Be Weird. Be Rude. Stay Alive.

 Something happened yesterday that I’m still processing, but I want to write about it while it’s fresh — partly to make sense of it, and partly because I know someone else out there might need to hear this.

I was uptown, doing a bit of shopping and waiting for Largemale to get off work. It was hot, and I needed a rest, so I sat down in the Loyalist Burial Ground park — right where they usually set up the big Christmas tree each winter. I’ve passed that spot a hundred times. It’s not the safest part of town, but it’s familiar. I figured I’d just sit for a minute and wait.

Not long after I sat down, I noticed two men. One was scruffy, pot-bellied, bald — the kind of guy you clock instantly but hope doesn’t clock you back. He looped around me at a distance, clearly watching. Behind him came another man — skinny, twitchy, the kind of methy energy that makes your skin crawl. He kept his head down like he was trying to hide his face, but what made my blood run cold was how fast and direct he was coming at me. Not around. Not near. At me.

That’s when the sick feeling hit my stomach like a rock. No overthinking. No doubting. Just instinct. I stood up and made a quick, purposeful walk out toward the sidewalk and over to the nearby bus stop — where I’d be in plain sight and near other people.

As soon as I moved, the second man slowed down and drifted back toward the first. They started walking together again, like they’d been planning something and had just been interrupted. Like maybe they thought I’d leave and they could follow — but I didn’t. I stayed right there in full view until they disappeared down another street.

I waited until I was sure they were gone before I moved again, this time to a safer, more populated area. I stood there for a while, grounding myself with a chat on Onsen, trying to breathe through the panic that had started building in my chest.

The whole time, one thing kept echoing in my head — that line from Crime Junkies:

“Be weird. Be rude. Stay alive.”

I didn’t care if I looked paranoid. I didn’t care if someone thought I was being dramatic. I was afraid — and that fear kept me safe. I trusted it, and I moved. That’s not weakness. That’s survival.

We talk a lot about “gut feelings” and “bad vibes,” but we’re also conditioned — especially as women — to second-guess them. To be polite. To avoid making a scene. And it’s not just frustrating — it’s dangerous.

I’m writing this to say: you are never silly for trusting your instincts. You don’t owe politeness to anyone who makes your body feel unsafe. If your gut says move, leave, speak, run — listen.

I looked like an easy target. But I wasn’t. I’m still here. I’m still standing.

And I won’t apologize for surviving.