Every Claim You Stake

Just another piece of damning evidence in my case claiming that Slate is stalking me: What's Up, G?

as compared to

What's G? I Wish I Knew

It's okay, Slate. Your stalking is more Edward-Cullen-cute than John-Hinckley-creepy. I'll take what I can get.

Common Courtesy

Y'know how, when you're in a relatively deserted movie theater, it's a little weird and irritating when a stranger comes up and sits right next to you instead of in one of the other open rows? Well it's weirder and more irritating when instead of a row of movie theater seats it's a long row of empty treadmills at the gym, and the stranger is a fat little troll of a man who sweats copiously. Yuck. Is that really necessary? I have enough issues about other people at the gym (my ideal workout experience would be just me, alone in a room with a treadmill/elliptical/complicated array of machinery and especially no biceped, triceped, dreamy 6'2" guy with dimples judging me from over his dumbbells as I sweat and pant and make pained faces). Do we really need to add skeezy little guys to the mix? No thank you, Mr. Skeezy LA Fitness Dude. Please move three treadmills down so as not to flick your sweat in my direction.

This public service announcement was paid for by the Campaign Against Creepers Infringing On My Personal Bubble.