N*gger, Please!

Sometimes people follow me.

A person would think this happens because I live in the creepy-ass city of Toronto. Downtown. Sadly for me, that shit has nothing to do with location. It happens everywhere. I mean, goddamn, some guy followed me around the streets of Bordeaux and then asked me to be his girlfriend. I wish I was making that up even a little bit.

“Girl, I’ve known you for 2 years. You haven’t known me half as long but I think I’ll make you very happy. Will you marry me?”

The particular event I’m speaking of did, however, happen in Toronto. I was on my way out of my apartment to catch a subway train around the corner. Obviously this is some sort of unpardonable sin that I didn’t know about because 2 minutes into my short journey, a man in a winter parka started screaming at me. I was listening to my iPod, so when I turned towards him, it seemed very much like he was yelling:

Ooooh! You lookin’ good in them jeans;
I bet you’d look even better with me in between.
I got my mind on my money, money on my mind,
But you’s a hell of a distraction when you shake your behind.

I quickly realised that it was impossible he was saying any of that because a) I wasn’t wearing jeans and; b) That was Ludacris’ voice.

I turned down the volume and listened intently to what he was saying as I passed.

“N*gger! Fucking n*gger!”

Hmm… that is much different from my original interpretation. Normally I like to handle my business, but I don’t like making scenes in public and I was in a goddamn hurry. I moved past him, thinking that this man’s fuckery was over.

I guess I can’t read social cues at all. He wasn’t even close to being finished.

This random started to follow me, the whole time calling me every version of the n-bomb he could think of. “RICH N*GGER! YOU THINK YOU’RE BETTER THAN EVERYONE?!”

Obviously I’m better than everyone to you. You’re the one following my ass around like a groupie, screaming shit. All I need is some music and I’ll feel like a frigging rock star.

Conversely, I do not have the moves like Jagger.

I continued to ignore this fool, looking straight ahead. In my peripheral vision I could see people with expressions on their faces that read, “How the fuck isn’t she giving him one bitch kick to the face right now?” Eventually I got to the subway. I guess he had no money because he didn’t follow me. Oh well.

Looking back on the situation, I feel sorry for this man. Truly and honestly. He obviously doesn’t have even ONE black friend. That’s so fucking sad. He has no one to make him quality fried chicken. And with me he’d get jerk chicken! Poor, poor soul.

You catch more flies (also black!) with honey than with vinegar, I say. I should have probably let him know.

Knockout

As a university student, I am eternally grateful to the divine Flying Spaghetti Monster of Pastafarianism for what is officially my summer holiday. Although I will spend most of it working summer jobs, there is definitely one thing that I will have at my leisure every once in a while: sleeping in. Sleeping is pretty much the best thing ever. Right after food. Nothing beats food. Except for maybe pandas but that’s because they have claws and shit.

I, personally, would not fuck with that.

Sleep is the ultimate date with your bed and pillows. I’m pretty heartbroken every morning to leave my beloved.

When I was in my first year of university, I had a close friend who loved sleep as much as Ronald McDonald loves to sell you crack in burger form. We’ll call her Carol. Now, Carol was later diagnosed with sleep apnea, and that shit ain’t funny. Goldfish with their dinky eyes are funny. So is chasing your haters with a running chainsaw. Just saying. We didn’t know Carol had sleep apnea so I just attempted to wake her the fuck up for class.

One morning I walked into her room and tried to rouse our half-dead beauty. I called her name. “Carol,” I said whilst rubbing her arm. “Wake up!” The girl didn’t even budge. She was off having a fantastic-ass time with magical fairies and pink velociraptors, so she had no ears for my fool ass. I tried again. “Carol! Get up, woman! I’ll shove condoms from the don’s door up your nose!” No luck. This was going to take drastic measures.

Shit just got serious. Time to kick it into high gear.

I took hold of Carol’s shoulder and gave her a bit of a shake, still calling her name. I wasn’t even sure it was going to work. Legit. My next planned step was to call the coroner.

Luckily for me, that did it. Carol twisted in her bed and gave me one punch to the face before rolling back over to sleep. Bravo. That’s the way to do it! It’s at times like this where I am super appreciative that I have a virtually non-existent bridge in my nose. Or else it would have been busted up like a Nascar accident. Or a child molester’s face in prison.

I stumbled off to the bathroom to make sure I wasn’t bleeding as Carol drifted back off to sleep…

Dat Ass

It seems that the gentlemen idiotic or brave enough to make advances towards me have a general means of approach: they pounce. Out of fucking nowhere. It’s like they’re part of some ninja rapist club or something. I’m not sure why they want to surprise me like that. I have a goddamn heart problem; that could kill a girl. You know what; I figure as long as I’m still alive to collect the insurance money after I have a heart attack, it really isn’t that big a problem.

This morning I was on the subway with a shit ton of sweaty and sticky Torontonians. It was great. It was like being in a nightclub but homeless people were there, too. I even had my iPod so I could groove to Marvin Gaye like the smooth cat I am. Standard procedure.

Until I felt someone’s hand firmly grab my behind.

I whirled my head around faster than you can say, “Motherfucker, please!” all the while thinking,  Hell yeah! It’s finally my chance to make the front page in the newspaper: “University student goes ‘I Know What you Did Last Summer’ all over dumbass perpetrator for unwanted physical contact”. The title is a little wordy but I think it’s workable. About 20 different variations of Jamaican expletives raced through my mind when I came face-to-face with an elderly man. My next thoughts ran along the lines of:

Jesus Christ with a side of Charlie Sheen, what do I do? I can’t beat the fuck out of him now! He’s old. On the other hand, he’s already on his way out. Maybe if I just break his hand…

As I was making this deliberation, the man nonchalantly returned my gaze, his hand still gripping my rump, with all the God-given “right” to be copping a feel on my divine ass. Yes, it must have been looking pretty divine if he couldn’t control his bloody reflexes.

