No torrential rain. No puddles the size of my car. No screaming children. This already is looking more promising than the first time I was here. I climbed out of the car with insurance/registration papers clutched in one hand and my Nalgene with my car keys dangling idly from the other.

“Brace yourself,” I thought. “You know it will be a long and boring wait. Be patient and remember not to make eye contact.” You see, my roommate from last year has gotten me worried about silly things such as talking to people in rundown buildings, making eye contact with people near rundown buildings and being in the general proximity of rundown buildings. Also I am now worried about the house being broken into. Well done, there.

I stalked into this unnecessarily unkempt Office of Registration for the second time in one day, walked right over to the line for renewing your tags and set my mind on chill.

“Nice hair,” rasped something to my left. “Very dark. I thought about dying my hair black once but I didn’t.” I looked to the left only to find that a man who was altogether too old to be talking to me was indeed talking to me. He was telling me the ever fresh and interesting story about how once he and his son had died their hair blond. And to add to the merriment, they dressed up as the two guys from Night at the Roxbury and milled about at Club Gecko. “Your hair really is very nice. And of course the lady underneath it is also very nice. Do you like to dance?”

“No,” was all I could say before he headed back in with talking and I am sure that my face was an fantastic blend of horror masked by complete apathy.

Apparently, it was normal for this fifty-eight year old Irish, Scottish, Indian to be hit on by the wives of his bosses and by girls half his age. I nodded politely as he regaled me with stories of the 20-somethings who all wanted to date him and the jobs he has had to leave thanks to the “head honchos little wife.” After all, who is he to get in the way of a marriage? Especially, since they would inevitably fall for him and he’d lose their friendship. Right. Chalk up yet another weirdo on the board for me! I attract them. Like some thing that madly attracts weirdoes as if it were going out of style (that is assuming it ever was in style of course).

“I can’t- That’s no good. Um. Oh! My number has been called. Excuse me, yes. Ow!” As I fell all over myself to get away from this extremely uncomfortable situation, the lady at the desk said I needed a new license plate but that she had no idea why.

Lies! How dare they not tell me why I need a license plate! And how dare old men hit on me! Give me that thing. Stupid piece of metal. Yes, thank you, I can put on my own license plate. No, old man I don’t need any gas money from you. Get off! I’m leaving. Run away! Retreat!

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