Sometimes I'm Ashamed to Call Myself a Girl.

Ordinarily, I like to think of myself as something of a feminist. However, there are things about my gender which frustrate me to no end. Today, I was faced with one of these things.

Those of you who've read past entries of mine might know that I harbour a certain fetish for sugary cereals. It's more of an urge, really. Anyway, today it hit me, and I simply had to get me some Fruit Loops.

So there I am, standing in the check out line, enormous box of cereal underarm, pretending not to know the lyrics to the Paramore song playing through the supermarket's speakers when the mysterious stranger in front of me decides to strike up a conversation which will hopefully make the line move faster.

Half a minute later, Mysterious Stranger (carrying a basket despite only buying two tubs of cream cheese and a loaf of bread) reveals himself to be called Jack. We don't talk about much. Fruit Loops, mostly. The line picks up and soon he's waving goodbye and telling me to enjoy my sugar-fix. I'm telling him to enjoy overdosing on cream cheese sandwiches.

Then, as I'm walking out of the supermarket, box of Fruit Loops clutched tightly to protect it from any potential cereal-thieves, a girl pops out of thin air right in front of my face.

The first thing I notice is that she's short. But then, at 5'10" most girls are short compared to me and I've long since stopped being able to discern between girls who are average height and girls who are genuine midgets. The next thing I notice is that she's pretty. Quite pretty, in fact. Details escape me but she was definitely somewhere nice on the attractive scale, somewhere girls like myself can't even pretend to be.

'You were talking to Jack,' she says to me, pretending it's a question.

'Uh, yeah,' I reply dumbfoundedly, because pretty girls intimidate me despite my height and self-professed intelligence.

'Just so you know, I'm completely over him.'

You know those moments where you're so stunned and confused that you just know you're making a very unflattering What the fuck...? face. At this point in our little "rendezvous" I'm having one of those.

Seriously. What. The. Fuck.

Everything's blurred from hereon. At some point she must have left because next thing I know I'm walking to my car, still feeling dazed. Naturally, minutes later I'm replaying the scenario in my head and imagining all the hardcore pieces of wit I could have used to put Stalker-girl in her place.

Why-oh-why do girls feel the need to tell other girls they're over a guy? Even to complete strangers such as myself. All it does is communicate that you're;
a) Not over him, and
b) Mentally unstable.

Even if I was interested in Jack (which would be pretty hard to decide given that our conversation lasted all of ninety awkward seconds) I don't need your permission to go out with him.

And what shits me even more is when people think they're being genuinely nice when they say something that ridiculous. It's completely presumptuous. What am I supposed to do? Thank you?

This world is full of crazy people. That's for sure.