From Sloan Square to the Slammer. From Pseudonym to Suicide. I’m all over the place.

Sloane square is such an expensive, enviable part of town in London. Heads up for those who haven’t visited yet. 

When I pen my novels I will have that as my pseudonym. No, not Sloan Square, though I love an alliterative name, but maybe keep Sloan as first name…and maybe something simple  as surname. (unfortunately Stephens is already taken, damn that’s a great name—Sloan Stephens). 

There’s a lot of things to consider for a marketable pseudonym. Should it be a powerful surname like Rothschild? or a Jewish surname like Rothschild? 

Perhaps a masculine name (Scott, Sawyer). Scott is great as it is 2 first names AND a masculine name. 2 first names each 1 syllable and no one will be thinking “this dark satire is written by a black woman?” Oh no sirree bob. They’ll pick it up! Speaking of Bob, hmm, Sloane Roberts or Robert Sloane? Nope.  Perhaps an asian first name with a jewish last name as a screenwriting stage name. Lord knows Palo Alto and Hollywood types are full of old jewish white men who love them some Asian broads. Soon Yi Siegel? Hmm. I have chinky eyes, maybe they’ll think I’m blasian. 

Maybe a gender bender like Alex Sloane. Stone Phillips–damn it, it’s taken. Sloane Rosenberg opens doors in the publishing world, my African name won’t. That’s another reason to go back to TX. I’ve got to settle this changing my name thing once and for all. 

The scary part…that seatbelt traffic violation is yet to be settled. As soon as I pass documents to the court requesting a name change for my passport, bam! I could be arrested. Now that’s scary. Just think, my freedom to travel limited by a seatbelt ticket, a goddamn no-good fundraising scam of a seatbelt law! My ticket to having a more pronounceable name officially hindered, pending payment of my failure to show in court to defend a seatbelt ticket. Fine’s the same price as a name change by the way. 

Okay lets say that me not wearing a seatbelt means I have a death wish. You know I’m not hurting anyone but myself. I’m not even hurting myself really, just potentially. If not wearing a seatbelt makes me suicidal, then arrest me. They didn’t, so why stop me in the first place?  it’s a scam I tell ya, a scam! Police departments just wants to raise money for their office parties. Fuck them. Fuck the lot of them!

Suicidal people don’t go to jail. (They go to mental facilities.) Do they take hold of any body that died from suicide and request that by law they should be buried on prison land? No! How about a mental institution’s land or automatic donation of body for scientific study? Nope. So then like I thought and as I said, so long as suicide is not illegal, there should be no goddamn seatbelt law! And they know it. Ooh you KNOW they know that’s bull shit. Guess when I got the ticket and court date?—the day before my plane trip to Illinois. Ugh.  Just my luck. Certainly I was not coming back just to fight that crap in court.

Why go to Chicago, hmm? Because I wanted to be in an artsy fartsy city where I wouldn’t need a car to get around. I could take a bus or ride the subway, much like London and Paris, New York and D.C. They don’t have seat belts on buses or trains, do they? No, no, no! But of course my shitty luck leads me to a small town where I depend on Kurt to drive me any/everywhere for the last 20 months. Hmm, I can get used to a driver. Screw buses. Oh yes, a professional driver—a girl can dream.  

Anyway back to Sloane Square: and me dreaming…

Ah, one day. One day I will sell loads. I will sellout– in more ways than one. My agent will tell me “no more use of the word cunt or chink” and in exchange I get to keep my endorsement. Cool. I will sell so much I’ll have an abundant amount of money to go shopping in Sloane square. Ah to rub elbows with those snobby cunts currently shopping in Sloane square. Goals. Those affluent arabs, wealthy whites fresh off their scams and schemes with illegal Italians, shady south asians, minted middle eastern mofos, and rich chinks with cash only fronts using dirty money to fund their traveling and shopping sprees, I see you! I got next…but with clean money of course. Yet  I, not them, I will be the one stared down at the stores, naturally. 

The English Accent (on Men not women) is better than sex…duh

When I hear Idris Elba give a speech I’m reminded— that’s not Stringer Bell. He wasn’t voice acting in Luther, he’s an Englishman! My god, a proper Englishman!