Before I could even say anything, he sort of pushed off and walked out of the of subway car as if nothing had happened. I looked around to see if anyone else was as outraged as I was. Or at least frigging witnessed that pile of fuckery. Nope. My sexual harassment subway audience were quite impressed.

I really need to start kicking people in the kidneys. For real.

Together

Love is such a funny thing. It makes you stupidly smile to yourself as you imagine impossibly intricate love scenes involving effeminate sparkling vampires whilst listening to Taylor Swift’s “You Belong With Me” on repeat. For some reason you want to pointlessly bust the fuck into song and awkward dance like you’re part of the Glee cast (with or without the vocal talent). Love gives you the compulsion to Facebook creep the hell out of your interest like the motherfucking stalker you are. The amount of oxytocin released into the brain when you’re in love, scientists say, is pretty substantial. Love makes you a dumbass. I’ve watched countless fools drool and trip over their own tongues like dogs in heat. Not that I would know. I’m no expert on the subject. I get too distracted by Star Wars.

Ok, but you can see why. This man is sexy.

Luckily for you, dear readers, I won’t be covering that subject today. I’m about as qualified at being an Olympic swimmer. Or Batman.

Last summer my older (Caucasian) sister and I were required to get our CPR and First Aid certifications for our jobs. Not a problem. We decided we’d take a class together and then high five each other at the end. A brilliant plan, really. The first day of the course, we met our instructor and settled in with the other students around a large table in the classroom. Our instructor was a pretty friendly guy. He went around the table and asked everyone their name and some background information.

Before I go any further I’m going to divulge that I can’t read social cues to save my life, or at least nothing that has to do with romance. I’m serious. On a scale of one to “Sixteen and Pregnant”, I’m pretty clueless. In high school a guy wrote lyrics to a love song in my yearbook, sang me those same lyrics while holding my hand, and told me “I think we’d be great together as a couple”. I smiled and gave him a fist pound. My fool ass didn’t get that he was trying to feel the motion of my ocean.

I told this guy that I see him like a brother

When the instructor came around to my sister and I, he asked with an inquisitive expression, “Are you guys… together?”

“Oh, yeah! Definitely!” I piped up, enthusiastic that I could be helpful.

During the break my sister turned to me and said, “You realise that guy thinks we’re gay together, right?” He asked if we were together and you said yes!”

“Don’t be silly!” I replied incredulously. “There’s no way. He was asking if we came together in the same car. Duh!”

“Oh my God…”

I don’t get what is with people and asking if I’m dating my siblings.

Prison and Constipation

As much as I harp that Toronto is the universe’s death trap-waiting-to-happen for me, there are aspects of the city that I genuinely enjoy. One thing that I love is that there are all sorts of really neat shops to be explored. Even the shops that are not as unique in function can have something offer. Yesterday I was walking down Yonge Street with Laura and we came across a small music store selling guitars, keyboards, sheet music, etc. Being the music nerd that I am, I “fan-girled” before going inside. Normally the definition of that word is a noun and looks something along the lines of:

Fangirl: /fangərl/ – A fan (female) of something who is obsessed with the said subject to a certain degree (normally unhealthy).

My definition, as a verb, looks more like this:

Fangirl: /fangərl/ – To go completely fucking insane when one sees or hears of something one likes. The course of action that follows can include screaming, jumping up and down in place, grinning uncontrollably, doing the Harlem shuffle, drooling, and generally making a goddamn fool of oneself.

I usually do everything but the first two actions. Screaming is just too MTV, and jumping up and down requires a sports bra. Not my style.

We headed straight for the piano and vocal music section and started leafing through the various artists and genres. That’s when I saw it in the jazz piano section.

I think I nearly pissed my pants laughing. Why is a constipated man on the cover of this book? You know what this tells me? That if you play funk, soul, or R&B, you’re most likely going to have bowel problems. Major ones. But you’re going to be fucking dedicated to your craft. This guy has to poo so bad and he’s STILL bustin’ his chops at the piano like a badass motherfucker. He’s even got a huge fucking smile on his face. That is some quantum shit to the extreme. Honestly, I know I’d feel like I would get more ladies than LLCoolJ if I could be experiencing that much discomfort and keep jamming.

However, the guy is decked out in sexy prison gear so it throws you off like hell. Either that or a super ghetto orange track suit; personally I think orange doesn’t belong on the human body. So apparently I’m going to jail if I play the songs in this book, too?! I guess it’s so that my ego doesn’t get too big and my head can fit through the door. I was all busy thinking I’m as fucking boss as Samuel L Jackson and reality sets in: only delinquents get to play this music. Go directly to fucking jail. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. I’ll kiss my baby mama goodbye and stand behind bars for 25 years. What a damn shame.

I get why the compilers chose this cover image instead of the countless other appropriate ones (i.e. photos of the artists featured in the book, various instruments, musical notes, etc). They were just looking out for the impressionable youth like myself and wanted to warn us of the dangers of funk, soul, and R&B. No way I’d want to be that severely constipated AND in jail. That would make me fucking miserable. I guess I’ll just stick to safer musical genres like pop, country, and dubstep.