Tuesday, January 26, 2010

crack is wack.

i fucking hate the homeless. that's right, i said it.
i hate the fucking homeless.
at first i was going to write "i hate black people," but then i thought about all of the ridiculous, ebonics-riddled hate mail i'd receive and then decided against it. although it would be amusing to see all of the different ways you assholes spell "finna."

why the fuck do i always have to choose the most dangerous option? seriously. in any given circumstance i continually set my default to "scary as shit" or "you might get fucked up." it's so stupid.yesterday was the first day of the spring term. oh, joy! i don't know what the fuck i was thinking about when i decided to take a class from 7:15 to 10:15. at night. IN THE HOOD. now, you southsiders and REAL gangsters may beg to differ, but there are a few areas up north that qualify as "hood." at least in my estimation. but what the fuck do i know?! i grew up in evanston.

truman, that shining beacon of upward mobility and higher education, is in uptown on wilson just west of broadway. on the most crackish stretch of earth i have seen. and i've been to BALTIMORE. the pavement outside of school is literally littered with all varieties of human waste: vagabonds, tramps, hobos, drunks, crackheads, and urchins all clawing at your clothes and dripping leprosy on your shoes, moaning their despair at you as you try to fight the stench and see through the stink lines to get to class on time. they're sleeping outside of the popeye's chicken on the corner that is shut down for health code violations every five goddamned minutes; they're oozing and bleeding outside the starbucks and in the parking lot next to subway; they're scraping cigarette butts out of the gutter in front of the 7-eleven.

i knew truman was going to be some bullshit the minute i saw a "men's hotel" next to a bar that opens at ten a.m. across the street from school, but the shit is six stops south of my house or whatever and it's cheap as hell so i ignored my wariness (read: the voice of terror screaming inside my brain) and signed up anyway. shit, i'm tough. but really, nothing says "get the fuck away from here" more than a men's hotel. nothing good could ever come from one of those. case in point: sargis and i were leaving our religion class last semester, at night, and walked right into a raging crackhead street fight. and not just any old street fight, a street fight in which these dudes were using BUCKETS as WEAPONS. totally treacherous.

i saw a dead body on the train platform one night. also, there was the incident during which this tranny prostitute beat the shit out of a dude in the middle of the sidewalk WITH A CHAIN. you might also remember the time that dude tried to STEAL MY FUCKING SHOES WHILE I WAS WEARING THEM, but thankfully i had a switchblade on me at the time and he didn't steal a goddamned thing. man, fuck him. i walked through a drug deal at 7:30 one SUNDAY MORNING while on my way to math, and the dudes didn't even flinch. not to mention the myriad number of times i have been grabbed, followed, touched, harangued, yelled at, spoken to, pissed near, and nearly vomited on. one night i watched a man remove his pants, squat, and begin to shit in the alley behind the borders on lawrence while i was walking from school to see the cool kids at the riv. just like a bird or a dog or something. he didn't even care. all nonchalant and shit, bracing himself against a building and pushing out squishy turds while making poop grunts. fucking gross. i was horrified, but i watched for a second. i mean, i had to, right?

as an aside, i was making a little dookie on the phone the other night (remember, you should never call me EVER) and i inadvertantly made that straining to get it all out noise, you know the noise!, and it was HILARIOUS. especially because i refused to acknowledge it, i just continued talking about all my crushes or whatever. all of my UNREQUITED CRUSHES, i should add. (i will write soon about how that sucks the stankiest, hairiest balls in the history of ever. fucking gross. i should just kill myself already. what the FUCK am i doing out here? liking dudes who want me to tap dance and crack jokes while they put their dicks in someone more awesome?! DUDE. it's terrible. hide the shotguns.) and then my homegirl was all silent and i think she was trying to catch me but then it just got too weird and i hung up and finished. disgusting! next time you call me instead of "hello" you should say, "bitch are you shitting?!" come on. it'll be hilarious. okay, back to the crack.

i don't really worry, you know, because i stay G'd up. (hahahahahaha if you know what my voice sounds like please imagine me saying that to you. hysterical!) but for real, i have all sorts of knives and pepper spray and ways to fight off potential attackers. and i'm not afraid of death. i AM, however, afraid of having to live the rest of my life all fucked-up and victimized, reliving the nightmare over and over again. man, fuck that. if i can be assured of a quick gunshot to the brain i'd leave my door unlocked and post a sign out front, or maybe i'd place an ad in "robbers weekly." you automatically get into heaven if some assbag murders you, right? PERFECT. but i refuse to be a rape survivor or robbery victim or whatever. that shit is for dumbasses. i've seen enough lifetime movies to know that spending the rest of my life unable to get naked with a hot dude or sleep alone in my apartment is not the life for sam. bitch, please.

and that is why i cut up that dude who came through my window in the middle of the night a couple years ago. the dude who cornered me and demanded i take my shoes off (yeah fucking right) wasn't even properly armed! pshaw. i have a knife tucked into every single on of my coats, and hidden in various places around my apartment. i also have a hammer and a bat. a long time ago this dude i was dating raised his hand as if to strike me (again, YEAH FUCKING RIGHT) and i had a blade pointed into his scrotum before he could even finish calling me a "bitch." if you are ever in my house and you attempt to harm me, i will make you a member of the castrati without a moment's hesitation. asshole.

i also don't worry too much about being killed because i come from some of the worst people to ever walk the earth, and they will avenge my death in the meanest, nastiest possible way. i'm talking using your blood and guts to paint murals and shit. watch yourselves. my sister carol comes from the pit of hell, and she will hunt you down and kill you in my name. and you'll never even see her coming, since she's dark-skinned and only does her dirt at night.

