LA Creepies

This will be a short and sweet post, because I need to vent, or take a shower, or perhaps both.

Apparently, the chef at work who keeps hitting on me, and who occasionally walks me home (as far as my front gate), and who I went out dancing with (with some of his friends) about a month ago - an illegal immigrant who has poured out his heart to me about how much he cares about me, who has tried to kiss me (fail) while I was in a relationship, and who bought me a wilted rose from some woman driving by a few nights ago - GET THIS - is not only married, but also has several children (like, three) with multiple women, the youngest of which is no more than six months old.

Los Angeles, you are quickly teaching me how to be the most suspicious person on the planet.

Needless to say, I was creeped out beyond belief when I found out all of this last night. I found out from the other waitress, who, when she found out I had actually gone out with him and his friends, was horrified and said, in total earnestness, "I really wouldn't have put it past him to have slipped something in your drink." The night we went out, he even had the gall to say to me, "hey, don't mention us going out to anyone at the restaurant. They blah-blah [talk] too much." Oh, okay. Meaning they might mention the fact that you should be spending time with your wife and kids instead of trying to date-rape twenty-two-year-olds. UGHHH.

Tonight at work, said nasty could tell he was on my bad side, and kept trying to talk to me. I flat-out told him, "I have nothing to say to you. Don't talk to me. You need to leave me alone." I don't think I've ever been as direct or, pardon my French, flat-out bitchy with someone. Let's hope he got the message, loud and clear.

Tomorrow begins my quest for bear mace. Goodnight, world.