I have my mom’s small, deep veins. I still try to donate blood and plasma if I can, and I’ve had some ongoing health concerns for years. I’ve gotten very used to being turned into a pincushion whenever I need blood drawn. Usually, the techs get the vein after a few attempts, but it’s not uncommon for me to be in pain and/or bruised following bloodwork. Remarkably, I have yet to faint or develop a phobia.

I have some lab work scheduled and need a blood draw. I offer the arm I’ve been told is better, look away, and start taking deep breaths. I’m focused on breathing, but eventually, I realize I don’t feel anything, so I look over at the nurse. She’s wrapping my arm and has the filled vial next to her!

Me: *Incredulously* “How’d you do that?! I’m used to people sticking me a bunch of times!”

Nurse: *Without missing a beat* “That’s ‘cause they suck.”

My family is a big fan of a certain hard rock band that comes to our city every few years to tour, and we go whenever we can.

I am autistic and have a hard time at concerts, which led to a big fight at one point. To cope with this, I wear noise-canceling headphones and sit down at shows; they only play at standing venues, for some reason.

In early 2022, they came to our city again, and I set myself up on the bleachers in the venue with a drink and my headphones.

Something important to note is that I’m not exactly the intended audience for this band; I was one of about four teenagers in the entire venue, including my sibling. It was disproportionately goths and older men with big beards and band tees. Something else to note is that even though I was sixteen, I had a h*** of a baby face and looked about twelve.

A couple of hours in, most people around me were drunk. I was chilling in my spot when a man who was about a foot taller than me, around my dad’s age, and clearly inebriated came up to me. 

Man: “Hey, are you… Are you wearing headphones?”

I nodded.

He then launched into a screaming tirade.

Man: “You’re not appreciating the music! You should be living in the moment! Take your headphones off and respect the band!”

I realized that he thought I was listening to music — I was not, and my phone was dead anyway — but it was too loud for me to clarify, and I was too busy crying. 

This carried on for a bit until my dad, himself very large and bearded, turned around to check on me and found the scene.

He got between me and the man and started tearing into this dude telling him that I’m autistic, that I wasn’t bothering anyone, that I love this band, and that he was being a jerk to a kid for no reason. He said some other stuff I couldn’t catch because I took the opportunity to bolt to the relatively quiet bathroom.

When I scooted back to my seat later, my dad let me know that the man had apologized and said he didn’t know and felt awful. I appreciate it, but I feel like maybe you should think before screaming at a kid you don’t know until they cry.

I have recently begun work at a local family-run costume shop. Our store is relatively small compared to some other bigger Halloween stores, but we have a huge amount of inventory and many loyal customers (who tend to come to us before other stores). I’m the only worker there who really loves horror movies, so I make it a point to know where all our horror merchandise is and what we have.

I’m restocking when a customer approaches me.

Customer: “Do you have any prop knives from the new [Popular Horror Franchise] movie?”

Me: “We don’t have any from the newest movie, but we do have these replicas from some of the older films that might work!”

I show him our display. He shakes his head.

Customer: “No, I really wanted the newest one.”

Me: “Did you see it on our website? We have a lot of inventory, so sometimes things that are listed there will be stored in the back room instead of on the floor.”

Customer: “Oh, no, I just assumed you’d have it since [Online Retailer] does. It comes in a box, if that helps!”

Ah, yes, it comes in a box. Like every other prop knife we sell. The customer left disappointed and I was left scratching my head.

I’m selling my old car online. It’s in pretty great shape, so I list it for $10,000 — just a little under its Kelly Blue Book value. One buyer contacts me about the car, and we schedule a meetup so I can show it to him in person. Three days later, he arrives and I show him the car. He looks over it thoroughly and then looks at me.

Buyer: “You take $3,000.”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Buyer: “You hear me. You take $3,000.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but I did state in the email and the listing that the price was firm at $10,000.”

Buyer: “You do not get $10,000. You take $3,000.”

Me: “Again, the price is not up for negotiation.”

Buyer: “You take $3,000.”

Me: “Then I’m afraid we’re not going to come to a deal. It’s either $10,000 or no deal.”

Buyer: “No, you do not get $10,000. You take $3,000!”

Me: “Okay, I’m going to have to ask you to leave now. I’ve said many times that my price is firm at $10,000. I am not going to be selling this car for $3,000.”

Buyer: “You do not get $10,000! You take $3,000! I drive fifty mile to look at your car! I do not leave without it! You take $3,000!“

Me: “No, I am not taking $3,000 for it. And as of right now, you are trespassing on my property. If you’re not out of here in sixty seconds, I’m going to be calling the cops.”

Buyer: “YOU TAKE $3,000!”

Me: “No. Leave my property. Now.”

Buyer: “FINE! I MAKE YOU TAKE $3,000!”

He then picks up a rock and throws it at my car, shattering the windshield and causing damage to the dashboard.

Buyer: “NOW YOU TAKE $3,000!”

I pull out my phone and call the police as he continues to scream, “YOU TAKE $3,000!” at me like a broken record.

Two officers arrive a few minutes later, and I explain to them that the buyer is refusing to leave after I asked him to and that he damaged the car. One officer turns to the buyer and is barely able to speak to him before he screams at the officer.

Buyer: “HE DO NOT TAKE $3,000! ARREST HIM!”

The first officer tried to calm the buyer down, but the buyer charged the officer, who then grappled and handcuffed him. Meanwhile, I showed the second officer footage from my security system, clearly showing the buyer throwing the rock at my car, and informed him that I wanted to press charges against the buyer.

Ultimately, the buyer was sentenced to probation, and he also had to pay me damages and restitution for repairs. The replacement windshield and dashboard came to a little over $3,000 after labor, so in a sense, yes, I did “take $3,000” that he wanted me to take — not the way he wanted me to take it, though, plus he had to pay additional damages on top of that. After I fixed my old car, I did eventually sell it to one of my friends, who lost his car when a drunken driver crashed into it.

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I like to bake and sometimes bring in cookies and such to share with my coworkers. Two of my coworkers are vegan, so I’ll label whether something I brought in is suitable for their consumption, either “vegan” or “non-vegan”. They’re actually pretty cool about it, and they like it when I bring in the vegan apple cinnamon muffins.

Last week, I made shortbread, which is literally just flour, brown sugar, and butter. I put out a plate in the breakroom with a handwritten note reading, “Non-Vegan”.

A newer coworker — non-vegan — stood by the table, staring hard at the plate, and finally blurted out:

Coworker: “So, like, does this have ground beef in it?”

I slowly blinked a few times while I tried to figure out what sort of cookies she’s been eating.