We have a newbie in my first period. Hey, I'm not complaining; I'm all for the newbs. Can't get enough of them, really. I wish we always had them. Newb after newb after newb...but this one?
"You look like Hannah Montana."
I don't like this newb.
"I do not look like Hannah Montana."
"Yes you do."
"No I really don't."
"Yeah you do."
That was Day One. Annoyed, but not angry. Hannah Montana cracks, I can deal with. What I can't deal with is someone sticking a tack into my leg.
"Ouch!"
"You felt that?!"
"YEAH, I felt that! You stuck a tack in my THIGH."
"HaHA!"
"Not funny, man. Noootttt funnnyyyyy."
"Lemme do it again."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because it hurts. AND because---OUCH!"
"Shut up that don't hurt!"
"YEAH it does!"
"Lemme do it on your arm."
"NO."
"It's not like you ain't used to it."
"What?"
"You cut yourself, don't ya?"
"NO!"
"Ahhh, really?"
"Yes, REALLY."
"I thought you was emo."
"What?"
"You always be wearin' long sleeves and shit. I thought you cut yourself."
He does the motions. And the sound effects.
"Eee! Eee! Eee! EMO."
"Nope. Sorry. I like my veins how they are."
"Your what?"
"My veins."
"What yo veins got to do with it?"
"Never mind."
Then there was the time he really needed a cigarette. BAD.
"You got a cigarette?"
"No."
"Give me a cigarette."
"I don't have one."
"You want me to stab you?"
"NO, I don't want you to STAB me."
"Then give me a cigarette."
"I don't smoke."
"That's it I'm jackin' your car."
"You're...jackin...my car."
"That's what I said, bitch!"
"It's already been jacked, sorry."
"Someone jacked your car?"
"Yeah."
Not really.
"HaHA! Dude that shit funny as hell!"
"I'm glad you're amused."
"I'm stickin' a pumpkin in your muffler after school. Just gonna stick that pumpkin right up in that black Volvo of yours."
It didn't matter that a pumpkin could never fit in a muffler, that was still the day I was officially creeped out. He knew what car I drove. I don't know how. But it was creepy. That was also the day someone told me he was from a correctional facility for juvenile delinquents. AWESOME.
"Hey hemorrhoid."
"Are you talking to me?"
"Yeah, haHA! I called you a hemorrhoid!"
"Yes, that IS what you called me."
"You know what a hemorrhoid is?"
"It's bad."
"Yeah, but you know what it is?
"I would rather not have this conversation."
I really just didn't know what it was.
"Hey, Teach! Tell her what a hemorrhoid is!"
God that's embarrassing. For me and for him.
"It's an inflammation of the butthole."
Thank you, teaaaaacher! Now let's talk about anal sex! In full detail! With pictures!
"HaHA! See, you a hemorrhoid!"
"You're right. I AM a hemorrhoid."
"HaHAAA you a dirty butt hole!"
He yells this as the rest of the class is taking a test. Now the whole class know I am a "dirty butt hole." Well then.
"Hey hemorrhoid, you got a boyfriend?"
You've GOT to be kidding me.
"Yes."
"Well FUCK YOU, THEN!"
Let's look on the bright side, shall we? I only have EIGHT WHOLE MONTHS with this guy until I never have to fear him and his tacks again. EIGHT. WHOLE. MONTHS. What a newb.
"Natasha Ferrier is absolutely HILARIOUS." - Natasha Ferrier, self-quoter
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
It's Not Over 'Til The Crackhead Streaks!
"Shhh..."
"Shhh?"
"Shhh..."
I was at my first party as a senior and the first person who came and talked to me was a shirtless stranger telling me to 'shhh.' I decided to just go along with it.
"Yeah, I KNOW. People don't realize this is a PARTY? We all need to shut up and stand here in silence. It's what party people DO."
He shakes his head.
"Shhh...crackhead."
So this could mean many things. 'Shhh' Boy is calling me a crackhead, telling me he's a crackhead, or has some form of turrets.
"Crack...head...?"
