but I'm not.
Hey friends!
I'm totes crushing on my new Jew boo. I feel like Ron Burgundy in Anchorman, after he and Veronica take a ride to "Pleasure Town." Like Ron, I, too, want to shout it from the rooftops, but I don't have a rooftop--I have Facebook (you know, the way Ron had a newsroom). Should I let the world know?
But what'll happen once he sees me cry for the first time and realizes I'm a hot ass mess? What a dramatic to-do when I have to change my status back to "single." Imagine all the awkward "likes" and "dislikes" I'll get. Imagine the comment feed--it'll be sad on so many levels.
Ugh. I wish I didn't have the emotional depth of a 13 year old.
Being boo'd up is cool and all, but it comes with it's own set of stresses. Now that I've found the fool, I gotta worry about keeping him--my legs aren't even used to being shaved this regularly.
Sometimes, when I wonder how the heck I got into this REALationship, I'm reminded of the perils of my single life. Take last night for instance.
I was IM'd by a random fella on FB chat (red flag #1 - who uses FB chat for serious?). He's a stand-up comedian I've met a few times over the last few months. The first time, he made quite the negative impression. It was at a party in BK, where me and my homegirl were dancing. This clown comes over to us and starts talking. He seemed normal enough, so we didn't shun him immediately. However, instead of plying us with questions, he proceeds to talk at us -- you know, the way male comedians are wont to do. After getting away from him, I bump into him on the lower level of the party as I'm heading to the bathroom. He comes over to me and after saying something so lame I can't remember it, he runs his clammy palm down my face.
He FACED me.
[not to be confused with the "face, face, face/I give face" that drag queen Bebe raps about in the song "CoverGirl (Put the Bass in Your Walk)"]
Who does that?! Who on earth clogs someone pores with their grubby, unwashed Bushwick hand???
As my friend Adam (you know, the one who went into the heart of Nubia) put it: "That's one of the creepiest things a dude could do without cause."
I ran into this weird toucher a few weeks ago after I hosted a show in Queens. He was sitting with someone I knew, and when the mutual friend introduced us, I reminded him of the "facing." He was not at all surprised or apologetic.
Then, on Easter Sunday, I had a show and he was also on the lineup. This joint appearance led to a facebook friend request from him later that day. Not one to turn down a networking opp, I accepted.
I am now paying for my friending haste.
Last night's chat started off innocently enough, although I was instantly on edge due to the fact that this guy is kind of a d-bag. I try to push him to get to the point, with a "to what do I owe the honor of this IM?" but I'm met with vagueness. Not one to be cocky, I try to see this as an olive branch of friendship--and I do love me some olives. However, I was promptly proved wrong, and reminded that, no matter how unattractive you may think you are, 9 times out of 10, a single dude who speaks to you has a desire to get into your pants. The convo veered in this direction:
Sketchy Stand-up Comedian: So, where you do live?
Me: Harlem
SS: Well there goes trying to charm you into a drink tonight :P"
Good lord. I give a weak "heh," then finally put it out there.
Me: Oh, you... unfortunately, I'm recently off the market.
SS: Just recently?
I say nothing and ask Adam how on earth I can ward off this person who I'll certainly run into at shows in the future. I try to turn the conversation into networking, and he mentions he's jobless.
SS-uC: "you can be my sugar momma if you want. i'll pleasure ya whenever and don't have to tell your bf or whatever this person might be haha"
W
T
F
?
!
See, if I was listed as "In a Relationship" on FB, I probably could have avoided this situation. Then again, Adam (he's my go-to for insights in the Caucasian male mind) reminded me that, "assholes aren't very easily detoured."
What do you think, gentle readers?--you're the boos I can count on to never leave me. Your opinion matters most.
xoxo,
LYLAS
-Blacktress
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
16 and Pregnant, Special 90-Min Episode!!
This summary is not available. Please
click here to view the post.
