No one can strut down a subway platform like me. Dodging rats and strollers left and right, waving “What’s up!” to Donny the Station Manager, because he sees me every morning and I ask about his kids. Grabbing a Smart Water from Jalil in the corner kiosk; he makes sure I get my electrolytes. Getting the coveted corner seat in the third car from the back EVEN IF I’M LATE because these lesser commuters know the deal.
I’m as cool as the other side of the pillow.
I feel as though I’m asked about my inability to give a shit on a fairly regular basis, which has led me to wonder: was I born this way? Did society create the fashionable Cosmopolitan Ice Princess we’ve all come to know and love? Luckily, I entered the Bitch Please Olympics at an earlier age than most, and I have the medals to prove it. So back up, Rebecca; fix the printer your damn self. I’m going to lunch.
This is not to say that I never care about what others think. God, that’s like, an everyday occurrence. But I speak my mind. If one more person responds “Reply All” to this chain email about Kevin and Misha’s destination wedding in Acapulco, I’m gonna find them at the reception and “delete” their face.
If someone breaks your heart, I give you one hour on the phone to vent before I’m allowed to hang up mid-conversation. What?? When AT&T and T-Mobile start giving out free minutes, I’ll call you back. Truth hurts.
I don’t have a poker face. My thoughts are written all over it as if it were a Gives a Fuck Memorial. His blog sucks. She can’t cook. Yes, you ARE gaining weight. I DON’T LIKE LIES AND YOU LOVE ME BECAUSE I’M THE ONLY PERSON WHO TELLS IT LIKE IT IS.
I’m like a beautiful beacon of real. Give me your tired, your hungry, your huddled masses yearning to talk shit. I’m a martyr. I should be canonized.
But it’s not all shooting daggers and mouthing off. Yeah, I dented that cabbie’s Lemon Yellow Death Mobile with my DSW boot, but I also told that nice couple from Ukraine how to get from Atlantic Center to Herald Square. And, AND, when that woman asked me where I got my necklace from, I gave her step-by-step instructions on how to find my favorite jewelry man-on-the-street. Occasionally I’m pretty sure I’m a robot, and that my boyfriend has whatever the mechanical equivalent of beastiality is, until I find myself bawling at a gay marriage proposal on the series premiere of Glee. I’m still human, after all. I just don’t answer the door when certain people knock.