Every time I hear Ralph Fiennes in a film, no matter if he’s the good guy in the Constant Gardner or an evil cunt In Bruges, I swoon. 

Got dammit, I have to go to England y’all, my future husband’s over there and he doesn’t know it yet!

Operation Dual Citizenship is in effect. Wait, aren’t operations supposed to be coded? Okay, mmmm, Operation D.C. is in effect. (Great, the NSA will be on my ass now.)

Of course lots of American men roll their eyes and dismiss it as a “faggy accent.” Oh but it’s the french who are king of fags—cigarettes, I mean. I went to Paris and my goodness they worship cigarettes. That phlegm sound they make is on account of the cigarette voice, not the language.

Ah a delicate sound will always be mistaken for weakness. I do find myself stifling a laugh when I hear loud arguments between a couple of Brits overseas. And the rapping? Ha! My brothers actually find it difficult to be intimidated by British rappers and I don’t blame them. I will still smile when I hear the accent. I may never win an argument with a British man. Hmm, is that good or bad for my ego?

 

I am biased, I prefer it on men rather than women. When I hear it on a woman, I think: ugh what an arrogant cunt! Kidding. I’d be a busy voice over actress/narrator if I could master it though. 

Sex ruins the dynamic of platonic friendships. There’s no going back.

Kurt and I have a platonic friendship and it’s going to stay platonic. Why? Because sex ruins the dynamic of friendship. Been there, done that. Not going back. He’s a self-admitted dirty old man, he’s “old, not dead,” he’d be up for it in a heartbeat, he even says if ever I change my mind, “it’d be a good way to go [die]”. Uh no sir, and leave me here to explain to the cops and ambulance that I need someone to drop me off at the airport as my ride has embarrassingly died inside of me? Hell fucking no! 

Besides, the mystery is always better. Would sex with me be good, bad, or meh? If bad, he’d be looking for any excuse to kick me out. If good, he’d be up for it every day! That would exhaust me and he’d be looking to kick me out for blue balling him should I ever refuse. Either way, he would not look at me the same. No sex is the best sex as it allows me to be celibate (…until I went to England and met Englishmen. Since Trump got elected I find it hard to be attracted to American men, god help me. shh, don’t tell anyone). 

The Bitch is Back

Yes, It is possible for a young black female democrat to be friends with an old white male republican. 

So I’ve been gone for a minute, now I’m back with a tell-all. Sorry, I forgot my password and have been writing…offline. Outlines, scripts, proposals, the usual. 

I know I’ve been going all out of order, but I’m going to try to split all this into several parts and put them in chronological order later. 

Breaking News: Small towns suck. News flash: SMALL TOWNS SUCK! and did I mention small towns suck? Don’t you forget that small towns suck now. I’m about to go drop off all my luggage and visit my family in TX and then backpack to better major cities pitching to agents, working in hostels and be done with this town once and for all so I do feel safe writing about it now. Seriously It’s time I experience life as a minimalist. But before that, a little writing cleanse…

I had settled on a NW ILLINOIS small town and lemme tell ya—Small towns in blue states are worst than major cities in red states. 

Did you hear that? SMALL towns in BLUE states are WORST than MAJOR cities in RED states. Say it with me…small towns in blue states…ah, you get the gist. 

Let me repeat for my new English buddies overseas if they should stumble on this blog. TEXAS IS NOT THAT BAD! And we don’t all have strong southern accents. It’s just that I’m too artsy fartsy for Texas is all, (hell even Austin!) So I bounced. 

Oh, did I mention I went to England for a couple months for the first time this Spring? That’s another story. Stay tuned. 

Anyway, back to small town Illinois. Let’s call him…KURT. Kurt is a man with an extremely big heart. He may not have much, but it’s paid off. Those were his exact words when he pulled into his driveway after 3 hours worth of driving from Elgin to (meet me not necessarily in the middle,) pick me up and drive me 3 hrs back to his… home. “it ain’t much but it’s paid off!” I will never forget those words. Behind an RV which scared the shit out of me at first lies a humble house (PHEW!) with a spare bedroom and basement. In that humble house lives a guy with a great heart who unfortunately happens to be republican, but as long as he doesn’t talk politics I can get over it. He bought extensive land after his mom died and left him with some dough. All gone! Kurt’s not a saver, he’s a spender.

