What more meyhem and off color remarks?
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Where I'll be talking about life (and nightlife) one shot at a time.
2 years ago
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| Photo by UggBoy via Flickr |
I went out alone last week for a pre-Labor Day drink. It
was cool; I had fun. All was well except for one thing: getting macked on from
a person riding—not parked—inside of a car. Yep, moving. Utilizing gasoline. En
Route. And, twice in one night at that.
Y’all guys still doing that? Is that still hot in the streets?
My bad; I didn’t know. I guess Sunday night was my rude slap back into
reality from the dreamland that I was living in where men walk up to you and
say something simple, friendly and non-threatening like, “Hey,” or “I saw you
so I figured I’d come say ‘Hi.’” That was my last night living it up in
dreamland because I was snapped back into Southwestern reality like the adjustment
on a high school kid’s designed-to-be-retro ball cap.
Clearly those men don’t understand how unsettling it was to
be walking in the dark and have a car outfitted in all black everything roll up
on you at five miles per hour. I borderline considered fight or flight. The
first thing through my mind was that I always thought people got snatched by
‘kidnapping vans’ with sliding doors and two black squares for windows on the
rear, not by slick-looking Dodge Chargers and Chrysler 300s with rims that
shine in the moonlight like Batman’s calling card! Like my friend noted: that
approach is frightening on our side, and shows laziness on your part. (Not to
mention it reeks of the remnants of street harassment.)
A word to the fellas: I’m grown, and you are too. Next time you try to ‘holla’ at
me from the passenger side of your best friend’s ride, I hope God allows the
unlocked door to swing open and you fall out onto the concrete.
That is all.
It's been a while. I need to get back to the mayhem. Now that I will be partially working for the man and partially working for myself, hopefully my mood will improve. I know, I know, I KNOW! If I was a "real" writer, my inclination to produce powerful prose (check, that alliteration, s0n) would not tie itself into my emotions. But, it does. I guess that makes me a fake writer, and strangely, I'm okay with that.
Have a nice day! :D
Have a nice day! :D
...and I'm sensitive about my shhhhiiiiiizzzz...
Yes, I took this.
I know.
It's so overwhelmingly striking that it resembles a poster.
I'm about to host my own showing at an art gallery.
Then, I can act all-too-important and proud about my mediocre "works."
First, I need to step my swag up. I'm looking very Plane Jane. The look is too studious; I'm slipping. I'm in dire need of a neck tattoo, clear chunky heels and plastic multicolored bangles if I want to get noticed by a baller this weekend.
Second, I've got to get with the program. I've been studying every picture of Nicki Minaj I can get my hands on for outfit ideas. It's a must to perfect the lines, "What kinda car you drivin'?" "Your striped polo is the shit!" and "Uhun, I ain't basic, I'm a five-star bitch!!" while cracking my Bubblicious. And, I have to make sure I harass the bartenders to replace my adult beverages and then confidently not tip.
Last, the hangers-on, fringe homies are going to be my target entry point to bagging a baller. Along with bodyguards, bouncers and barbacks. The more I act like I need a glass of tap water (cus it's free and it looks like a vodka tonic if you put a lime in it, ho!), the more ounces of Ace of Spades that is going to flow from a VIP bottle into my mouth to quench my thirst.
If all else fails and I can't get into the super exclusive lounge areas, I'll just hawk the entrance, pacing back and forth in my discount platform heels until I get noticed and asked to fufill someone's pseudo-publicist "request" via the "How Low Can You Go" method. Or get told to beat it.
Yep, that's pretty much how it's gonna go down.
One great sense of humor. Check
Two degrees. Check.
Three Piece suit and impeccable taste. Check.
Four vehicles: two cars, a motorcycle and a boat. Check.
Five star restaurants and vacation spots. Check.
Over six feet tall. Check.
And, he was fine. Not no ordinary fine. Like a, not surpassed, but lapped Boris, Morris, and Micheal Jordan in '93 type of fine.
One catch, though. Just one.
And, before you jump to conclusions, yes he had a high FICO score. But back to the catch. And it came in the form of minor, teeny, small detail. He slipped up. He uttered the word "divo" in reference and reverence to Dwight Eubanks from RHOA.
Yep. You guessed it: HE'S GAY!
There went my dreams of a huge, Kimora Lee-style walk in closet. My visions of perfectly coiffed children with creative-chic names like Falcon and Sparrow. My chance at what could have been my Barack. My ticket out of Oklahoma. My future husband that would be okay with me keeping my last name. Poof. Gone. Gone into the depths of the tunnel of darkness that is anal play.
That's what I get for having respectable standards. If I'd had hoodrat expectations, I'd have a straight man. Someone who's always home, because he's mooching off me. I wanna get married in nine yrs, I gotta start getting serious. And because of his affinity for peepees and not vajayjays, I have to start from scratch. I give up. He needs a beard, and I'll be that stoic partner that stands by his side when he gets caught in public restrooms with a barely legal boy toy and a pocket full of meth.
So, yeah. I'll marry a gay! We can have a life of wonderful dinners, imperially decorated homes, designer duds, great conversation, cuddle to watch Sex & the City on DVD together...as long as I get first dibs on that barely legal boy toy.
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