Ch-ch-ch-changes
Hello Gentle Readers,
I just received a distressed IM from an Aussie reader, wondering why on earth I've fallen off the blogsphere, and where the hell my "16 and Pregnant" posts are. This came after I revealed to her that I've taken up with a gentleman caller.
Yes, readers, I have a Jew boo. I done got boo'd up!
This started almost a month ago, and boy, time flies when you're enjoying interracial love!
I haven't written anything about him, mostly because I'm trying this new thing where I don't treat every aspect of my life like a joke or a scene from a reality tv show, and I think he may actually have potential, so I'm trying to keep my details incognegro. But after this morning's chat, I feel compelled to let everyone know why I'm such a mess with the bloggery.
See, guys, the thing is, he lives in Greenpoint. For those of you outside of NYC, that's far from my humble Harlem abode. We've hung out the last two Tuesday nights and this usually ends up with me getting home at 1am, with no '16 and prego' viewing under my belt. If we're not hanging out on a Tuesday night, I'm most likely in bed by 10:30, not even bothering to watch the first half-hour of the show, because I know I'll get more wrapped up than I can handle.
Y'all, relationships are work--did you know this? Srsly, dating someone is like having a second job. But not like the real job I have now--a relationship's a job you actually have to care about. You can't just gchat at your desk when you're in a relationship.
Unless it is an online relationship--in which case, you are being a model partner.
I'm sure this sounds obvi to everyone else, but seeing as the last time I was in a REALationship we had a white president, you can't blame me for being slow on the uptake. Apparently, you have to "compromise", be "attentive," and plan your schedule with another person in mind.
Not to mention there's all that time you have to spend going through his facebook friends to figure out which ones are his ex-girlfriends so you can figure out if they're prettier than you.
My god, with a schedule like this, it's no wonder I'm forgetting to blog.
But I'm back on it, readers. I will not be some chick who falls off once she gets a Jew boo. And tonight's special 90-minute episode of "16 and preggers," featuring a girl who gives birth to TWINS is something a blacktress can't miss.
You hear that, Australian fan?! I'm not gonna let you down!
I just received a distressed IM from an Aussie reader, wondering why on earth I've fallen off the blogsphere, and where the hell my "16 and Pregnant" posts are. This came after I revealed to her that I've taken up with a gentleman caller.
Yes, readers, I have a Jew boo. I done got boo'd up!
This started almost a month ago, and boy, time flies when you're enjoying interracial love!
I haven't written anything about him, mostly because I'm trying this new thing where I don't treat every aspect of my life like a joke or a scene from a reality tv show, and I think he may actually have potential, so I'm trying to keep my details incognegro. But after this morning's chat, I feel compelled to let everyone know why I'm such a mess with the bloggery.
See, guys, the thing is, he lives in Greenpoint. For those of you outside of NYC, that's far from my humble Harlem abode. We've hung out the last two Tuesday nights and this usually ends up with me getting home at 1am, with no '16 and prego' viewing under my belt. If we're not hanging out on a Tuesday night, I'm most likely in bed by 10:30, not even bothering to watch the first half-hour of the show, because I know I'll get more wrapped up than I can handle.
Y'all, relationships are work--did you know this? Srsly, dating someone is like having a second job. But not like the real job I have now--a relationship's a job you actually have to care about. You can't just gchat at your desk when you're in a relationship.
Unless it is an online relationship--in which case, you are being a model partner.
I'm sure this sounds obvi to everyone else, but seeing as the last time I was in a REALationship we had a white president, you can't blame me for being slow on the uptake. Apparently, you have to "compromise", be "attentive," and plan your schedule with another person in mind.
Not to mention there's all that time you have to spend going through his facebook friends to figure out which ones are his ex-girlfriends so you can figure out if they're prettier than you.
My god, with a schedule like this, it's no wonder I'm forgetting to blog.