Sometimes it's best to just repeat weird things slowly and steadily while squinting your eyes.
"There's a crackhead here."
"There's a crackhead here?"
He nods his head.
"Running around."
"There's a crackhead running around here?"
He nods his head.
"Naked."
"There's a naked crackhead running around here?"
He nods his head.
"Shhh..."
And he slinks off into the shadows. I am NOT leaving this party until I see that. As my momma always told me, "It's not over 'til the crackhead streaks!"
"I'm sssssooooooo tiredddddd..."
At first I felt bad for the stranger who was oddly drenched from head to toe with hair down to her knees. I know what it's like to be tired. We all do. Until she decided to lie down. On my lap.
"Ummm..."
NO, I wasn't sitting in this chair. NO, I wasn't in the middle of a conversation with a cute boy who has now left because he probably thinks we're lovers. NO, your knee-length hair is NOT immune to water. It, too, is SOPPING WET. NO, my dress is not of a thinnish material and now that it is soaked as well it might possibly stick to every curve of my body making me feel self-conscious the rest of the night. NO, it is not awkward for me to ask you to get the hell off of me.
"Get the hell off of me."
I wish I said that.
"Ummm euhhhh blahhhh."
I think what I said was more like that.
"Euhhhh blahhhh..."
That was actually her that time, not me. I sit, soaking up every last dew from her mop of a head. I see someone I know. No, they aren't a good friend, or a friend, or even an acquaintance, I just know of them.
"HEY!"
I jump up, waving. (It was less of a 'jump' and more of a 'slow rising', like an old woman with back problems and a great deal of patience.) The girl awkwardly shrivels into a ball into the corner of the giant armchair, keeping her eyes closed the entire time. I decide she is really out of it and do not hold a grudge. I should not judge her. I should hand her a towel, but not judge. So she likes to swim? So she gets ridiculously tired? So she likes to take acid? To each his own.
"SOMEONE CALLED THE COPS!"
Now this is what separates the men from the boys. Okay, not really. This is just what separates the sober from the intoxicated.
"COOOOOPPPSSSS!"
A few people jump the fence, one group off to the side hurriedly finish what they were passing, THEN jump the fence, some people who I noticed were ALSO drenched from head to toe stay right where they are staring into space, and I and the couple people I went with walk to car. (Just because we were in ship-shape to drive doesn't mean we weren't aware of the idiots parked all around us who were NOT in ship-shape to drive, therefore we waited until THEY left, which took forever, and by that time someone had told us the cops had NOT actually been called and that it had just been a scheme to minimize the size of the party. Good things come to those who wait. And apparently, good things come to those who trip. Because they too got to stay at the party. How interesting.)
Some people then began to jam out. I wanted to join in but all I play is the tambourine, which some people don't find "cool." The PARTRIDGE FAMILY found it cool! ESMERELDA found it cool! Bass guitar my ass, tambourines are where it's at.
At midnight everyone pulled a Cinderella, (though Cinderella doesn't roll doobies), and booked it out of there. Everything must come to an end, even parties. (Though it had come to a false end earlier, leaving us wondering if the party really WAS ending...but it was.) We took one last glance around for the naked crackhead, and left with our heads hanging low. (From disappointment. It's not everyday you get the chance to see a naked crackhead. Or even a naked person, for that matter.) (OR a crackhead. I wasn't going to keep on going with that, but I didn't want you to infer that I see observe crackheads on a regular basis.)
"OH MY GOD, LOOK!"
Naked crackhead.
"Shhh?"
"Shhh..."
I was at my first party as a senior and the first person who came and talked to me was a shirtless stranger telling me to 'shhh.' I decided to just go along with it.
"Yeah, I KNOW. People don't realize this is a PARTY? We all need to shut up and stand here in silence. It's what party people DO."
He shakes his head.
"Shhh...crackhead."
So this could mean many things. 'Shhh' Boy is calling me a crackhead, telling me he's a crackhead, or has some form of turrets.
"Crack...head...?"
Sometimes it's best to just repeat weird things slowly and steadily while squinting your eyes.
