Frisky. Just a bit.
I woke up feeling terrible. Not physically, no. I woke up realizing that I had pestered innocent people over the phone incessantly, and had managed to give the whole fucking neighborhood a cat call. I felt compelled to apologize. I felt so guilty that I couldn't get back to sleep; I apologized telepathically until I fell asleep again. I decided to go to school just so I could better collect myself. Class let out early, so I drove back home. As I got out of my car (and I've been walking with my tail between my legs), I hear Prince squealing to me:
"Heee---yy!"
I look up. It's a man without teeth.
"Hey," I responded.
"What's your name?" He speaks in a shrill, deliberate falsetto.
"Rachel." I ask him his name, but he ignores the question and continues.
"I LIKE you!" he calls. "You married?"
At this point, I get the giggles. Every time I meet a man in my front yard, he asks if I am married.
"I like you!" I chimed. "Why do people keep asking me that?"
"I don't know why people keep asking you that. Hey, do you date Black men?"
"I don't see why not."
"Can I have your number?" He drops his voice back into his chest. It's a beefy voice.
"No, I don't give my number out, but you can come by and talk to me."
"What's your name, again?"
"Rachel."
"I'm Chris."
"Is that a joke? You're the third Chris I've met here. Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" Alongside him peddles an elderly man on his bike, sporting a pair of sunglasses that wrap closely over his face. Chris backs up slowly, smiling at me, and bumps into the cyclist the moment I ask for the introduction. He jumps. He must have forgotten his friend was behind him the whole time.
"Ahh, that- that's Mike." Mike on a bike. "I LIKE you! I see you later!" They walk down the street behind the laundromat.
***
My tail perked up a bit. That conversation endowed me with a feeling that I was "forgiven" by the neighborhood for being so utterly boisterous the previous night. Hasheesh and vodka should not be consumed in one sitting. I don't remember chunks of time, and frankly, that frightens me. I had such a good night the previous night when I smoked hasheesh, I thought perhaps I could replicate it. I regret the experience entirely. Last night I was a sailor on the high seas, sailing into some landless war. I was free of consequence, shamelessly horny, and full of vulgarities and exaggerated stories of war. I was not, however, wearing a pair of white bell bottoms. At least I can be grateful for that.
Yet regrets are not only counter-productive, but additional signs of immaturity. I will utilize last night for its existence. I will roll my eyes at the bullshit, and accept it is not the last time I will do that, because if I were to say it is the last time that happens, what will ensure that I carry the potential consequences into my consciousness?
Love yourself.
"Heee---yy!"
I look up. It's a man without teeth.
"Hey," I responded.
"What's your name?" He speaks in a shrill, deliberate falsetto.
"Rachel." I ask him his name, but he ignores the question and continues.
"I LIKE you!" he calls. "You married?"
At this point, I get the giggles. Every time I meet a man in my front yard, he asks if I am married.
"I like you!" I chimed. "Why do people keep asking me that?"
"I don't know why people keep asking you that. Hey, do you date Black men?"
"I don't see why not."
"Can I have your number?" He drops his voice back into his chest. It's a beefy voice.
"No, I don't give my number out, but you can come by and talk to me."
"What's your name, again?"
"Rachel."
"I'm Chris."
"Is that a joke? You're the third Chris I've met here. Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" Alongside him peddles an elderly man on his bike, sporting a pair of sunglasses that wrap closely over his face. Chris backs up slowly, smiling at me, and bumps into the cyclist the moment I ask for the introduction. He jumps. He must have forgotten his friend was behind him the whole time.
"Ahh, that- that's Mike." Mike on a bike. "I LIKE you! I see you later!" They walk down the street behind the laundromat.
***
My tail perked up a bit. That conversation endowed me with a feeling that I was "forgiven" by the neighborhood for being so utterly boisterous the previous night. Hasheesh and vodka should not be consumed in one sitting. I don't remember chunks of time, and frankly, that frightens me. I had such a good night the previous night when I smoked hasheesh, I thought perhaps I could replicate it. I regret the experience entirely. Last night I was a sailor on the high seas, sailing into some landless war. I was free of consequence, shamelessly horny, and full of vulgarities and exaggerated stories of war. I was not, however, wearing a pair of white bell bottoms. At least I can be grateful for that.
Yet regrets are not only counter-productive, but additional signs of immaturity. I will utilize last night for its existence. I will roll my eyes at the bullshit, and accept it is not the last time I will do that, because if I were to say it is the last time that happens, what will ensure that I carry the potential consequences into my consciousness?
Love yourself.