Kalah Allen

I have one question: When will you girls stop hitting on me? It's not like I go out of my way to attract you. I always button nearly to the top of my shirt. Some days, I don't even put gel in my hair. I try not to ask too many questions about your personal lives, and I even stopped telling you that I occasionally watch Lifetime. I don't work out as much as I used to. I even took up smoking those clove cigarettes all the trendies smoke. Yet, apparently, that has only made me more irresistible to all of you. I can't take it anymore. Your stories about how your boyfriend doesn't listen to you, or may be gay, or possibly both, or likes those Kevin Smith movies, or still has his mom do his laundry—you tell me this all the time, twirling your beautiful, silky hair right in front of me. Go away, you sullen hotties! I have work to do, important work! I don't have time to micromanage your emotional lives. It's not my fault I'm just shy of being the Portland-area Brad Pitt. I'm just me, and I want you to stop hitting on me! Please.—Anonymous