Oh, work

So, yeah. I don't work in the best neighborhood ever. Maybe I'm overly paranoid, but I hate that our car has distinctive bumper stickers so people remember it. I am thankful every dark evening that I leave work that I'm driving out of a secured parking lot, accessible only by key code, surrounded with chain links topped by razor wire. So I was freaked when someone I drove to DHR this week rolled down the passenger window and hollered out when we passed a porch filled with guys a few houses down from work. "Oh, they know what this place is," she said matter-of-factly. She and another woman have struck up a friendship with them--god only knows who they are.

I just don't get it. Some people's thought processes don't connect in the way mine might, which is, "don't flaunt yourself all over the place, talking to strange men, if you are trying to convince other people that you are in danger and scared for your life in the first place."

She probably knows, though, in some small way that her behavior is inappropriate, because she skipped out today when we were supposed to meet. Maybe she thinks if I can't find her, I can't tell her to leave.