Cute? Or Creepy.

Ah when we’re awkward, there’s such a fine line between cute and creepy. Because 'cute' to awkwardists may mean 'creepy' to the average folk. So then at what point does cute become creepy? Some instances of definite line crossing found in the best cesspool of social deviance--the bar;

1.) The relator. We have everything in common. I mean, everything. At first, finding similarities is entertaining and comforting. You feel you have a special bond with Mr. Coors because he went to the same YMCA for swim lessons that you did. AND you were both minnows. Things, however, start to take a creepy turn when he literally has everything in common with you. Same dog name, same college major, same favorite artist, same double-jointed big toe. This is when you stop providing the information first and stop enabling Mr. Ripley.

2.) The name commenter. Your name’s Alice? My sister’s name is Alice, I love that name. Who doesn’t like their name to be complimented? It could go the other way when you introduce yourself and the belligerent dude behind you shrieks ALICE?! NOT ALICE. THAT’S A BAAAAAD NAME. Within seconds you are informed about some horrible Alice who tried to kill him, stole his projects in advertising school, was crazy, etc. As he’s grabbing your wrist and shaking you because of the PTSD that’s been triggered thanks to your name, you may want to tell him he hadn’t heard right. It’s Sally…yeah SALLY. And you can fake laugh until you track out an escape route.

3.) The drink buyer. Thanks, that’s so nice! A free drink! Especially with the economy, how great, generous, etc. Until he orders you another one and another one and another one. You’ve hardly taken a sip and you’re staring at a row of greyhounds. Maybe they’re for him (something in common?), but no, turns out he doesn’t drink. That’s right, he’s stone cold sober and you’re only a fifth as drunk as he likes ‘em. Declare you have to go to the bathroom as he pulls the five drinks in and “keeps them safe for you.’

4.) The fly. A guy pops up next to you. You smile, kind of blush and he smiles and kind of blushes. Cute. You make your way to the stage and you’re doing some kind of rabbit dance when you hit someone and….it’s him. What a coincidence. You move stage right and you’re pogoing and sway to your left and you say sorry! But it’s him and he just smiles. Soon you’re in the bathroom and he’s outside the door, you’re at the bar ordering RedBulls and he’s in the seat next to you. Smoking a cigarette, his hand juts out from no where, holding a steady flame. Yup, you got yourself a bar stalker, find fake mustache.

5.) The watcher. Dancing, you notice a guy across the audience watching you. You meet eyes, etc and it’s cute in a tragi-emo-hipster kind of way. But the next song, he’s still watching you and you shrug it off; you’re a pretty good dancer after all. But song after song, he keeps watching and you start to lose a bit of rythym. You keep looking over your shoulder paranoid that maybe this guy knows you from somewhere else. Maybe he’s the guy who prank called you a month ago and pretended to be a serial killer (that never really got resolved, afterall). What if he’s a narc and knows you’re holding? The music grows faint and your blood’s beating in your ears. Ditch the show before you panic-seizure the two grams out of your pocket and all over the dance floor.

6.) The drug guy. Sure why not? It’s been a while. You smoke a joint out back, do a line in the bathroom—whatever your forte. You thank him and part ways. How generous. But in fifteen minutes he’s back and wants another go around. You kindly turn down his offer but he won’t let up. He’s got you by the arm dragging you to the bathroom so he doesn’t feel pathetic doing it alone and he’s talking the whole time, going on and on, asking you questions, not caring if you answer. Soon you realize you’ve become the drug-guy’s babysitter and he’s quite an addict. P.S. There’s no such thing as free drugs.

7.) The DIY cell phone guy. He’s asking for your number and he’s, well, very attractive. You go to type it in. But he wants to see it, he’ll type it in. How nice. Until you notice him going through your text messages and taking a ridiculous amount of time to punch in ‘ROB.’ You ask for it back, but he’s not done yet. Finally, after a good five minutes of pestering, you get your phone back and immediately go to erase his name, but it seems as though he didn’t even get around to doing that. Five days later, you’ll be going through your contacts and find Mr. Big Cock. Erase.

And good God, this was only in twenty minutes of observation. Must. Rekindle. Faith. In. Mankind. Awk on.