With the exception of 1 annual family get together a year, Kurt has no family to visit him and only his cats to talk to… (well whatdya expect when you live in the middle of nowhere!) until I of course answered his response to my craigslist ad looking for a place in Chicago. Oh he’s not in chicago, far from it, but I must have posted in Rockford section since I first wrote the ad when I was in Fox Lake. Thank goodness for itty bitty mistakes and that CL still had personal ads. We might never have met. He lives ways aways from Rockford. In the middle of nowhere.

He is 3 x my age, pale white skin, White hair, few teeth, bad hip. Me: dark black female, dark hair, healthy, has all her teeth—at the time (later a very painful root canal ended that shit). Oh we definitely drew attention when we went grocery shopping. Strangers would greet him but not me.

This scenario makes no sense in their head. I can’t be his caregiver? His employee, his PA? His daughter in law? His adoptive granddaughter? Only one scenario makes sense when one sees a young black female with an older white male. 

Ah the speculations of coworkers at a corrupt cheese factory I would eventually work for (More on that corruption later). My goodness! You know how small town people have no lives so they love to get in everybody’s business? You’re not from around here, they don’t trust you. You don’t talk like them, they don’t trust you.  They assume everyone is married or living in sin. So if you’re new in town, you must be a mail order bride or some shite. They must have thought I was the world’s dumbest gold digger as that dented van he’d always drive to drop me off at work is not a chick magnet in the slightest. They must have figured his ferrari was in the garage and this is his blend-in-and-don’t-get-attention van. Ha!  

He told me about a time when he started dating black women in the 80s. This was after his divorce from 2 white wives. Way after his father— who told him “MLK is a radical, don’t listen to his speeches”— passed. He’d be rolling in his grave if he knew how many black women his son has been with since. Cops used to roll up on him in Elgin itching to arrest his girlfriend for prostitution as there was no other reason a black woman would be with a white man. In their heads, the only scenario that makes sense is that this is a financial/transactional relationship. Sad. Thus continued his humorous lack of trust in the police. and that’s not his first encounter with the law.  Look I’m no anarchist, I’m not anti-law-enforcement, but this guy has got some stories that makes me want to write his memoirs!  Or at least a fictional account to protect the 5th amendment he should definitely be concerned about. Anyhoo, back to the point.

I know what people think when they see a young woman with an older man especially those of the opposite race. I’m not stupid. Very seldom does one meet a guy who doesn’t demand that a down and out female tenant/roommate perform demeaning sexual acts in exchange for rent. FINALLY! I felt lucky. But he tells me he is the lucky one as he’s found his best friend. It’s sad that he’s caught feelings for me, but I had a mission: get a place, find a job, save money, get out. Originally the plan was to use that to pay off college fees and go back to school, but change of plans…I HAVE to travel! More on that later. Stay tuned.

Another installment of Porn Premises

Is it possible for a man to stick his dick into the ass of a man who also has his dick in the first man’s ass simultaneously?

Perhaps these acrobats have created a gay porn genre of their own.

On another note: Is it gay to suck your own d!ck? Or..really impressive?

 

“Unemployed people are crazy lazy,” thinks employed Ar$ehole.

Have you ever been pulled over…on bike? Not a motorcycle, a mechanical bike. Yep, that’s me. After a walmart interview in Antioch this summer, I changed clothes (because who would bike in interview clothes?) and put them in my laptop bag.

Nick dropped me off with the bike, said he had to work late so I may as well bike back and don’t wait for him to come give me a ride. Antioch to Nick’s home is not a quick bike ride, especially during the summer, it can be quite grueling.

I’m literally less than 10 minutes away from Nick’s home finally, when a sheriff’s car pulls up and parks in front of the bike path. I wish they would have come in the 1st 10 minutes of my bike ride so I could ask for a ride, they always come during the tail end of my trip for some fucked up reason (spoiler alert for the next few police encounters in the upcoming chapters)! Because of the hills, this was a 2 hour bike ride on a long stretch of road.

I look to my left over my shoulder to see if there’s any oncoming traffic so I don’t run into a truck in a losing battle with my bike as I try to swerve to avoid hitting the sheriff vehicle.

