Plain Rude

Dear Butch,

I do not expect you to hold open a door for me or carry by bags.  I have never demanded that I order first at a restaurant or use your coat when it is chilly.  I may be a lady, but I am fairly low maintenance.  I will not turn down these gentlemanly gestures, they are appreciated, but they aren’t a must in my rule book.

This week I noticed that your hands were full of books and a briefcase as you were about to enter a coffee shop I frequent.  I was raised by parents who had good manners and instilled these in me.  So, I got up from my perch on the couch and opened the door for you.  I know you saw me, or at least my thighs in my short skirt and patterned tights.  I know that your mouth was free because I was mesmerized by your lush lips.  However, you failed to utter even a simple “Thanks” in my direction.  I blew of this slightly rude lack of gesture and returned to my spot.  I attempted to get re-lost in my work when I was distracted by how you were speaking to my barista.

Yes, my barista.  The lady of my dreams and my fantasies.

You were barking your order to her, assuming she would get it wrong.  I watched her roll her gorgeous blue eyes as you answered your phone at the counter.  Side note, I hate when people take phone calls while they are being helped or served.  Just plain rude.  My barista hands you your order, made with perfection, and asks for payment.  You let out a giant wind changing sigh and inform my barista that she is being rude and interrupting.  You then slam down money on the counter and walk out the door.  This time I let you struggle with the door.

Next time you interact with anyone, and I mens anyone, please attempt to remove your head from your ass.  And if you are going to oogle a ladies parts and she opens the door for you, you can at least fucking say “Thanks”.

Love,

Femme

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