You reached a new low this weekend – trying to contaminate my quiet day of mourning for a dead girl.
Telling me it was too bad it wasn’t ME that died instead of a writer I worshipped and was lucky enough to spend a joyous, incredible summer with.
What exactly is UP with the hate mail?
Are you trying to intimidate me?
Look, I’m no Sarah Connor, cinematic badass and pullup queen extraordinaire.
root of my pullup obsession
But it’s going to take more than emails to get drive me off WordPress.
It’s actually the height of irony that I AM in fact, still alive.
I grew up in one three white families in one of the shittiest housing projects of the five boroughs of New York City.
Which, to quote Wu Tang, “Ain’t Nuthing Ta F’Wit.”
There were three reasons to stop playing outside:
1. Your mama called
2. Outside lights came on
A bullet to the knee cap really fucked up a Skelly game.
So, guns and death threats don’t particularly scare me.
I find it amusing when people cross the street simply because a large African American man is headed their way.
You know who’s really scary? Not Leroy.
Leroy’s FUCKING WIFE.
When he gets home and she starts in with that NECK ROLL, and SUCKS HER TEETH at him, in that way that only black (and Dominican) chicks do really well, and gets up in his grill,
“Motherfucka, you jumped a turnstile for WHAT? To brang me this cold fish dinner?!”
Leroy starts quaking in his green Osiris. True that.
And those fierce black housing project princesses used to chase me down and beat me up every day. Because I was what? Skinny? Nerdy? White?
Yes. Yes. Yes.
They’d lean over their desks in those nasty portable classrooms that were NEVER warm in the winter, and mouth at me “just let me get you.”
At 3:00 I’d RUN. Or try and find one of my brothers.
Usually, they’d be getting their asses beat, too. We’d get home and brag about who got beat up the worst.
In college, I didn’t start off roommates with my BFF freshman year.
She was a tough-ass housing project girl from the South Bronx who knew cinder block and gun play.
We had lame Midwestern girls for roommates, girls who listened to Milli Vanilli and used sanitary napkins instead of tampons, for fuck’s sake.
We met at a dorm social. And when we locked eyes, we were like Tony and Maria in West Side Story.
Every one else fell away. We
murdered those lame bitches asked for a transfer and moved in with each other.
And we played Russian Roulette with our lives on a regular basis.
Why should we finance Greyhound when we could just stick our thumbs out on the Major Deegan Expressway in the Bronx and hitch hike back to school?
Jump in a van filled with five guys? Yay! We got ourselves “The Real World!”
“This is the true story of seven strangers picked to drive COMPLETELY DRUNK in a van…
…Find out what happens when they do hallucinogenics and break out into a game of quiddich.”
We’d get them to drive us straight to our town – to our door.
And invite them IN. Where they’d stay, sometimes for DAYS.
Once, we got into a car with a cowboy from Montana.
We’re somewhere on Route 80, and Cletus McPigFucker very nonchalantly reached under his seat.
And pulled out a shotgun, placed it on the dashboard, and continued to chat with us. While he stroked his gun, like a penis.
Or a dog.
Or a penis.
We took off running at the next rest stop, hopping over the guard rails and bushwacking through the high grass.
For the rest of my life, I will remember the sight of my BFF running like an escaped convict, high jumping the guard rails.
At least when I got jumped on the platform of the D train, I could SEE who my opponents were.
One brother held me while the other put a knife to my throat and snatched a gold chain off my neck.
I don’t know what would have happened next if my Guardian Angels hadn’t saved me.
Not the spiritual Deep-pockets Chopra kind, the Curtis Sliwa kind.
Rocking the whole uniform; the beret, the red jacket over tight white tee with that Guardian Angels logo.
And I ended up dating one of them, too. But mostly because he was a drummer and because the uniform was HOT.
I wasn’t always so lucky.
Wattie, the lead singer from a death metal hardcore punk thrash band from Scotland- The Exploited – swaggered into the record store near my apartment and invited my fishnet stockings and mini skirt to watch them perform that night, as his guest.