"There's a crackhead here."
"There's a crackhead here?"
He nods his head.
"Running around."
"There's a crackhead running around here?"
He nods his head.
"Naked."
"There's a naked crackhead running around here?"
He nods his head.
"Shhh..."
And he slinks off into the shadows. I am NOT leaving this party until I see that. As my momma always told me, "It's not over 'til the crackhead streaks!"
"I'm sssssooooooo tiredddddd..."
At first I felt bad for the stranger who was oddly drenched from head to toe with hair down to her knees. I know what it's like to be tired. We all do. Until she decided to lie down. On my lap.
"Ummm..."
NO, I wasn't sitting in this chair. NO, I wasn't in the middle of a conversation with a cute boy who has now left because he probably thinks we're lovers. NO, your knee-length hair is NOT immune to water. It, too, is SOPPING WET. NO, my dress is not of a thinnish material and now that it is soaked as well it might possibly stick to every curve of my body making me feel self-conscious the rest of the night. NO, it is not awkward for me to ask you to get the hell off of me.
"Get the hell off of me."
I wish I said that.
"Ummm euhhhh blahhhh."
I think what I said was more like that.
"Euhhhh blahhhh..."
That was actually her that time, not me. I sit, soaking up every last dew from her mop of a head. I see someone I know. No, they aren't a good friend, or a friend, or even an acquaintance, I just know of them.
"HEY!"
I jump up, waving. (It was less of a 'jump' and more of a 'slow rising', like an old woman with back problems and a great deal of patience.) The girl awkwardly shrivels into a ball into the corner of the giant armchair, keeping her eyes closed the entire time. I decide she is really out of it and do not hold a grudge. I should not judge her. I should hand her a towel, but not judge. So she likes to swim? So she gets ridiculously tired? So she likes to take acid? To each his own.
"SOMEONE CALLED THE COPS!"
Now this is what separates the men from the boys. Okay, not really. This is just what separates the sober from the intoxicated.
"COOOOOPPPSSSS!"
A few people jump the fence, one group off to the side hurriedly finish what they were passing, THEN jump the fence, some people who I noticed were ALSO drenched from head to toe stay right where they are staring into space, and I and the couple people I went with walk to car. (Just because we were in ship-shape to drive doesn't mean we weren't aware of the idiots parked all around us who were NOT in ship-shape to drive, therefore we waited until THEY left, which took forever, and by that time someone had told us the cops had NOT actually been called and that it had just been a scheme to minimize the size of the party. Good things come to those who wait. And apparently, good things come to those who trip. Because they too got to stay at the party. How interesting.)
Some people then began to jam out. I wanted to join in but all I play is the tambourine, which some people don't find "cool." The PARTRIDGE FAMILY found it cool! ESMERELDA found it cool! Bass guitar my ass, tambourines are where it's at.
At midnight everyone pulled a Cinderella, (though Cinderella doesn't roll doobies), and booked it out of there. Everything must come to an end, even parties. (Though it had come to a false end earlier, leaving us wondering if the party really WAS ending...but it was.) We took one last glance around for the naked crackhead, and left with our heads hanging low. (From disappointment. It's not everyday you get the chance to see a naked crackhead. Or even a naked person, for that matter.) (OR a crackhead. I wasn't going to keep on going with that, but I didn't want you to infer that I see observe crackheads on a regular basis.)
"OH MY GOD, LOOK!"
Naked crackhead.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
The Hot Pink Paperbacks from Hell
"Are you waiting to have your I.D. made?"
"No actually, I'd like to check out a book."
"OH! Really? Well then come over here please!"
By the sparkle in her eyes and the flailing of her arms as she literally RUNS to her desk (causing it to dawn on me that the woman is a carbon copy of Olive Oyl), I can tell that students rarely go to the library to actually check out books.
"Do you read a lot?"
"Yeah."
A group has now formed around us waiting to have their I.D.'s made. It's a small group, but still large enough for my cheeks to flush and my responses to become brief. Gotta get outta here, gotta get outta here...
