You Know You're An Adult When...
...you pay your bills. That being the case, I'm a late teen. I mean, I pay them, but I do so begrudgingly! I HATE giving my money away after I strive so hard to earn the crap. Which leads me to the Homeless. No, I don't hate them, but I'm fairly sure I'll never give them my money. I feel the selfish part of me rejoicing in glee when I look them in the eye and either shake my head or say, flatly, "No."

I can't say idealistically that I turn them down because "it won't do them any good in the long run", or "they'll just go and drink/snort/smoke it up anyway". No. I turn them down because it's my money, I made it, and I need every red cent of it. I make no apologies. And I look them in the eye because I want to see what kind of person it takes to ask me for my money. I take it personally. I want to say, "Do you know what I go through to make this money? Do you know what it costs me to have this stuff in my pocket? No you can't have any!"

At the same time, I watch them because I'm fascinated by the fact that they are human beings trying to survive. I mean, I feel them on that, and I wish them well. Perhaps one day I'll be key to changing their lives once and for all by way of my profession and whatever future I have in this city, but I'm not going to pay the bills for their misfortune when there are people pissing out $2300/month for rent on the same island I live. Let THEM give.

To catch up on my subway tales, may I say this; White people? Please don't do dreadlocks. It looks bad enough on some black people, when they go super-natural and try not to do anything resembling fashion with it. It looks like ropes of tumors springing out of some bruvvas heads. But on white people?? My skin literally begins to itch when I look up in the head of a white-rasta. White people, you can't oil your locks like a black person can. Your hair is not afrocentric with the beautiful, even quality which uniformly glistens in fat strands. Your hair has it's own beauty, but not all matted down, bunched up, and strangled.

Speaking of dreads, I was pretty low for the last two days. At the office, my ex-girlfriend and I get along pretty well, still. They way we relate, post-relationship, has led us into two reconciliations. I've never had such a decent and continuously good break-up. But on Thursday, I believe I heard her ask our supervisor (yes, we happen to have the same supervisor, and there are three other supervisors we could each have wound up with) for Valentine's Day off. My tactless, clueless supervisor asked her if she was getting engaged on that day, and she responded, "I hope so".

ggyyaaah

So it seems she's found herself a dude who is going to give her want she wants. And sure, I'm happy for her because what I've hated the most about having once been in relationships is the effect it has on these women I had given hope to about their future, and then yanking the rug out when I go skittering away with tail firmly tucked. I never meant to hurt those ladies. I always wanted to fufill those promises I made--always. Right up to the point when I started realizing that if I did marry them, I'd be breaking the promise because I'd become a miserable freak of a husband who'd eventually dive out of the marriage window, head first.

That being said ... DANG! Didja haveta recover so damn fast??

Heh, anyway, I was bummed but I've gotten a little better. I think what dragged me down a little was the fact that there wasn't going to be a third reconciliation. I mean, she's a gorgeous girl, but thankfully I'm not the sort who aches after the beauty of a woman. It was the gestures of kindness that I wanted to recapture. I currently wear a hat and scarf she bought me last year because she cared about me. That was nice to have that in my life. I do want to state for the record that she isn't a perfect person, and I do think that her flaws plus my flaws would equal a bad marriage. So I'm not utterly insane to have let her go. But still, I miss being the object of a lady's affection.

Last night, in speaking with one of my buddies, I was told (and not for the first time) that I think too much like a woman. The very first time I was told that, I yelped and grabbed my crotch for a quick reassuring man-check. But I've reconciled the fact that this is a true saying. That's why I'm in the profession I'm in. I'm sensitive. I'm not what a lot of girls would want, but those girls are the kind who don't mind being cussed out every now and then from their hairy-chested man beast. Good luck to 'em. But good luck to me too, because what I find is, like these girls, I am attracted to mates who are the female equivalent of these neanderthals. No, I don't like skanks, but I do like hootchies. I like the neck-weaving, finger-snapping, gum-chewing sistas with the hoop-earings, multi-colored cat claws, and high-piled hair-dos. My favorite show in syndication these days is "The Parkers". I LOVE when lil' Kim Parker rounds on someone and tells them, "You cain't talk to my Mumma like that!" There's something musical in the cadence of a round-the-way girl's flow. No, I've never dated any one of these ladies, because my stuff ain't street enough for them to even look my way.

I've dated are the kind of ladies who can pass for educated. That doesn't mean that they aren't educated, but it means that there's a hootchie just under the surface of the business suit. And once I get them, and they unleash that hootchie on me, then like the battered wife, I eventually leave all bruised and bloodied.

What I think I need to get into a relationship that I won't flee from is 1) A nice boring girl whose beauty could stop a clock, or 2) A dynamic, hip white girl. Lord knows I love my people, but sistas, why you so angry? I can't hang with the anger--I just can't. If only you knew where I came from, and what my household was like when I was trying to become a lil' man, you'd understand. And I could never try to make you change in order to stay with me--after all, I'm the one who liked it enough to step to you in the first place. And I'm sorry I did that, for the sake of your disillusioned dreams. But I can't live with it. I'd die inside and you'd have nothing left of the man you thought you knew.

And that's the Mush content for January! Meanwhile, I still love my city! It's starting to sink in some more, as I pay the bills for the first time which are addressed to me as a New Yorker, and I re-write that address on the return envelopes! It's really real! Muahahahahhahahaha!!!!!!

Me at 1/31/2004 09:51:00 PM

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