But I'm back on it, readers. I will not be some chick who falls off once she gets a Jew boo. And tonight's special 90-minute episode of "16 and preggers," featuring a girl who gives birth to TWINS is something a blacktress can't miss.
You hear that, Australian fan?! I'm not gonna let you down!
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Sojo Goes Solo -- A Solo Show, That Is
So, as you all know, the Sojo has opinions. I’ve been inside Caucasia, got hos in different country codes, and love to share my business. This clearly means I need to have a one-blacktress show—first on LOGO, then on Bravo, then on EVERY CHANNEL POSSIBLE.
My first step on the path to world domination is taking a solo-show writing class, taught by a strong black woman in a white woman’s candy coating. I’ve heard great things about her, and although this brain of mine is teeming with ideas, I have no idea how to organize them, or what’s worth expanding upon.
And also I’m lazy and can’t motivate myself. (see any post regarding gchat, which often takes place at work).
So, I started this class on Saturday, and after hosting two shows the night before, was feeling excited to nurture the blacktress within. These feelings quickly disappeared when I walked into the classroom and found myself, yet again, in the heart of Caucasia.
And not just any Caucasia, but smiley, excited, creative types who, despite being able to tap into their emotions, seem to lack self-awareness.
The class was 11 girls and 1 guy, which actually could have been pleasant, given my last improv class experience, which consisted of 14 white boys and one blacktress (such a circle jerk!). But I walk in, and I suddenly felt like it was the first day of Dalton (NYC private school that blacktress attended in her youth. The school’s motto should have been, “Dalton: it’s where self-esteem goes to die.”) All the girls know each other from previous classes and shows, and are giggling and gabbing in their high-pitched tones, and everyone has taken a class with the teacher already—and is her BFF—except for myself. I swear, if there had been a stool in a corner, I would have sat in it.
To make matters worse, the first person I see when I walk in is this girl from my college who I could not stand. Although I’m open to her surprising me, I find her to be overly confident and she gets under my skin. Whatever, I need to let it go and let it flow, right?
So, I try to shake it off, take opposite action and engage in class, not make myself the last person to present as we go through exercises, and generally remind myself that I’m here to work on me, and I don’t need to be besties with anyone.
It’s not really working, though, and the last 30 minutes of the class are spent playing "questions," where one person gets in the circle and everyone else fires questions at them. This exercise is meant to get us closer, remove that awkward feeling, and foster a sense of comaraderie. Here are some highlights:
When asked her favorite book, one girl answers, "The one I wrote."
WHO DOES THAT?
Really? The one you wrote? She seems like a nice girl, but I’m sorry, that is a first-impression FAIL.
Another girl’s questions only consist of drug-related experiences. "When was the last time you were really fucked up?" she asked, or "What's the hardest drug you've ever done?" Of course, when placed in the center of the circle, she spent much of her time recounting the time she did 7 hits of liquid acid after several tequila shots.
I’m sorry, but like Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon, I’m getting too old for this shit.
When asked, "When was the last time you stole something?" one girl, whose name I've blocked out, replies, "Oh, god, I stole some lipstick from CVS, some bracelets from H&M, and a sweater from Century 21--and I got caught for that one." This girl is 20-something, started class whining about crashing with her parents in Westchester while the person she's house-sitting for comes back to town for a week, and is a non-working actress. I don’t think she really needs to steal things. No one has oppressed her--why is she engaging in thievery?
These are basically long examples to explain that, as a blacktress working on a personal-story-driven solo show about time inside Caucasia, and my own conflicting feelings about race, class, and both of these things as modes of performance, these students may not be good for me.
So, this is a bit of a rant, but I had to get it out. Should I stay in the class? I think the teacher could be really great, very smart, and she’s kind of a bad-ass lesbian I’d want to hang out with on the weekends. But if I’m not comfortable and trusting of my fellow classmates, how can I really write and express myself freely? Ain’t I, Sojourner, a woman?! Don’t I deserve to be there? Don’t I need to hang up my hang-ups at the same time that I hang up my coat? I need to get it together, cause I am not being a strong black woman!