"Because this book is HEAVY."
It's a paperback with only 200 pages. The woman needs to eat more eggs.
"I'm surprised you're reading such a heavy book. War...death...it's gruesome."
Oh okay I get it. Library lingo. "Heavy." So wait, is she implying I'm dumb? I look behind me. The small group is now a medium-sized group, with a couple people moaning, "Mayynneee, dis chick TAkin too looong!" Ugh.
"So, you're in Reading Club then."
It'd be bad enough if she had asked me. Asked me in front of the now medium-to-large antsy group behind me. But no, she just automatically assumed. Automatically assumed I was in Reading Club. It's not even like, "Only NERDS are in Reading Club!" It's like, "NO ONE is in Reading Club." It's like, "Reading WHAT?" because no one even KNOWS about Reading Club.
"No."
Keep 'em brief, keep 'em brief.
"I didn't even know we had a Reading Club."
WHY DO I DO THIS TO MYSELF. THAT'S ALL I WANNA KNOW. WHY.
"You'll have to go to Ms. Andrews and she'll give you details."
No no no!
"Here, you choose two or three books from this box to read, and THEN, you blog about them."
Her smile is gone. She's gone into All Business Mode. Reel in a Reading Club candidate and keep them in an ice-box. Trapped. And reading.
"So I go to Ms. Andrews and sign up?"
So I can leave now and never come back again?
"You can start now; you don't even need to sign up. Look through these here..."
She dives in head-first to the gigantic cardboard box. Her right arm shoots up from underneath her head with a book in hand. She holds her arm up without lifting her head from the box. Am I supposed to take it? She shakes her hand. I take it. The cover is hot pink with a girl on the cover, hip pushed out to the side and both hands strategically formed together to make the letter, 'W.' "GIRL VIBES" it says. I look on the cover for a "Reading Level: K-5" sticker. I'm shocked to only find a description. I don't really remember exactly what it said, considering the fact that I threw it back in the box when the woman finally emerged from it to gasp for air, but I'm sure it went along these lines: "Kelly is a senior at a new school with new friends, friends who may not be so "friendly" after all. When Samantha, the most popular girl at Sisquo High, decides to steal Kelly's boyfriend, Kelly knows she will have to play the game to keep him. Will Samantha win her boyfriend, be the Valedictorian, AND win Prom Queen? Kelly will have to do whatever it takes to bring Samantha down, which includes sending out her...GIRL VIBES."
"Keep looking."
She walks over to the now MOB of people behind me and tries to calm them down, turning back to me every few seconds to see if I'd found anything. I realize there's no getting out of this. Just grab a book and get gone. I look for the shortest one. "Fashionista" is my best bet: 60 pages.---
"Found one?"
"Not yet!"
But I just can't do it. Reading "Fashionista" would be a waste of my life, I'm sure of it. I close my eyes and grab one. Another pink one. NO.
"Found one?"
"Not yet!"
People keep pouring into the library (who would have thought? the one day I go to check out a book, the FIRST book I've ever checked out my entire 4 years of high school, is the busiest day in there), looking over at me, me who is now crouched behind the librarian's desk with 4 books in one hand and one with a sparkle spine in the other. I finally find one about boys and grab it. I don't think I'll get any "dramarama" in a boy book.
"Oh! You found one!"
"Sure did!"
"You only want one?"
"Well I'd like to start off with one since I'm reading about 4 other books right now."
Lie.
"Oh! You can blog about those as well!"
Why do I lie?
"Do you have friends who like to read?"
"Yes."
Truth.
"Give them these fliers!"
Why do I tell the truth?
"Thanks."
Great. I will leave the library and be forced to walk all the way across the school DURING LUNCH when everyone is out and about, with two books in one hand, the laminated-paperback-obviously-from-the-library-kind, with a giant bookmark sticking out from each of them, a STACK of neon green fliers, and a face as red and blotchy as that one kid in 5th grade whose face was always red and blotchy. At least I'm finally getting out of there with SOME dignity, since the mob didn't ACTUALLY know what I was doing behind her desk submerged in the hot pink paperbacks from Hell. I reach the door, when all of a sudden...