A part of me is thinking it’s a bad idea to look over my shoulder even for traffic. It just looks suspicious, me looking over my shoulder. No one ever sees the innocent part of me.

Nick fatty Mc’Fat fat-asshole would later come back around 4:00 pm not 10pm. He got his days mixed up. Could have avoided the whole ordeal had he just picked me up!

After the interview one of the nice employees who commended me on being early asked when my 2nd interview was scheduled. I asked, “What 2nd interview?” My interviewer never said anything about a 2nd interview. By the look on the employee’s face I could tell he was thinking what I was thinking–I didn’t get the job.

I don’t know why but I had this urge to ask him for a ride back “home” during his scheduled break time, but then I remembered before the interview he was talking about issues with his truck. I still fought the urge to ask, I really didn’t want to bike back.

I decided to read my book in their dunkin’ donuts and kill some time afterwards. I don’t know why I didn’t just leave immediately. Not like the weather was going to get any cooler. I guess I was putting off the inevitable, dreadful long bike ride home. After a few hours I decided to call it a day and get it over with.

It was one of the longest, most un-scenic routes ever. I’ve never sweated so much in my life. My itchy, dry skin triggered by sweat and grass–it was agony!

Long rides really give you time to think, reflect and ponder what went wrong. Not just what went wrong with that day, but what went wrong with my life to lead up to this point. Wasn’t a good idea to drop out of med school. No matter how depressed I was in that podunk midwest city– I should have just grinned and beared it. My parents constantly asking for money, hell, a liability lawsuit threatening to take away my  professional license  in the future would have still been better than this goddamned scenario.

So I ride past the sheriff vehicle, by this time this tall slender man has gotten out of it and is leaning on his driver side door. He says, “Excuse me, can I talk to you for a minu-” I continue riding. By this time my heart is pounding. Oh, so he did stop for me. Gosh, I wonder why? Did someone call the cops? Was he already patrolling the neighborhood? Is this protocol? Am I in trouble for not wearing a helmet? Aw shit, what gives?

I hear a door shut and engine start. He’s back in his vehicle to catch up with me.

Lots of things are running through my head. Could it be my laptop bag, bulky with the laptop, the heavy book I was reading plus the change of clothes? Was it the casual clothing I’m wearing while biking? Is it the combination of casual clothing plus laptop bag? Is it really that rare to bike in small towns instead of driving (is that why almost everyone is such a fat ass here)? Could it be he finds me suspicious that I’m biking in the middle of a weekday when I should be at work…unless I work a graveyard shift (but no one ever thinks about the 3rd shift workers) or on my day off…or unemployed?

He pulls up next to me and through the passenger window that has been wound down he asks, “Hey can you pull over to the side for a sec?” I glance quickly towards him and ask “Why?” and ride onwards before he could even give a response.

What is he thinking? Does he think I have drugs in my bag? Does he think I’m a mover? No way could I be in IT, why do I have a laptop bag? No way is she a student, why the laptop bag? What’s in the bag, what’s in the bag, what’s in the goddamn bag!?

He speeds up and parks in the middle of the bike path and steps out of the car. By this time there’s another sheriff’s vehicle behind me. He’s called for backup to block my path behind me. Perhaps he does this as a precaution should I decide to turn back, since it may be difficult for him to make a u-turn and pursue a chase with me on that road.

I stop my bike and put the kickstand down. He says “You’re not in trouble. I just want to tell you to be safe” Okay. Got it. (are) We done? Not by a long shot. He asks “Where are you headed,” I tell him I’m headed down the road, but not the specific address. If he’s not giving me a ride, what’s the fucking point of telling him where to follow and harass me?

Then he says “Do you have ID? Can I see some ID?” Why?  Perhaps an excuse to get me to put my hand in my bag. Maybe an excuse to draw a weapon because my hand is not where he can see it? Maybe an excuse to search, see if I unzip my laptop bag. Nope, not taking the bait.

I said “Why? You just said I’m not in trouble why do you need to see ID?” You know what he says? He smiles and says, “My boss wants to know who I talk to.”  Psssha! Yeah and every time you go into a coffee/ donut shop at a convenience store you ask the clerk for ID too because you talked to them. Get outta here! I told him I don’t have it on me. He pulls out a notepad and pen. He asks for my name and date of birth. I give him a fake name.

