I HATE NEW YORK

First of all, let me apologize for my lack of a post in nearly two weeks. Things have been dark and rough for Sojourner, as the brisk fall air has rapidly turned to bone-crushing winter windiness, and I’m losing my will to go out and about. I’ve been in a bit of a stalemate, as the co-op board continues to oppress me. I had my meeting with them on Nov. 1, and have still heard nothing! Did we hook up at a party after a drunken night of debauchery? Have they been talking to Mr. Whiteley? Why are they avoiding me?!

I just want a place to live that’s not a cardboard box! Is that too much to ask? I’m just a woman of color and a writer, trying to stop the gentrification of Harlem by living and working and growing. LET ME LIVE!

I digress. This is not why I post today, gentle readers. Last night, I received a call from actor, comedian, genius Nick Cearley. It went something like this.

Sojo: Hello, Mr. Cearley. To what do I owe this honor?

Nick: Well, Sojourner, you haven’t blogged in a while, and I was worried. I called to check up on you.

Sojo: Oh, Massa Cearley, you see into my soul! It’s just been so rough out here for a blacktress and I’ve just shut down.

Nick: We need the truth, Sojourner.

Sojo: I will give it to you, Massa. The truth, the whole truth, and NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH.

The massa has spoken. I must blog. I must preach it. I have a potential winter spoon in the works, but seeing as he’s not foreign, crazy, or offensive, I’m going to try to create good karma and not talk about our weekend of magic. Instead, I will discuss the latest thing to rock my world: I LOVE NEW YORK.

Okay, I know I’m about two years behind with this reference, but it has only recently become a part of my life, and I have no idea how I haven’t ranted about this tramp before.

New York is single-handedly setting back the black women’s movement by 75 years. With her fake breasts—looking like two goiters—and her mangling of the English language, I am unclear on why exactly these men are vying for her affection. The episode I had the pleasure of seeing (at Litsa’s house, after having a delicious breakfast of Chinese food), involved the signing of a blood oath—or, as New York called it, a “blood OAF”—which required the men profess their love for New York, as well as present her with an object that was valuable to them.

The most touching object came from Punk, a large black man who attended Harvard law school and is an up-and-coming attorney. He has a terrible jerry curl, size DD man-breasts, and arms like ham hocks. But, looks aside, he is the smartest and most mentally sound man on the show. Why in the name of the Lord is he on reality television? To show his love for New York, he brings his deceased father’s wristwatch, and tells a touching story of how important it was to his father that he become a lawyer. New York was moved, as he pricked his finger and placed a bloody fingerprint on his oaf. (Is any of this really sanitary? I wonder, as I digest MSG and am fondled by Litsa’s lesbian dogs)

The most ridiculous object was from a man who I call… Fetal Alcohol Syndrome (I forget his real moniker). He slurs incessantly and has no concept of reality, and covers his head in gypsy-style rags—though he has no hair to speak of. He approached the altar and displays the following:

“This is a wallet my grandmuva had got in Egypt—cause she travels a lot and that’s important to me. And then there’s this ring my fava had gave to my muva. She wore it for her driving test and she failed the first time, then she wore it again and she had passed.”

Um… What?!

Instead of bringing something valuable, Fetal decided to bring two useless things. There is nothing special about a ring that your mom wore on two occasions, resulting in totally different outcomes. And, like, did his “Grandmuva” do something in Egypt? Did she at least bring back a baby Zahara or something? Why am I impressed?

Needless to say, Fetal did not sign the blood oaf and was voted off the show.

Instead, New York decides to bring back Buddha, a man who she felt was wrongly kicked off the show. “The opportunity to find true love was tooken from me,” she explained over a meal at a fancy restaurant (where her bright purple bra poked out of the top and back of her dress).

TOOKEN?

Um... I struggled to learn to read, repeatedly risked beating and death, hiding pamphlets and alphabet blocks from my masssas, only for this damn fool to say TOOKEN!

She is a disgrace to my hard work and triumph. And she insults the hard work I put in to find a winter spoon when she has a bevy of men to choose from (granted, they are mostly crazy, mildly retarded with Asperberger’s and herpes—but still).

This is a pic from a different episode, but this is the SAME BRA that was peeking out during the fancy dinner, during which she said "tooken"