"DON'T FORGET TO TELL ALL YOUR FRIENDS TO JOIN READING CLUB WITH YOU!"
I might as well just join.
"No actually, I'd like to check out a book."
"OH! Really? Well then come over here please!"
By the sparkle in her eyes and the flailing of her arms as she literally RUNS to her desk (causing it to dawn on me that the woman is a carbon copy of Olive Oyl), I can tell that students rarely go to the library to actually check out books.
"Do you read a lot?"
"Yeah."
A group has now formed around us waiting to have their I.D.'s made. It's a small group, but still large enough for my cheeks to flush and my responses to become brief. Gotta get outta here, gotta get outta here...
"Because this book is HEAVY."
It's a paperback with only 200 pages. The woman needs to eat more eggs.
"I'm surprised you're reading such a heavy book. War...death...it's gruesome."
Oh okay I get it. Library lingo. "Heavy." So wait, is she implying I'm dumb? I look behind me. The small group is now a medium-sized group, with a couple people moaning, "Mayynneee, dis chick TAkin too looong!" Ugh.
"So, you're in Reading Club then."
It'd be bad enough if she had asked me. Asked me in front of the now medium-to-large antsy group behind me. But no, she just automatically assumed. Automatically assumed I was in Reading Club. It's not even like, "Only NERDS are in Reading Club!" It's like, "NO ONE is in Reading Club." It's like, "Reading WHAT?" because no one even KNOWS about Reading Club.
"No."
Keep 'em brief, keep 'em brief.
"I didn't even know we had a Reading Club."
WHY DO I DO THIS TO MYSELF. THAT'S ALL I WANNA KNOW. WHY.
"You'll have to go to Ms. Andrews and she'll give you details."
No no no!
"Here, you choose two or three books from this box to read, and THEN, you blog about them."
Her smile is gone. She's gone into All Business Mode. Reel in a Reading Club candidate and keep them in an ice-box. Trapped. And reading.
"So I go to Ms. Andrews and sign up?"
So I can leave now and never come back again?
"You can start now; you don't even need to sign up. Look through these here..."
She dives in head-first to the gigantic cardboard box. Her right arm shoots up from underneath her head with a book in hand. She holds her arm up without lifting her head from the box. Am I supposed to take it? She shakes her hand. I take it. The cover is hot pink with a girl on the cover, hip pushed out to the side and both hands strategically formed together to make the letter, 'W.' "GIRL VIBES" it says. I look on the cover for a "Reading Level: K-5" sticker. I'm shocked to only find a description. I don't really remember exactly what it said, considering the fact that I threw it back in the box when the woman finally emerged from it to gasp for air, but I'm sure it went along these lines: "Kelly is a senior at a new school with new friends, friends who may not be so "friendly" after all. When Samantha, the most popular girl at Sisquo High, decides to steal Kelly's boyfriend, Kelly knows she will have to play the game to keep him. Will Samantha win her boyfriend, be the Valedictorian, AND win Prom Queen? Kelly will have to do whatever it takes to bring Samantha down, which includes sending out her...GIRL VIBES."
"Keep looking."
She walks over to the now MOB of people behind me and tries to calm them down, turning back to me every few seconds to see if I'd found anything. I realize there's no getting out of this. Just grab a book and get gone. I look for the shortest one. "Fashionista" is my best bet: 60 pages.---
"Found one?"
"Not yet!"
But I just can't do it. Reading "Fashionista" would be a waste of my life, I'm sure of it. I close my eyes and grab one. Another pink one. NO.
"Found one?"
"Not yet!"
People keep pouring into the library (who would have thought? the one day I go to check out a book, the FIRST book I've ever checked out my entire 4 years of high school, is the busiest day in there), looking over at me, me who is now crouched behind the librarian's desk with 4 books in one hand and one with a sparkle spine in the other. I finally find one about boys and grab it. I don't think I'll get any "dramarama" in a boy book.
"Oh! You found one!"