By this time a female comes out of the 2nd sheriff vehicle. She’s looking at me with such a scowl as if she’s got the sun in her eyes, The sun is not facing her at all. She hates me, I can see it, I feel it. Why, I wonder to myself. What the fuck did I do?

This is embarrassing. All the cars that pass by and see not 1, but 2 sheriff vehicles with troopers stopping to talk to me…ON A BIKE! What the hell does this look like to them? What are they thinking? What did she do? What’s in the bag? Guilty until proven innocent.

No way am I digging through all the crap in my bag to find my I.D. to give it to someone when 1.) I’m not buying a drink, and 2.) I didn’t do anything. I’m on a bike, why should I be required to have I.D. on me when I don’t have to. And If I did, it’s none of your fucking business, I’m still not budging. As far as you know, I don’t have an I.D.

He takes my “name” and D.O.B. down and says, “Can you wait here, I’ll be right back.” I said “No. Why? What’s the point?” It’s not like you have any collateral of mine like my I.D. Why should I have to wait for you to run my name and d.o.b? He’s dumbfounded. He doesn’t know how to answer the question. I ask him for a ride to my destination. He agrees at first until he notices there’s nowhere to put the bike. He could have put it in his trunk. Bastard. Anyway, I shrugged my shoulders and left. I kept looking back to see if I’m being followed. My heart never beating the same again that day.

A part of me wishes he just wanted my I.D. so he can ask me out. It would have just been my out of state I.D anyways, not like he’d know where I was currently staying in Illinois. But that call for backup kills that theory. He was hot too, but that shit-eating-grin is just that– (bull)shit. I know damn well he was fishing for priors, warrants.

He would have found nothing, nada, zilch, (I did have a seatbelt violation once in TX, but nothing in IL.) but I know my rights and I don’t fall for that “if you’ve done nothing wrong and have nothing to hide, let them search and seize everything, let them read your emails, texts, and let them see your I.D.” bullshit. I don’t care how suspicious it looks for me to turn down a search, I know my rights.

Now that I look back I recall not a single black person working at the Wal-mart in Antioch that morning. Maybe it’s the city’s demographics, maybe it’s the store, maybe they weren’t scheduled those hours, or maybe just…maybe the (work opportunity tax credit) WOTC just gave them an incentive to interview me, never intending to hire me in the first place. The interviewer never made eye contact, that should have been the first tipoff.

Nick asks, “Do you even really want a job?” How insulting! As if I want to be in this predicament. As If I’m purposely sabotaging my interviews so I won’t have to work.

Must. Fight. Urge… to stab Nick’s fat-ass to death in his sleep.

 

 

How far, How low I’d stoop for a job.

So I’m at a bus stop in the dead of the night and this smoker strikes up a conversation with me. I’m telling him about my plight and failure to find a job. He says “you have a lovely voice, you don’t talk black, have you ever considered phone sex operator?”

If I had a dime for every time someone tells me I don’t “talk black,” I seriously wouldn’t need a fucking job! Speaking of dime, “dime” I am not face-wise. If I was, then I wouldn’t be in this damned predicament. I would be a model at 15, a video whore, a basketball wife or whatever. My blank face somehow invites them to speak to me, unfortunately. My body is for sure the main thing attracting the shit out of creeps. Even when shielded in a trench coat.

I recommend having earphones on to ignore and drown out the noise of strangers who talk to you at night. Better yet start talking to yourself to scare them away. (More on what happened later that fateful night from when I encountered the worst creep of all in another post, I’ll call him “Chiraq.” But now, back to “Tom”–the nice older smoker who’s complimenting me.)

He’s telling me he knows a woman the size of a bus who makes loads from phone sex. “About 3K a month, so [I] could make a killing,” he says. Tempting. But nah. I didn’t even have a working phone at that moment.

As I indulge him in the fantasy, I ask what would I–what does she tell the IRS? He retorts  customer service.

He then recommends webcam modeling.

Nice to know I have a body for webcam, and a voice for phone sex. In real life I’m not associated with verbal communication–rather, I’m known to be very quiet, reserved and private. Tom then tells me my soft voice would make it so much hotter.

