I have spent the past four days in a convention center, huddled to one side of the company's booth, trying to avoid the arrogant pervert/very famous comic artist that was ensconced on the other side.

The arrogant pervert/very famous comic artist spent his days signing posters and gesturing for me to come sit by him. He looked to be around my father's age, yet spent a significant amount of time speaking to my boobs. (Note that I have small boobs--it is not difficult to look away). Besides age, disqualifying factors included an Australian accent (he has not to my knowledge, ever been to Australia), tight tapered jeans, and the several gold chains around his neck--this made more sense when someone informed me that his heyday was in the 70s. Clearly he had decided to cling to what once worked. I laughed out loud when someone warned me "Watch out, he's a notorious womanizer".
It was not so much the fact that he was skankily hitting on me when I had no escape route. (Being chained to the company booth is part of being a company bitch at a convention). It was that he flirted in such a manner that implied that I should be flattered, even grateful. Calling me beautiful was like an afterthought, as if he only needed to go through the motions before I fell into bed with him, starstruck and eager to please. (Ewww.)

But on the bright side, it's the end of convention bitchery for me, I come home tomorrow.