"Sure did!"
"You only want one?"
"Well I'd like to start off with one since I'm reading about 4 other books right now."
Lie.
"Oh! You can blog about those as well!"
Why do I lie?
"Do you have friends who like to read?"
"Yes."
Truth.
"Give them these fliers!"
Why do I tell the truth?
"Thanks."
Great. I will leave the library and be forced to walk all the way across the school DURING LUNCH when everyone is out and about, with two books in one hand, the laminated-paperback-obviously-from-the-library-kind, with a giant bookmark sticking out from each of them, a STACK of neon green fliers, and a face as red and blotchy as that one kid in 5th grade whose face was always red and blotchy. At least I'm finally getting out of there with SOME dignity, since the mob didn't ACTUALLY know what I was doing behind her desk submerged in the hot pink paperbacks from Hell. I reach the door, when all of a sudden...
"DON'T FORGET TO TELL ALL YOUR FRIENDS TO JOIN READING CLUB WITH YOU!"
I might as well just join.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Signs You're Naked
"Nice dress."
"Thank you! It was only---"
"You look like a slut."
Thank YOU for that comment! I really didn't need your pennies.
"Excuse me?"
We both know I heard what she said. I was trying to give the Abercrombie Zombie a second chance.
"Little hooker, ain't ya?"
Little bitch, ain't ya?
"Yeah, actually."
"What?"
"I am a Little Hooker! How did you know?"
"Umm..."
"My mom's a Big Hooker."
"Are you..."
"New? Yeah it's only my first year. It's funny though, clients seem to pop up all over the place! I guess some people really like sex!"
"I wasn't being ser---"
"Like, really like it."
"I didn't mean---"
"Like. REALLY."
"I can't tell if you're joking or not."
"Oh trust me, I wouldn't joke about the family business. My dad is our pimp. He was inspired in college when the song "Roxanne" was popular. He heard it and just knew he should start a family and make them all hookers!"
"Uhhhh."
"My little brother is supposed to take over as Head Pimp when he turns 15, but I really think he could make it as a gigolo. He's got good genes."
"I have to go find my friend now..."
"Is he male by any chance? Business has been really slow tonight."
"Noooo...goodbye."
"See ya!"
Don't tell me I look like a hooker. Not that I have anything against them. Do what you want with your body, I'm just saying a black dress with red heels is called chic. Stylish. Pretty. NOT Pretty Woman. Let's have a peek at your outfit, shall we? Mini-skirt and tee that seems to scream, "DON'T YOU JUST LOVE MY MIDRIFF?!" Okaaaayyy... You're showing more skin than Kathy Bates in that one movie with the hot tub. You know the one. Wait, you want to rent it? Perv! Gross! I'm not promoting such nudity! ("About Schmidt" is the title and it's available at Blockbuster.) And have you ever SEEN a hooker walk the streets? And if you have would you want to admit you were in that part of town at that time of night? Hopefully not. And what gives you the right to say that? Would you go up to an overweight girl and say, "You look fat." NO. Would you go up to a boy in a pink scarf and say, "You look gay." NO. Would you go up to someone with red eyes and a stupid grin and say, "You look high." MAYBE. But that's beside the point. Even if I was NAKED, no stranger has the right to come up to me and say, "You look naked." First of all, I think I would KNOW if I was had no clothes on. (Signs You're Naked: Breeze, people staring at your crotch and/or torso, your naked reflection in windows you pass by, squeals of delight if you're hot, screams of terror if you're not.) Second of all, if I want to be naked, let me be naked. Let me pull an Eve. And if you're an attractive guy, you're welcome to pull an Adam. It's in the Bible, which means it's okay, right? It's okay to be naked! Put THAT on a bumper sticker. (As long as you give me partial credit for it.) (Like for instance, you go to a party in your birthday suit, and someone of course will have the nerve to say, "Wow, you're really naked right now," and you can respond with, "Natasha Ferrier once told me it's okay to be naked." And they'll leave you the hell alone. And maybe they'll even join your new-found freedom. Or call the cops.)
