I immediately feel uncomfortable. We start to head to his place and he’s pretty drunk. His demeanor suddenly shifts and he starts to just go off, venting about his hatred of Hollywood and all the people who have fucked him over or dismissed him. He tells me he’s trying to lose weight so that right before he dies, he can execute a mass shooting of everyone on his “black list”; how he would love to “die running and shooting everyone he hates until his kneecaps give.” At the same time, he’s rubbing my leg and moving his hand up my dress. I push his hand away, and he continues his rant.

He again attempts to try to get to my crotch. I am now shoving his hand away and moving as far as I can to the other side of the seat. I’m both terrified and disgusted, and all I can think about is how to politely get out of this car without the drunk guy who’s talking about gunning people down hurting me. We finally get to his place and I tell him, “I’m very car sick and can’t get out.” He argues, telling me, “I’ll be OK, just come up, have some tea,” and so on. I apologize and say there’s no way, that I need to go home, and that I promise we’ll meet the next day. He appears satisfied with that and gives some extra money to the driver to take me home.