How are you today, gentle readers?
My first step on the path to world domination is taking a solo-show writing class, taught by a strong black woman in a white woman’s candy coating. I’ve heard great things about her, and although this brain of mine is teeming with ideas, I have no idea how to organize them, or what’s worth expanding upon.
And also I’m lazy and can’t motivate myself. (see any post regarding gchat, which often takes place at work).
So, I started this class on Saturday, and after hosting two shows the night before, was feeling excited to nurture the blacktress within. These feelings quickly disappeared when I walked into the classroom and found myself, yet again, in the heart of Caucasia.
And not just any Caucasia, but smiley, excited, creative types who, despite being able to tap into their emotions, seem to lack self-awareness.
The class was 11 girls and 1 guy, which actually could have been pleasant, given my last improv class experience, which consisted of 14 white boys and one blacktress (such a circle jerk!). But I walk in, and I suddenly felt like it was the first day of Dalton (NYC private school that blacktress attended in her youth. The school’s motto should have been, “Dalton: it’s where self-esteem goes to die.”) All the girls know each other from previous classes and shows, and are giggling and gabbing in their high-pitched tones, and everyone has taken a class with the teacher already—and is her BFF—except for myself. I swear, if there had been a stool in a corner, I would have sat in it.
To make matters worse, the first person I see when I walk in is this girl from my college who I could not stand. Although I’m open to her surprising me, I find her to be overly confident and she gets under my skin. Whatever, I need to let it go and let it flow, right?
So, I try to shake it off, take opposite action and engage in class, not make myself the last person to present as we go through exercises, and generally remind myself that I’m here to work on me, and I don’t need to be besties with anyone.
It’s not really working, though, and the last 30 minutes of the class are spent playing "questions," where one person gets in the circle and everyone else fires questions at them. This exercise is meant to get us closer, remove that awkward feeling, and foster a sense of comaraderie. Here are some highlights:
When asked her favorite book, one girl answers, "The one I wrote."
WHO DOES THAT?
Really? The one you wrote? She seems like a nice girl, but I’m sorry, that is a first-impression FAIL.
Another girl’s questions only consist of drug-related experiences. "When was the last time you were really fucked up?" she asked, or "What's the hardest drug you've ever done?" Of course, when placed in the center of the circle, she spent much of her time recounting the time she did 7 hits of liquid acid after several tequila shots.
I’m sorry, but like Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon, I’m getting too old for this shit.
When asked, "When was the last time you stole something?" one girl, whose name I've blocked out, replies, "Oh, god, I stole some lipstick from CVS, some bracelets from H&M, and a sweater from Century 21--and I got caught for that one." This girl is 20-something, started class whining about crashing with her parents in Westchester while the person she's house-sitting for comes back to town for a week, and is a non-working actress. I don’t think she really needs to steal things. No one has oppressed her--why is she engaging in thievery?
These are basically long examples to explain that, as a blacktress working on a personal-story-driven solo show about time inside Caucasia, and my own conflicting feelings about race, class, and both of these things as modes of performance, these students may not be good for me.
So, this is a bit of a rant, but I had to get it out. Should I stay in the class? I think the teacher could be really great, very smart, and she’s kind of a bad-ass lesbian I’d want to hang out with on the weekends. But if I’m not comfortable and trusting of my fellow classmates, how can I really write and express myself freely? Ain’t I, Sojourner, a woman?! Don’t I deserve to be there? Don’t I need to hang up my hang-ups at the same time that I hang up my coat? I need to get it together, cause I am not being a strong black woman!
How are you today, gentle readers?
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Jennifer Love Hewitt Has a Book!
Hey gang,
So, my girl KWalsh always has her finger on the pulse of celebrity culture. This is why I was not surprised to receive an IM from her, alerting me to a new book written by everyone’s favorite girl next door, Jennifer Love Hewitt.
