I go out walking

There was a time when I used to relish walking. In fact, it was yesterday morning at 11:59. I was planning to take my daily walk about downtown to breathe in the fresh(er) air and stretch my legs. I started this habit after calculating the amount of time I spend in a seated position, hunched over, in front of this glowing box you sit in front of right now. It was a scary number.

So rather than let my body deteriorate the way other North Americans allow theirs to, I started walking. Fifteen minutes here, 20 minutes there. I just walk down one street and up to another. I stay on main roads (no alleys) and streets with fellow lunchwalkers. And I've never run into a problem.

Then during yesterday's walk, my problem was Lewis. I had a weird feeling as I came to the stop light (the orange hand firmly showed this was a bad time to walk). I slowed my pace, but was still able to pass the three teenage girls whose slower, shuffling gate was driving me nuts. Unfortunately that meant I was first to meet Lewis and not at all protected behind the insolent wall of the teenagers.

So as I came to the street corner, I noticed that at neither opportunity to cross the street did he. Lewis is rounder and shorter than me. He is of First Nations descent with dark, close-cropped hair and pock-marked nose. He was wearing baggy track pants and an even baggier hoody. Nothing says I'm a douchebag more than baggy trackwear, because obviously this fool isn't working on his deltoids.

I stood waiting for the light to allow me to cross. I didn't think this douche would stand right in front of me, wave his hand and say hi. But he did. I replied hi back, because I'm not a complete bitch and I didn't want to get stabbed by a crackhead on my lunch-hour.

Lewis: "I'm Lewis. Hi."

Me: Hi. You'll get one hello, but you'll have to peel my skin off to get any information out of me.

This is when I noticed the dried blood on the inside of Lewis' lips. I cannot think of one instance in which I want to talk to someone with blood on their face, and I've had a day to consider this.

He holds out a hand for a handshake. I keep my hand firmly in my pocket and stare at the traffic light (turn, goddamn you, turn!). All I could think about was that he could grab my wrist and then be in a more powerful position to stab me with a heroin needle or drag me down an alley, so I didn't want to give him any upper hand. Literally.

Then he snorts and holds up a hand. "How! Heh, heh."

He gets the trademarked Girl on the Corner fake "heh."

Lewis: "So can you come help me with a problem?"

The light changed, and I'm halfway across the street as I say, "Sorry, no. I'm busy." I was really going to 7-11 to get a scratchy ticket and a snack for later, so I suppose that was much more important than getting mugged or raped by this fuck.

How stupid is this fool? Duh, oh sure, person-I-just-met! I'll follow you to somewhere and "help" you by handing over all my money and free will. Asshole. Is anyone really going to fall for this? This guy had scumbag written all over him, so I really doubt he was out to fetch a kitten from a tree or free child slave labourers. And why ask me? Why the skinny little girl and not a dude? Probably because a dude would beat his midget ass down if he tried anything. But really, do I look that green?

This leads to a greater problem I have with people: they see my youthful face and assume I'm a dumb kid. I've been to friggin' London by myself. Twice. I've driven in a strange U.S. city. I've got four years of post-secondary up my sleeve and I've worked in customer service long enough to suss out the douchebags from the kind folks.

I'm not stupid as you seem to think I look. And I'm not getting in your car, because you're obviously more stupid than you look, assface.

-Girl on the Corner (fending off the CHUDs and the douchebags)