Fucked-Off Shamrock Shirt.

There's a 40 something, almost 50, Iranian married engineer in the building who's constantly comparing me to his "useless" 28 year-old son-in-law that lives in his poolhouse and gives me shit about absolutely everything ("Pull your shirt up! Pull your shirt down! American women don't get enough beatings! You better be doing something besides moping tonight! Why are you constantly single!? When I was your age...") in addition to ripping all over every American holiday or tradition (although he teared up and flung his arms around me when I gave him a Starbucks giftcard for Christmas) and pointing out the uselessness of our calendar (not unlike his son-in-law), who concluded today that I was a lesbian when I told him once again that I had no plans for the evening.

"You're wearing your fucked-off shamrock shirt! You might as well go to a bar and get lucky. Why do you never have a man?"

"I told you a million times," I explained to him, "They mean nothing to me. I don't need some douche."

"Some douche is better than no douche!"

I just shook my head in silence.

"I'm onto you, you lesbian."

I would be inclined to agree with him were it not for the fact that I don't have a woman either.