It’s called “I Shot Cupid: My name is Jennifer Love Hewitt and I’m a Love-aholic.”
I kid you not.
Um, where’s my book deal? Do I have to know what you did twelve summers ago and date a bunch of lame dudes? I’ve clearly done both of those things throughout my life.
Anyway, I digress.
As you all know I kind of secretly love Jennifer Love Hewitt. She is so fucking fresh-faced and optimistic, and when everyone freaked out because she’s a size 2 and not a 0, she wasn’t having it, which implies that she may have a smidgen of common sense.
Alas, it would seem from some excerpts from her book,that it is I, Sojourner, who can’t handle the truth about J. Love.
I don’t know if I can handle randomness that is Jennifer Love Hewitt’s “pearls of wisdom”—or, should I say, crystals of wisdom. The girl actually suggests you bedazzle your vajayjay.
I believe the word she uses is “vagazzle.”
Again, I kid you not.
Left to process this alone in my cubicle, I couldn’t cope. I clearly had to g-chat KWalsh and get some answers.
Me: She says “a friend” did it. What friend would you have swarovski crystal your vag?
Walsh, would you do that for me?
KWalsh: No, I’m sorry
because I am morally opposed to vajazzling
KWalsh: and I would not enable you
me: hahahhaa, I am also morally opposed
this sounds insane
and unsanitary
KWalsh: would you like a nice friction based rash from rubbing your junk on crystals, potential male sex partner?!?!?!
me: HAHA
KWalsh: It doesn’t surprise me that JLH vajazzles
vajazzling seems entirely "sex less" to me because it would not enhance sex
It’s like, "I’m a pretty Barbie girl with sparkles on my lady bits, oops don't touch!"
*I think my favorite is number 9 – why on earth should a man have a coat for you? Why a coat? What is going on in her head? I think she was spoiled by Bailey back on Po5.
So, my girl KWalsh always has her finger on the pulse of celebrity culture. This is why I was not surprised to receive an IM from her, alerting me to a new book written by everyone’s favorite girl next door, Jennifer Love Hewitt.
It’s called “I Shot Cupid: My name is Jennifer Love Hewitt and I’m a Love-aholic.”
I kid you not.
Um, where’s my book deal? Do I have to know what you did twelve summers ago and date a bunch of lame dudes? I’ve clearly done both of those things throughout my life.
Anyway, I digress.
As you all know I kind of secretly love Jennifer Love Hewitt. She is so fucking fresh-faced and optimistic, and when everyone freaked out because she’s a size 2 and not a 0, she wasn’t having it, which implies that she may have a smidgen of common sense.
Alas, it would seem from some excerpts from her book,that it is I, Sojourner, who can’t handle the truth about J. Love.
I don’t know if I can handle randomness that is Jennifer Love Hewitt’s “pearls of wisdom”—or, should I say, crystals of wisdom. The girl actually suggests you bedazzle your vajayjay.
I believe the word she uses is “vagazzle.”
Again, I kid you not.
Left to process this alone in my cubicle, I couldn’t cope. I clearly had to g-chat KWalsh and get some answers.
Me: She says “a friend” did it. What friend would you have swarovski crystal your vag?
Walsh, would you do that for me?
KWalsh: No, I’m sorry
because I am morally opposed to vajazzling
KWalsh: and I would not enable you
me: hahahhaa, I am also morally opposed
this sounds insane
and unsanitary
KWalsh: would you like a nice friction based rash from rubbing your junk on crystals, potential male sex partner?!?!?!
me: HAHA
KWalsh: It doesn’t surprise me that JLH vajazzles
vajazzling seems entirely "sex less" to me because it would not enhance sex
It’s like, "I’m a pretty Barbie girl with sparkles on my lady bits, oops don't touch!"
