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I’m currently involved in a tangled web of deceit.

See, I’ve been sneaking around at night with a lover that I’ve only let a few close friends know about. I feel low, greasy, and dirty after my late evening romps. It must end, and to admit my fault is the first step.

Fast Food… you filthy whore, you. How you lure me with your shiny outward appearances…tempting me from the side of the road, advertising your ease. Our rendezvous are always quick moments of passion, and when done… all I have left is a deep pit in my stomach and your nasty wrappers tossed around my car.

I try to maintain a quality relationship with Health Food, but I believe Tomato suspects, alone and neglected at the back of my fridge. I wake up with Tea, pretending things are great, gloating to my peers about the antioxidants we share, when actually all I desire is a rich seedy chug of Coffee swirling with creamer, sugar, and other naughty bits of smut. I share pleasant afternoons of reading and crocheting with a sharply dressed Sandwich, but after work I’m back in the sultry arms of my Fried Chicken Biscuit listening to wild music and spilling seasoned fries down my throat with abandon. By the time I get home, I can’t even look Water in the face.

I played with the idea of giving it all up for Fast Food, running away to fully enjoy the ‘junk lifestyle’. Yet, right when I pack my bag, Fast Food decides to weigh me down with useless glut, causing my heart to burn, my stomach to ache, and endless humiliating nights crying on the toilet.

I proclaim that I cannot keep living this way, and run (heaving greatly) to my dutiful Heath Food; always waiting, always there. Once reunited, we stroll through the grocery store happy to be back in each others arms, but my wandering eye always lingers a little to long on the scantily clad hot dogs, tempting me to the troubles of my past.

It’s an uphill battle, but I must go at it alone, because I know in my darkest hour, most inebriated moments, Fast Food will sneak back into my life.  I just hope that someday, I will develop enough willpower to end this torrid affair once and for all.

I recently attached about a foot of extra hair to my head.

I’m not ashamed, it’s obvious… one minute I had shoulder-length crazy hair, then the next, I’m sporting braids down my back. To pretend that this is my actual hair is insanity, not to mention, it looks and feels like Barbie hair. Which isn’t bad, just not real.

When I was in high school and a little bit in college, I sported the braided look. Whenever I decided to take out the braids, I was met with two equally ridiculous exclamations: “Oh my god. You cut your hair!” from those who didn’t realize the raggedy barbie braids were not my own, and ” wow, I didn’t know your hair was so long” from those who knew I was sporting some fake follicles.

Both were annoying.

Yet, the most insane were the comments on how gross fake hair supposedly was. The hushed, “is that fake?” or the “why would you do that? You have hair,” and lastly the rare but definitely present, “oh… ewww… that’s not reeaaal?!” Thankfully, fake hair has become more acceptable outside of the black lady community, having Tyra Banks to thank for. She’s pretty much slapped a weave on anyone and everyone involved in Top Model. Alas, the stigma is still here.

Because of my latest change of ‘do, I’ve become hyper aware of the fake/not fake dichotomy of our society. To promote ones appearance by “tweaking” it, has become the norm. Nobody flinches when someone mentions they’ve received a tan, teeth whitening, braces, contacts, or hair coloring. No longer is there an out cry when someone gets a weave, nose job, boob job, Botox,  or liposuction. Just hushed mur-muring over the sticker price one pays for these pricey investments. Unfortunately, the backlash of the acceptance of cosmetic alteration, is the placement of natural beauty on an even higher pedestal than before.

Previous to hair extensions, I wore my hair natural in a large mess of structured craziness. I would spend hours twisting, molding, and pinning it, to get the desired, “I don’t really give a fuck” look. Now if I left my hair unattended directly out of the shower, it would slowly shrink into a tightly wound knot clinging for dear life on my noggin. So to say that my hair was “natural” was stretching the truth, but since I didn’t have any chemical treatment, I got away with the term. While I wore this hair style, I received a multitude of compliments. The ones that always disturbed me, would come from men exclaiming how wonderful it was that I didn’t attach all that “fake crap” to my head. This would bug me, because I knew for most men the desired look would be long luxurious hair on women. Which for the majority of black women, including myself, is an unattainable goal. Weave-wearing ladies are just trying to adhere to this ridiculous standard of beauty, and for this, they receive punishment? It seemed like an oxymoron to receive compliments on my “natural” hair when the appearance was just as false as it would be if I were wearing a giant beehive wig. Granted I wasn’t sporting chestnut waves cascading down my back, but I highly doubt any of them would be paying me the time of day if my hair were in it’s sad matted state.

