Dear Drunk Guy from the bar last night,
When you stumbled over to my bar stool to chat me up late in the evening, using your best slurred incoherent gibberish, and I told you I just wanted to watch the band and proceeded to ignore you, that was me politely telling you to go away. It was not a challenge for you to reappear minutes later requesting a dance partner, refusing to take no for an answer when I again told you that I wasn’t interested. It was also not an invitation for you to kneel down on the floor at my feet begging while clasping your hands in prayer, batting your eyes and giving me a sad puppy dog face before yanking me out of my seat with your grabby clammy hands, spilling my drink all over me as you twirled me onto the dance floor. Was I unclear? What part of, “Sorry, I’m not interested,” and “No, I don’t want to dance with you,” did you not understand? No means no, buddy. Had you not been completely slizzard, I would have played along and been agreeable to your advances. I would have granted you that dance simply because you’d asked. But if you need so much liquid courage to approach women in bars that you drink until you can’t even string a sentence together, I’m not interested. Just something you might want to think about while you nurse that wicked hangover.