*I think my favorite is number 9 – why on earth should a man have a coat for you? Why a coat? What is going on in her head? I think she was spoiled by Bailey back on Po5.
My Mom is Apparently Gangsta
Hey gang,
Sorry I’ve been MIA – I spent much of last week in Austin, Texas, enjoying the musical stylings and breakfast burritos of the South by Southwest Music Festival (SXSW). While that’s ripe for bloggery, I’m just getting back to the plantation and should keep my blatant procrastination to a minimum (details on Texan hipsters to come). However, I must share with you the conversation I had with madukes this morning:
It’s 8:15am. As I eat my oatmeal, I’m flipping through the channels. A music video comes on, and it’s featuring Ludacris. I mute it, because it’s too early for loudness. Just then, my mother emerges from her office…
Mom: That’s Ludacris? Turn it up.
Me: What?
Mom: I love Ludacris.
[I oblige. After all, she birthed me and lets me live rent free. I am shocked to find that she is staring at the tv screen.]
Me: It’s just featuring him, though.
Mom: He’s so good. Do you remember when he came on the rap scene. He had that big afro, and he was doing something different. Plus, he’s a good actor.
Me: What?
[mother does not respond, as she is entranced by Luda. We proceed to watch the video. The lead singer is some dude named “Taio,” and he basically sounds like an Akon wannabe. Ludacris proceeds to do his mid-song rap. It’s not particularly good, which does not surprise me.]
Mom: No, this is beneath Ludacris.
Me: What?
[I am still so baffled and confused by this. My mother is an attorney. She owns a Michael Buble CD. She loves Sarah Vaughn. I know a person can have layers, but damn.]
Mom: I thought he disappeared. He just left the rap game.
Me: I guess he’s got his money from his acting now.
[I don’t know how to keep up this conversation]
Mom: He was in Guy Ritchie’s “Rocknrolla.”
Me: I know, mom. You made me watch it.
Mom: It’s just like Ja Rule.
Me: What?
[WHO IS SHE??? HOW COULD THIS WOMAN HAVE BIRTHED ME???]
Mom: He just fell off, too.
Me: Okay.
The video is over. I finish my oatmeal and get ready to leave. As I head out the door, I tell her to have a nice day.
I don’t even know who she is anymore.
Sorry I’ve been MIA – I spent much of last week in Austin, Texas, enjoying the musical stylings and breakfast burritos of the South by Southwest Music Festival (SXSW). While that’s ripe for bloggery, I’m just getting back to the plantation and should keep my blatant procrastination to a minimum (details on Texan hipsters to come). However, I must share with you the conversation I had with madukes this morning:
It’s 8:15am. As I eat my oatmeal, I’m flipping through the channels. A music video comes on, and it’s featuring Ludacris. I mute it, because it’s too early for loudness. Just then, my mother emerges from her office…
Mom: That’s Ludacris? Turn it up.
Me: What?
Mom: I love Ludacris.
[I oblige. After all, she birthed me and lets me live rent free. I am shocked to find that she is staring at the tv screen.]
Me: It’s just featuring him, though.
Mom: He’s so good. Do you remember when he came on the rap scene. He had that big afro, and he was doing something different. Plus, he’s a good actor.
Me: What?
[mother does not respond, as she is entranced by Luda. We proceed to watch the video. The lead singer is some dude named “Taio,” and he basically sounds like an Akon wannabe. Ludacris proceeds to do his mid-song rap. It’s not particularly good, which does not surprise me.]
Mom: No, this is beneath Ludacris.
Me: What?
[I am still so baffled and confused by this. My mother is an attorney. She owns a Michael Buble CD. She loves Sarah Vaughn. I know a person can have layers, but damn.]
Mom: I thought he disappeared. He just left the rap game.
Me: I guess he’s got his money from his acting now.
[I don’t know how to keep up this conversation]
Mom: He was in Guy Ritchie’s “Rocknrolla.”
Me: I know, mom. You made me watch it.
