Like moths to a flame

I can't escape them. They always find me.

This morning I headed down to the coffee shop to do some work. I sat by myself in a back corner. I had work spread around me and was busily typing on my laptop. I was clearly working.

That's when this woman--who was fairly elderly--came and sat down at my table. And she just started talking. I felt badly for her, and assumed that she was a bit lonely. So I nodded along as she talked.

And talked.

And talked.

About her bunions (ew). About her cat. About the bad parking lot at Dissmores (and I'm totally down with her there). About plaid vs. paisley (swear to God).

After ten minutes, she looked over at me and said, "Shit, honey, you're not Melissa. Are you?"

After ascertaining that I am not, in fact, Melissa, she then gave me a lecture on talking to strangers. She actually said that she could have been a murderer, and I put myself in danger by talking to her. Of course, my talking consisted of grunts here and there as she droned on and on. I didn't even bother to explain to her that I was just being polite, nor did I point out the innate craziness that was her, considering she was the person who talked to me for ten minutes before figuring out I wasn't who she thought I was.

She concluded by sighing and muttering something about my generation. Because clearly I was in the wrong here. And now I hate Melissa, wherever she may be.

Oh, and happy birthday if it happens to be your birthday. And you are driving by yourself, anxiously anticipating your birthday lasagna and birthday cake. Enjoy.