"Hey this is my friend Mike."
I hate when people introduce me to random guys. It's so obvious. I don't NEED a boyfriend, people! It's called SELF-RELIANCE. Read some Emerson! Good god.
"He heard you were looking for business..."
This is what happens when you make up random lies in public places about being a 17-year-old prostitute in need of some dough. Why don't I EVER LEARN?!
"Oh! No, that's not me."
"Oh. But we heard..."
"It's that girl in the Abercrombie shirt and mini-skirt."
Little bitch, ain't I?
"Thank you! It was only---"
"You look like a slut."
Thank YOU for that comment! I really didn't need your pennies.
"Excuse me?"
We both know I heard what she said. I was trying to give the Abercrombie Zombie a second chance.
"Little hooker, ain't ya?"
Little bitch, ain't ya?
"Yeah, actually."
"What?"
"I am a Little Hooker! How did you know?"
"Umm..."
"My mom's a Big Hooker."
"Are you..."
"New? Yeah it's only my first year. It's funny though, clients seem to pop up all over the place! I guess some people really like sex!"
"I wasn't being ser---"
"Like, really like it."
"I didn't mean---"
"Like. REALLY."
"I can't tell if you're joking or not."
"Oh trust me, I wouldn't joke about the family business. My dad is our pimp. He was inspired in college when the song "Roxanne" was popular. He heard it and just knew he should start a family and make them all hookers!"
"Uhhhh."
"My little brother is supposed to take over as Head Pimp when he turns 15, but I really think he could make it as a gigolo. He's got good genes."
"I have to go find my friend now..."
"Is he male by any chance? Business has been really slow tonight."
"Noooo...goodbye."
"See ya!"
Don't tell me I look like a hooker. Not that I have anything against them. Do what you want with your body, I'm just saying a black dress with red heels is called chic. Stylish. Pretty. NOT Pretty Woman. Let's have a peek at your outfit, shall we? Mini-skirt and tee that seems to scream, "DON'T YOU JUST LOVE MY MIDRIFF?!" Okaaaayyy... You're showing more skin than Kathy Bates in that one movie with the hot tub. You know the one. Wait, you want to rent it? Perv! Gross! I'm not promoting such nudity! ("About Schmidt" is the title and it's available at Blockbuster.) And have you ever SEEN a hooker walk the streets? And if you have would you want to admit you were in that part of town at that time of night? Hopefully not. And what gives you the right to say that? Would you go up to an overweight girl and say, "You look fat." NO. Would you go up to a boy in a pink scarf and say, "You look gay." NO. Would you go up to someone with red eyes and a stupid grin and say, "You look high." MAYBE. But that's beside the point. Even if I was NAKED, no stranger has the right to come up to me and say, "You look naked." First of all, I think I would KNOW if I was had no clothes on. (Signs You're Naked: Breeze, people staring at your crotch and/or torso, your naked reflection in windows you pass by, squeals of delight if you're hot, screams of terror if you're not.) Second of all, if I want to be naked, let me be naked. Let me pull an Eve. And if you're an attractive guy, you're welcome to pull an Adam. It's in the Bible, which means it's okay, right? It's okay to be naked! Put THAT on a bumper sticker. (As long as you give me partial credit for it.) (Like for instance, you go to a party in your birthday suit, and someone of course will have the nerve to say, "Wow, you're really naked right now," and you can respond with, "Natasha Ferrier once told me it's okay to be naked." And they'll leave you the hell alone. And maybe they'll even join your new-found freedom. Or call the cops.)
"Hey this is my friend Mike."
I hate when people introduce me to random guys. It's so obvious. I don't NEED a boyfriend, people! It's called SELF-RELIANCE. Read some Emerson! Good god.
"He heard you were looking for business..."
This is what happens when you make up random lies in public places about being a 17-year-old prostitute in need of some dough. Why don't I EVER LEARN?!
"Oh! No, that's not me."
"Oh. But we heard..."
"It's that girl in the Abercrombie shirt and mini-skirt."
Little bitch, ain't I?
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