Studying Obstacles at Barnes & Noble

Fucking Pervert Pete is here. Of course, after he saunters past me, then behind me, perhaps innocently inspecting the contents of an insightful manual devoted to the hunting techinques of the Greenland Mallard or maybe a thoroughly absorbing account of the varoius species of the morel, he eventually lands himself on the couch perpendicular to the little black table where I sit, fixed on my anthropology reading, pretending not to pick up on my impeccable creepy-guy-sense.
Fuck, fuck, fuck I broke proper procedure of my warding-off-creepy-guy protocol by looking up to see if he had given up his seige, consequently making eye contact, forcing me to make a salvage by pretending to take a sudden interest in the "Oprah's Bookclub" shelf across the room, and to add an extra touch, feigning a rather excruciating head-itch. Pervert Pete, appropriately deemed by my ex-boyfriend, has been dwelling the air-conditioned backwaters of Barnes and Noble for a number of years now, cornering unsuspecting women into conversation out of polite social procedure.
I vividly remember the traumatic incident two years ago when he crossed the threshold between wandering-harmless-old-man-that-out-of-social-obligation-and-pity-you-respond-to-his-conversational-cues-to demonstrate-your-lack-of-prejudice-towards-the-strangely-eldered-EVEN-when-he-emphatically-compliments-the-Star-of-David-resting-between-your-secondary-sexual-organs-which-you-so retardedly-chose to-accentuate-with-that-tight-striped-top, to slimy-staring-heavy breathing-guy-in-a-green-baseball cap-that-probably-sits-alone-in-the-dark-masturbating-to-kiddy-porn-driving-a-big-rusty-windowless-van type of guy the moment he interrupted what had become my siloliquy, a recitation of the social criticisms of the feminist commentry, Bitch Magazine, to inquire in a shockingly blunt fashion of my last name, address, and phone number. It was one of those experiences that leaves you feeling "bleeah" (Lucille Ball-style). Violated, not physically, but in the sense that against all better judgement you've been fooled- you set aside all your gut insticts screaming for you to give him the fuck-off-I-have-pepper-spray-look and lend this fucker your trust only to find that he really is just a creepy old Pervert Pete, and you in turn look incredibly stupid, ignoring the signs that a fucking ten-year-old would recognize.
I really need to trust myself more.
Time to go home, sort-of-cute-guy-you-don't-really-care-about hasn't noticed you this whole time and you're probably beginning to look like one of those creepy people that become permanent fixtures, hoping to score some sweet bookstore-ass