A Girl Has Got to Ask Herself: Anarchy, a Love Story?

I've decided to install a new segment here on FTM called "a girl has got to ask herself" so I can start publicly airing my mind's grievances about the purely confusing nature of my life.

Today's topic: Anarchy, a love story. 

At about 1:30 this fine afternoon I found myself in conversation with a particularly esoteric young man (and by "esoteric" I don't me the "Oh that Mr. Darcy! What could he possibly be thinking under that furrowed brow?" esoteric, I mean the "huh, that's one creepy... I mean intriguing tattoo of a bloody dagger on your forearm. Does it have any significant meaning?" esoteric). At approximately 1:47 this afternoon, after exchanging pleasantries about the Drug War in Mexico and the Troubles of Northern Ireland this young man, a self-proclaimed anarchist, maybe might have possibly said, "Nicole, you're pretty much perfect, I can't even handle how perfect you are. I wish a girl like you would want to be with a guy like me." 

Now it took me a good 30 seconds to fully process what he had said. It was a sudden shift in the conversation and he used the exact tone of voice in complimenting me as he did when he spouted of the number of people killed in Juarez since 2006. 

A very long awkward pause ensued. 

Now, if this were some sort of isolated event, I would just laugh it off as weird, but if I be honest this is the third anarchist to "have a thing for me."

Three.

The first happened in 2004 when I was in England (where I expect a decent portion of the population is all for anarchy), he worked at the Hard Rock Cafe and gave me free chips (and that's English English for fries) every time I came in. The second time was when I was living in Logan, Utah. He eventually converted to being a granola, as they do up there. 

So a girl has got to ask herself, what is it about me that attracts so many anarchists?

It could be worse right? They could be fascists.