so i get out of bed at 5:30 in the afternoon (that fucking RULES) and took a shower and left for class. i learned a few semesters ago that a three-hour class requires a lot of provisions, so after i got off the train in crackville i first walked to starbucks and then 7-eleven. venti black iced tea? CHECK. falafel sandwich from alma's? CHECK. (have i written about this cancer in my gut yet and how i have to be a vegetarian now? i don't think so. shit! next post. yet ANOTHER reason to stick a gun in my mouth. fml.) now i am well aware that i have the luck of a titanic captain, so i knew full well that the convenience store was sure to be anything BUT convenient.

i walked in and spotted dude IMMEDIATELY, standing by the beer cooler. now i like beer almost more than i like human contact, and i'll never shit on anybody for drinking. life is fucking hard, lovers. your parents die, dudes treat you like shit, and then you get cancer. and THEN you take lots of drugs that makes you sick all of the goddamned time and throw up every day and eat anti-inflammatory cancer food that makes you want to jump off a fucking building. for serious. i would rather eat notebook paper. every time i take a pill or eat a carrot for a split second i think, "i wish i were dead." and THEN i think about how if i don't eat the carrot or take the pill that i'll have to have chemo and I AM NOT DOING THAT. my plan is to die young and leave a hot corpse, so you dudes better cross your fingers that these pills (which make me feel like i am dyyyyying a little bit) WORK. and that is why it's better to be drunk sometimes. it is surprising that i don't have a more serious chemical dependency issue, but give me some time. it's early yet.

black bums always make a beeline for my sweet honeypot. i don't know what it is? maybe they can tell that beneath this tough exterior i'm a bleeding heart liberal? which i am 100%, EXCEPT in the case of homeless men. i wrote a blog called "the negrometer" forever ago that is worth digging through the archives to read (seriously, GO DO IT), and that is where my war on the homeless began. i wouldn't have a problem if they would just shut the fuck up. if they weren't rude or intrusive or mouthing off all the time.

wait a minute. fuck that. YES I WOULD. nothing on earth makes me want to vomit more than a grown man begging for my change. black, white, whatever (although you never see homeless asians or hispanics, just "lazy-ass white folks and lazy-ass niggas" as paul mooney so eloquently put it), they earn my ire equally. i would do anything i could to help a woman or child, and i mean that. but help some raggedy dude? NEVER. why? because this is a man's fucking universe, and if you and your penis can't get your acts together then to hell with you.

and this isn't the byproduct of my typical all-encompassing hatred towards all y-chromosomes. this is a case-specific malevolence targeted directly at dudes who take the easy way out and shirk their responsibilities. fuck you dudes. in this world that men still run, where men make more and are in charge of every fucking thing and are heralded and deferred to and still pay less for their dry cleaning, why the fuck are you out on the street? and yes, YOU FUCKING TOO, african-americans! because it's STILL easier for you than it is for a black woman. so shut the fuck up already and get your shit together.

i refuse to do anything requiring physical exertion for a man. if there is a bag that needs carrying and there is a man there to do it, i will simply walk away from it. YOU pick that shit up. isn't that what your dick is for? to hang extra shit on and free up your hands?! i don't open a door or hold shit or lift a goddamned thing. EVER. even with my homos. my gay husband chad is 22 and weighs 37 pounds, yet he already knows that HE is carrying the bags and opening the doors and hailing the cabs when we go out. and that's the way we like it. because, fruity little queen or not, he's still got nards. we walked six blocks to a party once; sam carried a purse full of girl shit and chad carried a case of high life.

that's the way we like it!

with one notable exception: if i like you, i mean like you like you, i will break my fucking arm off trying to carry some shit for you. for cereal. i will dislocate my shit to help your ass out, pile your stuff in a basket on my fucking head and walk a mile to drop it off for you. i'm not playing. if you want to know whether or not i'm hot in the skirt for you, just drop a bunch of stuff near me. if i bend down to pick it up (and you are neither disabled nor 100 fucking years old), then you know i'll soon be doodling your name in the margins of my schoolbooks surrounded by loopy hearts and squiggles.

and motherfucking white homeless dudes kill my ass the MOST. this is YOUR SHIT, homie! we live in goddamned A M E R I C A! are you serious right now?! this is a nation run, for the most part, by rednecks, hillbillies, and trash, and you mean to tell me that you can't hold down a fucking mop job?! get the fuck out of here, dude! when white dudes ask me for money i always think, "i bet your grandfather started general electric or some shit. why the fuck are you such a loser? i would DIE before i help you." and i fucking love white people! like i said before, I'M FROM EVANSTON. it can't be helped. my boss is white, my lawyer is white, and my accountant is white. but my DOCTORS are INDIAN, because FUCK THAT. they're fucking smart. :)

so the homeless dude in the 7-eleven. he looked like red foxx circa the final season of sanford and son: sweaty, matted-ass beard, overall disgusting. AND WAY LESS FUNNY. he made eye contact (no-no numero uno) and motioned to me, which i ignored. i'm the fucking master of looking through a dude; i don't even blink! we ended up at the register next to one another, and i surreptitiously slipped my hand into my coat pocket and turned up my ipod (angie stone "lover's ghetto," in case you need to know; what a jam!) from "train polite" to "jet engine." i knew he was talking to me, but i just kept staring into my wallet.

the clerk took an interminably long time ringing up my THREE THINGS, and i stared a hole into him to avoid looking at ODB incarnate. finally dude finished up and gave me my change, and just as i was about to leave i felt a grubby paw on my arm. shooting hot bullets from my eye-guns, i turned to glare at what was sure to be an oily dirt spot being ground into my coat. "i don't have any cash," i said, trying not to sound too bitchy. "i can put that beer on my debit card, if you like?" (see? sometimes i'm sweet!)

"keep your money," he growled. "i just wanted you to know your fly is down."

what a stupid bitch. i might need a drink...