In truth, I just don’t think I could do it. No matter how much money, I just imagine some bastard taking a screenshot or video of his laptop of every webcam model who strips nude for him. Who knows if there would be audio recordings of my voice somewhere performing a phone sex-role-play just waiting in the wings to turn my life and career upside down.

I know what you’re thinking….what career? I know, smart-ass! Future career. Doesn’t matter what it is–and  I’m not going into politics but– there’s always someone out there digging and digging and ready to find something you want buried. And then there’s blackmail, extortion, embarrassment, damaged reputations. *Sigh* and then there’s the shovel, the duct tape, the lye and prison sentence. I just won’t bother.

Phone sex is anonymous though, you say? You can always disguise your voice and be anyone you want to be, you say? Yeah, yeah… I’ll think about it. I’ve thought about it. Nope!

There’s just got to be another way to get through this slump!

Country Club(bed) in the Face…of rejection. How far I stoop.

I slipped and busted my lip trying to climb down the stairs of the semi when Fatty dropped me off at the country club. I went to the interview anyways, toured the facilities. I was literally bleeding. Seriously for a FUCKING dishwasher position at a country club!

All of the redacted in the last post is personal info, plus snippets about a job opportunity I lost at a country club very close to Kevin’s house. I strongly believe it was me not living close enough to the original address I used in the job application that cost me that dishwashing position. I actually could have biked there, if not walked had things went on as planned.

So I didn’t get a callback. One of many job opps I didn’t get a callback for this summer. Either me not being mexican enough to want to be paid under the table a ghastly wage OR transportation? I mean, could there be a more white trash way to enter the country club than exiting a trucker’s semi? Fuck!

The dishwashing crew was 99% Mexican. The golf caddies and other employers and membership were white. The only black person I saw at the country club was Serena Williams playing tennis on the flatscreen in the lounge!

Not white enough to be in the country club, not the right kind of brown to clean their dishes. Ain’t that some shit?

Aww, Sweet, Sweet Karma

Karma is a Bitch named… well who cares what her name is, just read. I’m going to skip a few chapters in my FTGBISH series yet again because this is recent and just too juicy not to post.

after weeks and weeks if not months of talking, after a failed U-Haul assessment test, I still believed I had a place to stay that fateful May

panic. confusion. Lots of spelling errors. Too shocked to Correct him!

 

“She” is the “roommate bitch” who he took in AFTER agreeing to house me

name of school is redacted, I think you know which one it is though

and fast forward to November with this asshole answering yet another ad that I placed. THE AUDACITY! I wrote back “aren’t you already housing someone? Last I heard you stood someone up at Midway last May”

Gosh this guy’s grammar sucks ass, it’s annoying. Naturally he’s not in an intellectual line of work–blue collar.

Aww, sweet sweet karma. If “she” ever really did exist then he got what he deserved! That’s what you get for trusting someone else over me. That’s what you get!

Pizza is Better than Sex.

Chicago is notorious for judging others harshly against their pizza interest. Especially if you prefer a national chain instead of some local spot. I swear they’re all hipsters; even the old farts, the uncool asshats are hipsters at heart.

Remember the Tinder games? Gosh I wish no one would have blown the whistle on that. I remember way back before tinder when I was a starving artist struggling to make payments…I used to use Craigslist for free dinner. I think it works today, you just gotta be careful not to meet up with anyone cheap enough to want to go to McDonalds or Subway. Not knocking those chains, but go big or go home! Dining restaurants preferably with table cloth–huge pluses. With exotic cuisines I may never have tasted if I were dining on my own… dime.

Pizza is better than sex for obvious reasons. It brings more satisfaction to the taste buds and has my heart going pitter patter more so than any other organ connected to a mammal. What is the best? Meat lovers of course! Stuffed crust meat lovers especially.

Sausage, pepperoni, ham, now that’s a sausage party I’d like to be invited to. Hey-Oh! That’s the only pie I love to eat out. Yowza! I sure wouldn’t mind handling a lot of dough to do so!Ok I’ll stop now.

I prefer Pizza Hut. Hands down it is the best national chain. It’s worth the price hike.

It goes:

1. Pizza Hut
2. Dominoes
3. Godfather’s
4. Little Caesars
5. frozen pizzas from grocery store
6. every other pizza chain
7. and lastly Papa Johns

What say you?