We R So Urbana/ I Give Credit Where Credit is Due.
The wind outside is biting. Arms folded over a simple yet widely appreciated outfit, I walk briskly from The Gem to my apartment. It takes five minutes tops. I am for the second time this year drunk and without a coat. It's locked somewhere at the Art Haus. I'll probably get it tomorrow when it has cat hair all over it.
I am the queen of boys professing their love for me to me.
I didn't ask for it; I'm used to being alone.
So I'm not upset when they don't follow through.
Well, not really at least. It's always a slight disappointment.
I think boys like you more when initially you don't appear to be the slightest bit interested. And this is true because I'm a narcissist and I don't believe in genuinely flattering other people.
I'm drunk. There's an expired Sparks in my purse. Next weekend. Or Wednesday.
I'm also very tired.
He suggested we buy tickets to see Morrissey.
I am so confused.
Too bad I love Morrissey.
I don't really know what I'm talking about right now actually.
At Art Haus, A. Romero (who is some sort of latino, let's keep this in mind) makes it a point to remind me that I'm black (something that he should actually probably remind Sarah of, not me).
AS IF I DIDN'T KNOW.
Hold on, I don't think I made that clear:
AS IF I DIDN'T KNOW.
Then I proceeded to explain that I 1) know that and 2) it isn't easy when you constantly have to explain to people that you are, in fact, not Indian and 3) yes that I come from a long line of oppressed people.
Brickman may refuse to recognize my Jewish heritage, which is only slightly okay by me. Trust me, I feel awkward having to tell people that every time they inquire about my ethnicity. And don't feel so entitled: sure the Holocaust was bad but I'm pretty sure 300 years of slavery was worse. Well actually it was ALL BAD so let's leave it at that. Not into the "My People Were More Oppressed Than Yours" game.
Also, my family is probably prettier than yours. All that race mixing. I'm so serious about that.
I have no idea where my last name is from, or where the majority of my family is from. So quit asking me. stupid. questions. Because all I the information that I can give you is that some of my not so distant relatives are from Russia and Belarus. Yeah I know that sounds werid but really, if I wanted to brag about the white people in my family (because sometimes black people do that) DO YOU REALLY THINK I'D CHOOSE JEWS? Considering that logic and current and past race relations, I'd probably go with something a bit more "acceptable." Granted, I feel lucky to have such ancestry and much more importantly the individuals in my family who risked everything, including the love of their parents and the comfort of their religion to create something much more significant and not simply adhering to tradition.
So fuck you and your privileged, probably non-Orthodox, secular, east coast, "liberal" Jewish family who now lives in an Illinois suburb. Gross.
I walk in to The Gem from Art Haus (we give the houses names; like alt-kid fraternities) and there is the glare of digital cameras going off creating the phi phenomenon like strobe lights and it's blinding, dizzying, trippy- whatever, because I'm drunk. And tired. I must repeat that. I beeline to the kitchen because all of a sudden at the onset of The Strokes' "Last Nite" a sing-a-long erupts. I can't handle it. I make lazy conversation with Steve until Ria comes. Russell tries to talk to me, hugs me close and kisses my hair. "Don't do that again; it's weird," I tell him. Because, well, it is. I go back into the living room and pretend to be excited that LCD Soundsystem (guess which song: it begins with Daft Punk and ends with Is Playing at My House) and M.I.A.'s Paper Planes, its successor, are playing.
At least it wasn't Girl Talk.
Actually, they're probably playing Girl Talk now. I wouldn't put it past them.
This post sounds soo bitter.
OH! So I am the most hateful person. Some girl who is void of all logic and sense of personal style (leggings as pants are reserved for five year olds), said something I didn't like so I proceeded to passive aggressively rip on her.
Do not like females.
Whatever, I just wanna listen to this remix and the two New Found Glory songs I have and dream about going to Italy next semester.
They wish they could be me, sleep with me, be really good friends with me. etc. etc. etc.
"Only God can judge me"- 2pac, Master P., Ja Rule (probs)
"and I can judge everyone else"- me.
I am the queen of boys professing their love for me to me.
I didn't ask for it; I'm used to being alone.
So I'm not upset when they don't follow through.
Well, not really at least. It's always a slight disappointment.
I think boys like you more when initially you don't appear to be the slightest bit interested. And this is true because I'm a narcissist and I don't believe in genuinely flattering other people.
I'm drunk. There's an expired Sparks in my purse. Next weekend. Or Wednesday.
I'm also very tired.
He suggested we buy tickets to see Morrissey.
I am so confused.
Too bad I love Morrissey.
I don't really know what I'm talking about right now actually.
At Art Haus, A. Romero (who is some sort of latino, let's keep this in mind) makes it a point to remind me that I'm black (something that he should actually probably remind Sarah of, not me).
AS IF I DIDN'T KNOW.
Hold on, I don't think I made that clear:
AS IF I DIDN'T KNOW.
Then I proceeded to explain that I 1) know that and 2) it isn't easy when you constantly have to explain to people that you are, in fact, not Indian and 3) yes that I come from a long line of oppressed people.
Brickman may refuse to recognize my Jewish heritage, which is only slightly okay by me. Trust me, I feel awkward having to tell people that every time they inquire about my ethnicity. And don't feel so entitled: sure the Holocaust was bad but I'm pretty sure 300 years of slavery was worse. Well actually it was ALL BAD so let's leave it at that. Not into the "My People Were More Oppressed Than Yours" game.
Also, my family is probably prettier than yours. All that race mixing. I'm so serious about that.
I have no idea where my last name is from, or where the majority of my family is from. So quit asking me. stupid. questions. Because all I the information that I can give you is that some of my not so distant relatives are from Russia and Belarus. Yeah I know that sounds werid but really, if I wanted to brag about the white people in my family (because sometimes black people do that) DO YOU REALLY THINK I'D CHOOSE JEWS? Considering that logic and current and past race relations, I'd probably go with something a bit more "acceptable." Granted, I feel lucky to have such ancestry and much more importantly the individuals in my family who risked everything, including the love of their parents and the comfort of their religion to create something much more significant and not simply adhering to tradition.
So fuck you and your privileged, probably non-Orthodox, secular, east coast, "liberal" Jewish family who now lives in an Illinois suburb. Gross.
I walk in to The Gem from Art Haus (we give the houses names; like alt-kid fraternities) and there is the glare of digital cameras going off creating the phi phenomenon like strobe lights and it's blinding, dizzying, trippy- whatever, because I'm drunk. And tired. I must repeat that. I beeline to the kitchen because all of a sudden at the onset of The Strokes' "Last Nite" a sing-a-long erupts. I can't handle it. I make lazy conversation with Steve until Ria comes. Russell tries to talk to me, hugs me close and kisses my hair. "Don't do that again; it's weird," I tell him. Because, well, it is. I go back into the living room and pretend to be excited that LCD Soundsystem (guess which song: it begins with Daft Punk and ends with Is Playing at My House) and M.I.A.'s Paper Planes, its successor, are playing.
At least it wasn't Girl Talk.
Actually, they're probably playing Girl Talk now. I wouldn't put it past them.
This post sounds soo bitter.
OH! So I am the most hateful person. Some girl who is void of all logic and sense of personal style (leggings as pants are reserved for five year olds), said something I didn't like so I proceeded to passive aggressively rip on her.
Do not like females.
Whatever, I just wanna listen to this remix and the two New Found Glory songs I have and dream about going to Italy next semester.
They wish they could be me, sleep with me, be really good friends with me. etc. etc. etc.
"Only God can judge me"- 2pac, Master P., Ja Rule (probs)
"and I can judge everyone else"- me.