No, you cannot have my phone. I noticed something was up when you walked out of the hair salon yelling “Oh thank God!”… You should not be thanking God for seeing me, I don’t know you. When you crossed the sidewalk saying something about a fuel pump and your Dad, I noticed the smell of drugs on your person.
See, before I became the friendly and happy person I sometimes am now, I worked in the damn ghetto. I know the smell of every single illegal substance and you sir had partaken in several. Just because I’m young, blonde, approachable, and white does not mean I’m a damn fool.
I didn’t appreciate you coming into my personal space. Quite frankly, I almost hit you. Had I not been carrying my lunch, I probably would have. You demanded my phone with some drugged out sob story and I was going to leave you standing there halfway through. But then I felt guilty, so I offered you the phone in my office. When you reacted as if I suggested you drink a cyanide cocktail I decided to get the hell up out of there.
You are a vulgarian for chasing after me, and then you had the nerve to get mad at me when I bitched you out. What woman wouldn’t get defensive if some old psycho dude went chasing them around a damn building?
In conclusion, you cannot have my phone. You did not want a phone in the first place unless it was one you could steal. You are high, crazy, and a general asshole. I don’t feel bad for calling the cops on you.
The Young Blonde Dumb Chick Who Didn’t Let You Steal Her Shit.
P.S. I should have let you take my phone just to see the look on your face when you discovered that it is a complete piece of shit. It’s like 3 years old, doesn’t have a data plan on it, and don’t forget that phantom alarm that doesn’t exist, yet goes off at 8:35 every night with some porn star ringtone. You’d be the talk of the drug den, and of that I assure you.