Mom: It’s just like Ja Rule.
Me: What?
[WHO IS SHE??? HOW COULD THIS WOMAN HAVE BIRTHED ME???]
Mom: He just fell off, too.
Me: Okay.
The video is over. I finish my oatmeal and get ready to leave. As I head out the door, I tell her to have a nice day.
I don’t even know who she is anymore.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
HAPPY(?) St. Patrick's Day
So, the St. Paddy’s Day Parade is taking place right outside my building. As I headed out for my lunch break, I was visually assaulted by waves of green, and men in kilts.
I was petrified.
Now, we all know I love a man in woman’s garb (hello, Drag Race). Rather, I was terrified by the hoards of Caucasians, smelling of booze and feeling really excited about being white. This, my friends, is when Caucasia is at its most fearful. As I weaved my way through the crowd, desperate to reach the subway station, my heart started to palpitate. There was no room to move. My purse—and my loins—were in grave danger of being snatched! I started to have a flashback to plantation days, when Massa would have me work during his big parties. Although I wasn’t allowed to look anyone in the eye, and my only job was to serve, after some mead and ale, those white men would ask me if I wanted to be serviced!! It’s dangerous for a young blacktress when Caucasia’s feeling frisky!!!
After a brief jaunt outside the office, I came back up and could not get down the street. As I took a circuitous route, I saw two girls who looked like they were Jersey Shore castoffs drinking “soda” out of a big gulp. One was screaming to the other:
“Rachel, where’s AAAAMy? Where’s AAAmy??”
Clearly, Amy’s somewhere turning 16 and pregnant. After all, we all learned from Britney Spears what happens If You Seek Amy!!!
As I made it to my office, my excitement for being black swelled. As I watched young girls become mothers, and grown men pee on the street to avoid the port-a-potty line, it felt nice to be young, gifted, and black.
My coworker, who just came back from being outside said:
“I just saw a drunk woman being carried by two friends, yelling to everyone she passed, ‘YOU’RE Retarded!’ And there were girls who were wearing t-shirts that, if I actually did what there shirts told me to do, I’d get arrested.”
I reminded him that the day would soon be over, and those girls would be back in geometry class tomorrow, tempting him no more.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day Everyone!!!
I was petrified.
Now, we all know I love a man in woman’s garb (hello, Drag Race). Rather, I was terrified by the hoards of Caucasians, smelling of booze and feeling really excited about being white. This, my friends, is when Caucasia is at its most fearful. As I weaved my way through the crowd, desperate to reach the subway station, my heart started to palpitate. There was no room to move. My purse—and my loins—were in grave danger of being snatched! I started to have a flashback to plantation days, when Massa would have me work during his big parties. Although I wasn’t allowed to look anyone in the eye, and my only job was to serve, after some mead and ale, those white men would ask me if I wanted to be serviced!! It’s dangerous for a young blacktress when Caucasia’s feeling frisky!!!
After a brief jaunt outside the office, I came back up and could not get down the street. As I took a circuitous route, I saw two girls who looked like they were Jersey Shore castoffs drinking “soda” out of a big gulp. One was screaming to the other:
“Rachel, where’s AAAAMy? Where’s AAAmy??”
Clearly, Amy’s somewhere turning 16 and pregnant. After all, we all learned from Britney Spears what happens If You Seek Amy!!!
As I made it to my office, my excitement for being black swelled. As I watched young girls become mothers, and grown men pee on the street to avoid the port-a-potty line, it felt nice to be young, gifted, and black.
My coworker, who just came back from being outside said:
“I just saw a drunk woman being carried by two friends, yelling to everyone she passed, ‘YOU’RE Retarded!’ And there were girls who were wearing t-shirts that, if I actually did what there shirts told me to do, I’d get arrested.”
I reminded him that the day would soon be over, and those girls would be back in geometry class tomorrow, tempting him no more.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day Everyone!!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)