So, I brought Lisa, my coke dealer Harold’s 16-year-old girlfriend, who I was stuck babysitting, while he did coke
Unfortunately, we were enraging all the territorial death metal hardcore punk thrash chicks – particularly Lazar, the leader.
A scary creature with upside down crosses tattooed on her face.
How does one get a job with ink like that? Is that not an issue?
And when we left the club, Wattie invited us into the van to continue the party at their hotel. I peeked in – 10 drunken band members and roadies.
Hmmm, this didn’t look like Bay City Rollers Scottish,
this looked like Gang Bang Scottish. We declined the ride, said we’d catch a cab and turned around
To face Lazar and her pack of rabid dog women from hell, who “demanded our leathers” (a British punk thing; they rob your leather jackets),
and then PROCEEDED TO KICK THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF US.
Back then, Doc Martens didn’t come with girly roses on them,
They were BLACK and had fucking STEEL in the toe.
We ended up in the hospital with broken ribs, a busted collarbone. a concussion and black eyes.
Harold was pissed.
My point is, I’ve been in some actual scary situations.
So, excuse me if my first reaction to your emails is to break out the red pen of my cerebral cortex and start correcting.
What language are you WRITING in? Yellow LEDBETTER?
You don’t seem to know a “you’re” (contraction) from a “your” (possessive pronoun) and my son already knows that. And he’s ten.
I’m sorry it bothers you that I have so much to write about. I guess that’s why I’m a Hot Bitch On the Internet.
My blog is my HOME. I’ll write what I please.
If I want to write that I was ass-fucked by Kris Kringle in Macy’s window (34th St side), I will.
You no likey, you no read. Click. That’s what your opposable thumbs are for.
You’ll find they come in handy, once you step down as captain of the “USS WHAT THE FUCK” and do something useful.
Besides hurling CPS threats at me, which are getting as OLD as your snatch hair.
Your factually uncluttered hyperbole regarding the details of my life makes me wonder, why me?
You know nothing about ME.
Or about ANYTHING. I’ve been surrounded by YOU by whole life.
Idiots who think they can wax philosophic about Haile Selassie because they know how to tie on a Jamaican flag bandanna as a doo rag between huge bong hits.
But really, why ME??
I’m not well known.
I don’t have a huge following.
I’m a faceless cog pushing a cart in Whole Foods.
I’m a nameless mailbox in the frozen tundra of suburban wasteland with school cancelled yet ANOTHER snow day.
With a sniffily ADHD 10 year old, hopped up on so much Sudafed, he’s Breaking Bad in my family room.
If he doesn’t stop talking through Full House I’m going to have to remove his larynx with a blunt spoon.
I’M NOBODY AT ALL.
Tapping at her computer when I can. My kid just blew his nose and presented me with the contents of his tissue – that was the “Big Event” of the evening.
And the hottest thing that’s happened to me in the last month was getting a lady boner over the fact that Anthony Kiedis is still immensely fuckable at 51.
To accuse me of being an “attention whore” is to make no accusation at all. WELCOME TO WORDPRESS.
Aren’t we all spreading our proverbial legs open just for a fix of attention? Isn’t that the point of blogging?
Exactly what is it you want from me??
If you want me to leave, I’m not. Writing is how I breathe.
If you’re trying to get me to not believe in myself, it’s been done already. This is, at best, an amateur effort.
I don’t know whether to slap you upside the head, cradle you to my breast…or cook for you.
love you is what I have to do. I just blogged about that, right? That love is the answer.
To do anything else makes me look like a hypocrite.
Love is the the universal force that unites us all.
You just make it so damn hard to love you.
I know food. I know music.
So, come in. Wipe your feet.
We’re listening to the blues today. If Little Dude wants to play air guitar to “Lonely Boy,” he has to know Muddy Waters.
I hope you like beef stew. There’s enough for all of us
And homemade biscuits. Pull up a chair.
Seriously, I got nothing, people.
But you can talk to me. I’m listening.