You drastically misinterpret facial expressions.

You opened the door and saw my friend and I looking at you, which seemed to flatter you since you looked so pleased with yourself. You stood in line behind us, much too close for conventional American standards of personal space. I thought you were either just drunk or foreign (or both) until I realized you thought we were interested in you. No, sir, we were not physically attracted to you in the slightest. What you mistook for nervous sexual tension was actually more like legitimate fear, since at that moment we had just learned from the cashier that the convenience store had been through an armed robbery 10 minutes earlier and we were watching out for suspects.

You have (The) Game.

Step One: Select a Target
I noticed you looked out of place because you had wandered into a company party, and you did not work for my company. It was obvious to everyone else, but you seemed to be oblivious to it somehow. That was your first mistake. You walked up to my female coworker and I and tried to act suave.

Step Two: Approach and Open
Your second mistake was opening with a line straight out of "The Game," a book on how to pick up women. Your delivery was shoddy, and you didn't pick up on the fact that I recognized the line (and the source). I answered you quickly and honestly, then threw the question back to you and stared at you blankly while you stammered through a response. I blinked at you through the subsequent silence until you walked back to your buddy in defeat. You never quite got to Step Three: Demonstrate Value.

You pose a moderate degree of danger to the public. And me.

It began with long awkward glances stolen in the office hallways - harmless, I thought. The more I ran into you, the more comfortable you became talking to me. Soon enough you began to awkwardly compliment me on my looks. I tried my best to avoid you, but then you started showing up at my office door looking to chat. At that point, Valentine’s Day was on the horizon; you wanted to take me out on the town. Luckily, I was out of the office the week leading up to the holiday and was able to avoid your advances. Upon my return, I learned you had been let go. That you had lied to the staffing agency. That you were a level two sex offender. This means you are guilty of: 

Engaging In Sexual Activity With A Person 12 To 15, Or Encouraging, Forcing, Or Enticing A Person Under 16 To Engage In Sadomasochistic Abuse, Sexual Bestiality, Prostitution, Or Any Other Act Involving Sexual Activity. 
 

Two weeks later you decided to drop me a line at the office. Directed to my voicemail, you left a message explaining that you missed me, and left me your number so that we could catch up. Catch up on what exactly? How your sexual preferences have shifted to a slightly older demographic?"

You crashed the party. Literally.

We had been arguing, so I didn't expect you to show up to the party. Especially since you dated the host's cousin and it didn't end well. But there you were, all smiles and bouncing off the walls. I found out later that you had sucked down two bottles of wine and a half dozen cocktails "with dinner" before you showed up. Nonetheless, you were the life of the party, chugging beers and stealing a camera to take a billion pictures of people you didn't know. I thought it was a little odd when you took the host's other cousin outside for a smoke and a quick makeout session, call me a stick-in-the-mud if you will. When you came back in with your arm around her, I just looked at you, puzzled, and asked if you were testing me. I found it even more perplexing when you tried to kiss my other friend, he didn't appreciate that very much and nearly decked you. Eventually you charmed so many people at the party that they asked you to leave. You were sweet to ask if I was coming with you, but I politely declined.

It is not I who you are testing, sir. It is your liver.

You're bigger than me.

 

We were at a house party, I was hammered out of my gourd and falling all over myself. I said my "gfllblebles" (goodbyes) and stumbled out the door, attempting to walk myself home. Being a total gentleman and seeing a lady in distress, you offered to rescue me on your Nissan stallion and drive me to my house. We talked about something I will never remember, I didn't puke, and a few minutes later I was home! Glory be. Apparently I had mumbled something that made you fall in love with me immediately, because all of a sudden you had a hungry look in your eye and a crooked smile on your face. You leaned over for a goodnight kiss with such gusto that you ended up eating my mouth while I wondered what was going on (and why I couldn't breath). After I wiped my face and spat out your saliva, you told me you were too drunk to drive home and asked if you could crash. I said no, the inn's all full tonight, and have a good drive back to the suburbs.

Every time I saw you after that night, you would get in my space and tower over me, asking me why I never returned your 4am texts. Because "blank drunken stare" doesn't ever mean "yes." Commit that to memory.

You smelt it.

I was out at a bar after a company party, all dolled up. You were waiting to order a drink, tall with a casual suit. You leaned over and said those five magical words any girl wants to hear:

"Did you smell that fart?"

 Let's break this down for a moment. The way I see it, the conversation could go in one of two directions.

"Yes, I did! How gross is that? What did that guy eat?"
or
"No, what fart? Can you describe it? Ah, now I smell it!"

Either way, you're talking about farts, dude.

I ran like the wind.

-story borrowed from "The Roommate"

You know how much cheese I eat on a weekly basis.

We see each other every few weeks, usually in the evenings. You're always friendly, and quick to offer me a slice of bologna when I look hungry. Yes that's three quarters of a pound, thank you. Sliced thin, thanks. Oh, you need my ticket number? 14. Can you get my phone number? No, I don't think so. What are we going to tell our kids? "You had me at 'we have a sale on Boar's Head Salami this week'?"

There may be only a deli counter between us, but we're worlds (and a Land O'Lakes) apart.