back office in time to hear it. Everyone knows I have never taken rudeness lightly and I am usually the one to deal with mean customers.)

Me: “Ma’am, please watch your mouth. You are calling us all whores when you are the one buying a dildo the size of my forearm and are afraid it won’t be big enough. And yes, I am a heathen. Ohga-bhoga! So, buy your toy, stock up on that tightening gel — since we are not expecting another shipment anytime soon — and go have a freaking orgasm because you need it.”

(She starts sputtering and doesn’t stop the entire time her husband goes back to grab the last of the gel, pays, and starts dragging her out the door. The other customers start laughing and clapping. My manager is laughing, too.)

Manager: “I don’t know whether to write you up or hug you.”

Me: “Buy me a coffee and call it even?”

(She walked away laughing.)

(It’s the day after my eighteenth birthday. I’m out with a friend when I remember I have to go to the ATM, so we stop at a gas station. My friend, who is nineteen, asks me if I’ll grab him a pack of cigarettes and he’ll pay me back later. I agree, and I walk in and get my money from the ATM, then grab a drink and a bag of chips. I approach the counter, ID in hand.)

Me: “Just this and a pack of [Brand].”

Cashier: “ID, please?”

Me: “Of course. Here you are.”

(He examines my ID for a second, looks at his watch, looks at the calendar, and then looks at me before looking at his watch again. He hands me my ID, then puts my drink and chips behind the counter.)

Cashier: “Get out. You can come back next week.”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Cashier: “Next week, man.”

Me: “I’m of legal age to buy those.”

Cashier: “Next week.”

Me: “What? No. I’m eighteen; I turned eighteen yesterday.”

Cashier: “Next week, buddy.”

Me: “Okay, well, can I at least buy my chips?”

Cashier: “Next week.”

Me: “But—”

Cashier: “Next week.”

(I walk out, kind of pissed off about the whole situation.)

Friend: “Did you get my smokes?”

Me: “Uh, no. The guy told me to leave.”

Friend: “You showed him your license, right?”

Me: “Yeah, but he just kept saying to come back next week.”

Friend: “Ah, don’t worry. I’ll get them eventually.”

(Same day, different gas station, I bought the cigarettes no problem. I’d stop going to that gas station if it wasn’t the closest to my house.)

My better half booked a two-week cruise for us both. She is fastidious when it comes to paperwork. We board after showing our tickets and are directed to our room.

While we are unpacking, there’s a knock on the door. We open it to see one of the cruise workers and a lady. The lady reminds me of an owl by the way she is peeking around the employee, looking into my room. I shut the door a tad so she can’t peer in, and I am informed that there seems to be an issue with the booking.

The employee asks if I could make my way to the purser’s desk with any paperwork we may have. We get the folder containing the paperwork and I head off with Mrs. Owl to get this sorted.

After ten minutes of listening to Mrs. Owl complain how unprofessional everything is, we get to the front of the line and are asked by the purser for any documentation we may have to help clear up the matter.

I hand her the folder saying, “This is every piece of correspondence between my partner, me, and your company, in chronological order starting with my partner’s first inquiry up until yesterday morning confirming our room number.”

The purser looks to Mrs. Owl. Mrs. Owl hands her a sticky note with a handwritten number on it.

Ten minutes later, I’m back in my room with my feet up drinking an extremely alcoholic cocktail.

Not sure what happened to the Owls.

(We receive a call at the weekend from a man who says he is from BT, the phone company, and is calling about our Internet connection. I know immediately it is a scam as we use a different provider, but I decide I’ll see how the conversation goes.)

Scammer: “Is your Wi-Fi router currently on?”

Me: “Yep.”

Scammer: “Can you tell me how many lights are flashing on it?”

Me: *picking a number at random* “Um… seventeen.”

Scammer: “Seventeen?”

Me: “Yep.”

Scammer: “Are you crazy? You f****** crazy! Motherf***** woman!”