I was in Edinburgh for a month for the Fringe Festival when I was nineteen. I was reading my Ken Follett in a lovely little park, sun shining, birds chirping, headphones in, when someone sat down next to me. It was a white-haired man in plaid, probably in his 80s, and he immediately struck up a conversation. I'm a polite sort of girl, and try to be nice to the elderly, so I chatted a bit. Gave it maybe ten or fifteen minutes, but I really wanted to read my book and he was clearly not leaving. I lied and claimed had to meet a friend at a coffee shop. He said he'd walk me to the stairs.
So, we stroll. He asks for a hug. I am too nice. And he proceeds to full on grab my boob and pat it ever so lovingly, while saying, "I'm your niiiiice Scottish friend. I'm your niiiice Scottish friend."
I pushed the fucker and ran away.
True story.
You're way too nice. A punch in the face was the very LEAST that he deserved.
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