It’s peppermint mocha season. The Christmas decorations in stores before Halloween, the weather changing and my mother nagging about Christmas lists mean nothing to me until the peppermint mocha is on the Starbucks menu. Sure, I could get it all year, but that’s cheating. The peppermint mocha is a symbol for the commencement of the holiday season and all its splendor.

Maybe I take it a little too seriously, but to me, this beverage is like the Santa Claus of my young adulthood. The first sip immediately reminds me of all of the wonders that Christmas brings, like Jesus, the aroma of cinnamon and pine, Bing Crosby, shopping, baked goods and family traditions. People are nice to each other – and even though that lasts only a few weeks, it’s enough to restore my faith in humanity long enough to get me through the next year.

So imagine me, sipping my second peppermint mocha of the season, walking down Embarcadero around 6 p.m. It had been a warm day, but the crispness of the night air already surrounded me. A light jacket covered my bare shoulders and my whimsical beverage kept the rest of me warm. Quickly, my warmth of contentment and peppermint mocha-y goodness was replaced with an all-consuming fire of rage.

These creepers sitting at a bench watched me walk by. I could feel their lurpy-ass, middle-aged eyes following my every not-at-all-seductive moves. And then, mere seconds after I passed them, I heard it. The whistle. The air kiss.

They’re pretty lucky I like that damn peppermint mocha so much, because otherwise it would have ended up on their laps, severely burning their undoubtedly useless genitalia. Did I mention I get my mochas extra hot?

It’s not the first time I’ve been subjected to the disgusting behaviors of lurpy bastards. I’m actually bordering on used to it. And I’m by no means a feminist, so it’s not even the whole objectification factor that bothers me so much. It’s the fact that I can’t even walk down a street with my beloved peppermint mocha without being accosted. The peppermint mocha, my symbol of all that is right in the world, was destroyed. Those guys might as well as go kick some puppies and tell a five-year-old that Santa isn’t real. It’s pretty equivalent to the blow they just dealt to my innocence.

I’ll admit I could be overreacting, but this is clearly an omen that does not bode well. These guys weren’t generic asshole college boys. They were middle-aged! They should have grown up by now. Did their mothers raise them to act like that? I hope not, but if so, they should have been aborted, which means a lot coming from a pro-lifer like me. Seriously, how am I supposed to find a decent guy to bake for and make babies with if, by their forties, these boys haven’t grown up enough to realize that 18-year-old girls don’t want them whistling at them?

It’s not acceptable for a college boy to act like a lurp and it sure as hell isn’t OK for a supposed man to do it. If I had a son, the boy would be smacked upside the head if he ever even thought of treating a woman like that. I am lost and confused. I have lost my will to bake. What good is honing my housewife skills now if all I’ll ever end up with is an asshole who whistles at girls and cheats on me with his whore of a secretary?

I have heard whispers that there are still real men out there who have somehow maintained a semblance of honor, despite their Darwinian escape from humanity. But the whispers could be yet another setup for disappointment, just like my peppermint mocha. Once an elixir full of nostalgia, now it is a reminder that the Grinch stole Christmas, perverting my sense of holiday whimsy in a single encounter with the destiny of little boys that never grow up.

Senior Copy Reader Melissa Davis knows why your mistletoe isn’t working, fellas.