(I am in my early 20s but have an invisible disability. It attacks my muscles and, when I’m in a crisis, makes it very hard to do ordinary things, like even standing up for long periods. I am just getting past a flare-up in my disease, and I’m out alone on a bus for the first time in ages, having a really great day. The bus is fairly full when an older lady, late 50s or early 60s, gets in. Since I’m on such a good day, I decide to offer my seat.)

Me: “Here, ma’am, you can have my seat.”

Lady: *rudely* “I should hope so. You young people have no business even standing on a bus, much less sitting. You should be walking or at least using a bike! Lazy! You’re all lazy!”

(I was gathering my things to stand, but as she begins to rant, I sit right back down.)

Lady: “What are you doing? Why aren’t you standing?”

Me: “Well, ma’am, you clearly would rather complain than sit down, so I’m giving you more reasons to do that.”

Lady: “That’s outrageous! You owe me respect! What kind of parents did you have that they didn’t teach you to respect your elders?”

Me: “Pretty good ones; they taught me to stand up for myself. And that means no bus seats for people who insult me. So, you can stand, instead, and keep complaining!”

(After complaining some more, and trying to cause a scene, she appealed to the bus driver. But since I had a disabled pass, meaning I can sit on even reserved seats, there was nothing he could do. And since everyone around heard what the woman was spouting, nobody else offered her a seat. I continued having an even better day, having hopefully taught someone to keep their mouth shut!)

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(I’m 16 years old and am in the Boy Scouts of America. I’ve taken a group of younger scouts with me to a school board meeting. This is a requirement for the Citizenship in the Community merit badge I’m helping them earn. As we observe the meeting, I notice that one of the board member’s nameplates says, “Bob Roberts.” During a break, I speak up.)

Me: “Excuse me, Mr. Roberts?”

Roberts: “Yes?”

Me: “Your first name, Bob… That’s short for Robert, right?”

Roberts: “Yes, very good.”

Me: “So, your name is… Robert Roberts?”

Roberts: *deadpan* “Yes, it is.”

Me: “Your parents have quite a sense of humor, don’t they?”

Roberts: “Yes, they sure did.”

Me: “Do I dare ask what your middle name is?”

Roberts: “It’s Anthony.”

Me: *a little disappointed* “Oh…”

(I have taken my niece and son, both seven, out for lunch. As soon as they go to wash their hands while we wait for the food to arrive, a blonde woman, probably in her 20s, whom I have never seen before or afterward sits down at our table. She has a high voice.)

Woman: “Hey, [Someone Else]!”

Me: “Oh, my name isn’t–”

Woman: “I was thinking about what you said last night. About your earliest memory.”

Me: “Yeah, I think you might have the wrong table.”

Woman: “So, I realised my first memory was of me as a little kid; I must have been three or four or something. It was with my cousin; you’ve met my cousin.”

Me: “I don’t think I’m–”

Woman: “Remember? The one who married your cousin’s girlfriend’s roommate? Anyway, he’s like ten years older than me. He used to babysit me a lot. I really looked up to him — still do. Anyway, he–”

Me: “You have the wrong–”

Woman: “Rude! Don’t interrupt! Anyway, he used to babysit me. I must have been sad or something because he asked me what was wrong. I pointed at him. He said, ‘What’s wrong with me?’ I put my hand on his face. He said, ‘My face?’ Then, I hugged him.”

(At this point, my niece and son have come back from the bathroom. Confused and scared, they are huddled and pressing into either side of me. A man walks up to the table.)

Man: “[Woman], what are you doing here?”

Woman: “Wait… Oh, my God! I’ve got the wrong table!”

(She turned to the man and started telling him exactly what she’d told me. He turned to me and mouthed an apology.)

(I have IBS and it means that occasionally, my stomach inflates like a balloon when I eat. Normally, it’s just uncomfortable and I get to spend a lot of time in the bathroom while no one bothers me. Other times…)

Customer: *puts her hand on my big IBS stomach* “Are you having a boy or a girl?”

Me: *deadpan* “Actually, I’m having a burrito.”

(And then I farted on command.)

(After a drink at a local bar, my friends and I head to a local all-night burger restaurant for a bite to eat. My friend realizes his wallet is in the car, and it’s pouring rain. To get to his car more quickly, he tries to leave through the back door instead of the front and sets off a horrible, wailing alarm. The staff is very understanding but at a loss for what to do. A key is needed to shut off the alarm, and the manager has gone home for the night. While they call him in, my friend, who feels terrible, is standing in the rain, holding the heavy door open so the sound is muffled inside the restaurant. The staff informs us that the manager will be in soon and drops off our food. A minute later, a drunk customer from another table stumbles up to us. We recognize him as a patron of the bar we have just left.)

Drunk Guy: *angrily* “Who did that?”

Me: “We’re so sorry–”

Drunk Guy: *pointing at me* “Was it you, girlie?”

Me: “No, it was my friend, but it was an accident–”

(As I’m speaking, he grabs my glass of water and takes a big drink out of it. He then proceeds to lean forward and spit the mouthful of water back into my face. My friends leap out of their seats, his friends rush over to pull him back, food and drinks are knocked everywhere, and I’m standing there in shock, dripping.)

My Friend: “[My Name]! Are you okay?!”

Me: “My… my glasses…”

(It was all I could think to say. As the staff ran over, the drunk guy ran out of the restaurant, hopped in a car, and drove away. The cops were called immediately and got there just after the stunned restaurant manager arrived with the alarm key. While they were both interviewing me and my friends, the drunk guy drove back into the parking lot and was promptly arrested for assault and DUI. His friends were apologetic and tried to pay for my meal, but the restaurant had already remade all of our food and comped it. We pooled all the cash we had between the four of us to tip the staff, who were nothing short of amazing the entire time. I’m not sure what the moral to this story is. Look out for alarmed exit doors?)