Dear guy who works at the bank I work at (but never directly interacts with me),
Wait, no, that look wasn't for you. You have to understand that you just so happened to walk by right after my scanner jammed and I looked the universe in the eye and gave it my most intimidating death glare. You just happened to be standing right in front of the universe at that particular moment. I would have followed it with a reassuring smile, but you quickly scuttled away from me as if afraid for your life. Listen though, I don't want this to be a thing between us because we are coworkers (who never directly interact) and we should be able to get along in the workplace (without any actual verbal communication).
Dear tiny slut at the Springfield Mall,
Hey now, don't give me that look, this totally isn't what it looks like. I was definitely not checking out your body, being like, "man, I want to bang this clearly underage chick who has no boobs," I was just thinking to myself how crazy it is that you are so young and also dressed so slutty. I was trying, in my head, to guess your age, which, I'll admit, is sort of similar to checking you out, but the difference is in the intentions. Also, and this is tangential, but I think that I'm young looking enough that I should be able to look at you without getting a pedophile look because I'm not even old enough to be a pedophile really, probably.
Dear snobby rich neighbors of my rich uncle,
Listen you guys, I know that your first impulse when looking over a fence into my uncle's yard while he is out of town and seeing a teenager wandering around aimlessly is to think that I am casing the joint, or something, but I promise that that is the opposite of what I was doing. See, I'm supposed to be watering their garden, but I like to sort of wander through it and check out the flowers sometimes. And while I guess it's kind of weird that you're playing D on my uncle's house, what's really weird is that you seemed to think it was some sort of elaborate ruse when I actually started watering the flowers. Like that was just my cover story, or something. I thought about entering their garage door code to show you that I do, in fact, belong here, but I was afraid that might be the point at which you actually call the police.
Until my next awkward and totally-not-my-fault interaction,