Tweets? That stuff kills conversation. And people taking pictures with their phone or recording you, sometimes surreptitiously, is creepy. They come up and just start talking to you, and you can see the red light on their phone.
My pet peeves are people touching me a lot. Random dudes grabbing me and slapping me across the back. They're not doing it on purpose, but it's like they forget I'm a person. But you can't do anything about it. What are you going to do?
I can't go anywhere without being bugged by somebody. I'd love to just hike out down the street, or drop in a restaurant, or wander in the park, or take my kids somewhere without collecting a trail of people. But I can't.
It's the moms who are overaggressive. A lot of times their daughters are very sweet and cordial, and the moms tend to grab you and scream and want to kiss you. You gotta watch out for the moms.
I don't feel sorry for people in the public eye getting eyed by the public.
Sarcasm: the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people when the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded.
I've had so many people say stuff to me. I meet them, have a chat for five minutes and they think they can say what they like. I used to laugh it off, but now I think 'why do you think you can say that to me? You don't know me.'
Not everybody wants be texting their 15-year-old asking how his math tutor was. They would rather be home looking at how the math tutor was today. But it is what it is.
Tourists came around and looked into our tipis. That those were the homes we choose to live in didn't bother them at all. The untied the door, opened the flap, and barged right in, touching our things, poking through our bedrolls, inspecting everything. It boggles my mind that tourists feel they have the god-given right to intrude everywhere.
I'm finding it increasingly difficult to simply walk down the street. In New York, I dashed in to buy a big pair of sunglasses to conceal myself, but the guy behind the counter shouted 'Hey! It's Dr. House.'
You is getting nosier than a parker.
I like poking my nose into other people's lives.
I've had people come up and actually pick me up out of the blue. That gets a little annoying.
It's nuts to me that people want to take a picture with me or want to tell me a story about their family. If they want to give it to me, I'll always take it. It's never intrusive.
I don't want to be in everyone's face. I'm a big music fan, and I get really pissed off when it gets like that... and I don't want people to get like that with me.
Vee said," I'm trying to read the title he's holding…hang on…How to Be a Stalker." "He is not checking out a book with that title." But I wasn't so sure. "It's either that of How to Radiate Sexy Without Trying.
No state sorrier than that of the man who keeps up a continual round, and pries into "the secrets of the nether world," as saith the poet, and is curious in conjecture of what is in his neighbour's heart.
Sometimes I just got off of an international flight and people are like running up, screaming and hollering, and want to take pictures. They don't really understand like, 'Dude, I'm tired. Just say hello. Keep it moving.'
There are different levels of fame. There are the polite fans who quietly and respectfully approach you and ask for an autograph - and that's acceptable. But the next level... when you think you're having a moment of privacy and there's someone with a long lens catching you when you're about to eat, or sunbathe, or worse... it's just so intrusive and I think it's part of the sickness of our culture.
People in England are so bloody nosy.
A critic is someone who meddles with something that is none of his business.
You know,' I whispered, 'some girls might think it's creepy having a boy watch them sleep.' He smirked and pointed to himself. 'Spy.' 'Oh.' I nodded. 'Right. So you're a trained Peeping Tom.' 'Product of the best peeping academies in the country.' 'Well, now I feel much better.' 'You should.
I was at a banquet, and I went into the ladies' room, and I'm in the stall doing my business, and a piece of paper and pen came from outside the door, and she says, 'Ms. Wagner, would you please sign this for me?' And I said, 'Are you kidding me?'
I’d rather have the thieves than the neighbors - the thieves don't impose. Thieves just want your things, neighbors want your time.
More details coming out about Michael Jackson. It seems his 13-year-old accuser testified before a grand jury that Michael had seven locks on his bedroom door. See, what happened was whenever Michael would install one lock, the kid would grow an inch taller, and he'd have to put in another one, and then another one, and then another one.
