Friday, August 19, 2011

Don't Try It

Ask Blanche, I also don't see people with dreadlocks.

The always spot-on Demeter Clarc will tell you:  fuck a surprise visit.  I despise a drop-in.  I don't see unannounced visitors. I simply do not tolerate it.  To tell this story properly, I have to go back a few days.

It's about that time of year, so my apartment building has several new tenants.  As a general rule, I do not socialize with building-mates.  I will smile politely, or even deign to give you a toothless smile; but it never needs to go further.  Even if you are a fine specimen of a man.  It's never a good idea to fuck a neighbor (something I learned many years ago).  I noticed a family that moved in right below me.  It appeared to be a woman, a daughter, and a grandchild.  The daughter was a big girl, and I could tell from a distance without even speaking to her that she was. . . well. . . ghetto.  There's just no polite or politically correct way to state it.  She ghetto.  Hair snatched straight back, hoop earrings, and an aura of urbanity.  I'm sensitive to these things.  The mother was clearly trashy.  Bleach blonde, spiky short hair accompanied her rode-hard-and-put-away-wet face.  I could tell she done did some living in her life.  The child was negligible.  A blond boy old enough to stand on his own.  WHATEVER, I don't tend to pay attention to children.

Last week I was waiting for a ride outside when the young girl sauntered over to me.  Great, what does this bitch want?  I was reading my Kindle, trying to look aloof.  It wasn't enough.  When I get flustered or angry, my memory gets foggy, but I'll try to give a quick recap.  First of all, she was covered in random tattoos.  LOTS of initials.  It only served to bolster my previous ghetto appraisal.  She opened her mouth and all my suspicions were confirmed.  Not only did she clearly have hoodrat tendencies, but her name was Shonda.  This is going to sound racist, but a white girl named Shonda most likely rarely has the personality of Reese Witherspoon. 

She asked if I had a girlfriend.  I knew this bitch was pulling a stunt because Judy Garland falls out of my mouth when I speak.  I'm well aware that I do not pass as straight.  She said that she moved into the building with her girlfriend.  I thought nothing of this, as many women refer to their female friends as girlfriends.  She disabused me of this notion after a minute when she said she was gay.  Being fucking stupid and also a nice person, I said "me too."  Then in about 10 different ways she expressed her (what had to be feigned) surprise.  "Aw, you gay!?"  Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, I lost count.  It turns she was 20 years old and the woman who looked 45 was truly her girlfriend of 8 months, who happened to be 27.  I felt bad for her.  They both have a kid.  Lots of drama, blah blah blah.  I don't know how they live together in that space.  I wouldn't be able to live in my 1-bedroom with another person without one of us winding up murdered.

She told me all about how she and her girlfriend were having problems, and my naivete led me to reveal I was rather heartbroken from a breakup.  She asked me what kind of guys I was into, "you like white boys, black boys, Mexicans?"  I wanted to answer, "Asian deaf men only," because Lord knows I do not need this bitch trying to set me up.  Shonda told me we should go out to the local gay bar together.  She said that she should come up to my place and kick it when she's arguing with her girl.  That it would be her "excape."  Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo!  What does one say to that?  There is simply no polite way to say, "NEVER come to my door, and let's please continue to be strangers from now on."  OH another thing that points out my cynicism. . . when she started talking to me, my first thought was, "this bitch is distracting me while that other skank is stealing shit from my apartment!"

We parted ways, and I enjoyed blissful silence--until a few days ago.  I was watching tv, and took a break to listen to ONE song.  All of the sudden, KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.  I looked out the peephole.  It was her.  What could I do???  The music was already loud, maybe she was just coming to ask me to turn it down.  Something told me otherwise.  KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.  This bitch had a forceful, insistent knock.  KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.  This bitch would knock eight raps at a time.  It was clear she wasn't going anywhere.  I couldn't just turn the music down, it would be obvious I was there.  So I thought on my feet and did what any sane person would do:  I pretended to be in the shower.  I stripped down, threw a towel around my waist, splashed myself with water, and turned on my shower.  I ran to the door and answered it as if I had just run.  "Oh hey, was you takin' a shower?"  "Yeah.  I'm sorry, was my music too loud?" and I turned it down right away.  "Oh you got a nice tv.  No, no, no," she let me know that she just wanted to hang out.  Uh oh.  "Now's not really a good time."  And she was finally gone.

Cut to 30 minutes ago.  KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCK times ten.  I'll give her one thing, she is an insistent bulldagger.  This time, however, I wasn't giving in.  I held fast.  I had just started an episode of Sex and the City, and I figured it was entirely plausible that I was in the other room.  I will say though, my phone has been on vibrate ever since.  I'm being held hostage in my own home.  My apartment is my temple, and there is NO ENTRY without prior authorization and proper time to prepare.  I stay gross at home, and not even my father is welcome to drop in unannounced.  I don't feel guilty about metaphorically hiding behind the couch.  I will tell you this though, I'm never leaving my place unlocked ever again, even to just check my mail.  WHAT?  A trick might try to mop my shit, and I do NOT need to go to jail behind cutting a bitch.