The hard fact of the matter is, no one is naturally beautiful. Well, I’ll back track… there is the slight possibility that someone out there has a ray of sunshine gleaming from their ass, but for the rest of us… we need some help. We shave unwanted hair, we shape our eyebrows, we apply make up, we use lotions, we wear cologne, we clip and paint our nails, we pop pimples, we use hair gel… the list can go on and on. If at one point in your life you thought you were semi-quasi-teenie-tiny little bit attractive… you did something to alter your appearance. If we didn’t, we’d all be a bunch of stinky, hairy, snaggle tooth wildebeest running wild through the streets.

So where is the line drawn? Perhaps when too much is done? Or as long as it looks good it’s acceptable?

Who knows… most thoughts on outward appearances end all warm and snugly, rejoicing in the beauty of the inside. As wonderful as this thought is, it’s ridiculous. Humans are physical by nature, even Ray Charles, blind as a bat, liked his women to have “thin wrist”. I believe the only way for our obsession with cosmetic tweaking to wane, is to broaden the scope of what is considered attractive. That way we’ll give people a chance to actually see, believe, and think of themselves as naturally beautiful.

Since I work at a college library, I enjoy a spring break. As with most jobs, the day back after a vacation is tough titties, but to work at a library there is a certain mental space one must enter enorder to maintain some form of sanity.

It’s a wonder how anything in human society ever gets done, because honestly, I have lost a lot (A LOT) of faith in humanity. So to elaborate on a little of what I’m currently enduring here at the reference desk, I will describe in highlighted vignettes what is presently occurring in my community college library.

Tool and Tool Jr.

At most places where people come to either buy things or hang out, a group of regulars develop. There are plenty of nice, pleasant patrons, but for the most part the annoying jerk regulars are the ones that leave the lasting impression (unfortunately). At my library there is a man, who comes to use the computer during the evening hours. He’ll be on the computer for hours upon hours, giggling to himself, talking on his cell phone, listening to loud music which pours from his headphones, and sloppily chew on some sort of food. I’m sure there are a bunch of people who commit these minor library crimes, yet this tool decides to do all of this at the computer directly next to my desk. Which is odd, because if you wanted to get away with doing things that are generally not allowed in the library, wouldn’t you think to find a computer which is tucked away in a corner and out of the librarian’s eye sight? Today Sir Trashy has brought a younger version of himself, now I’m not sure if Asshole Junior is his son, but he’s certainly following in the foot steps to becoming a wart on societies side. Both clad in loose stained T-shirts, they stand staring into the same computer screen, talking and giggling loudly. Now, I became a librarian to NOT shush people. I hate doing that, I’m not a police officer, and I like to give people the benefit of the doubt that they can behave themselves in a library. Which, I find is constantly proven wrong. During these awful circumstances, I wait until another student complains to me about the noise-  currently I haven’t had any complaints, and my pot is starting to boil. Now if they were loudly studying or working on some sort of project, I would be less infuriated, but no- they are looking at something inappropriate for a man in his 40s to be looking at for a kid in his ‘tweens. How do I know this? Let me give you a selection of phrases I have heard from the mouth of the child:

“Fuck! You tapped that?!”

“Awww hell no, she’s ugly…”

“Shiiiit….”

Now, it’s a little unnerving to hear a 12-13 years exclaim these things to someone who may very well be his father. Yet, these folks sorta give me the willies, in a I’m gonna get you in a deep south swamp, kind of way. Like I stated previously, I do like to give people the benefit of the doubt, but the respect that I’ve received from this particular man, has allowed me to come to the conclusion that, I’m probably referred to an n-word, when I’m out of earshot. Now, I reeeaaaaaally don’t want to get beat up by hill billies when I leave work, so I try to keep it civil. Every evening when they scuttle out the entrance, I breath a sigh of relief… till the next evening.

Jam Sess

Pop Quiz: When is it appropriate to play ones guitar in the lobby of a library?

A) In the afternoon, when all the hot chicks can come and see me.

B) In the Morning, it’s when I can wake people up with my gentle strums

C) Whenever the fuck I want, because I’m PUNKRAWK

D) Never, you showoff asshole.

Let me give you a second to contemplate. DING! I know, C looks rather appealing, but I’m gonna give you a clue, it’s the letter the word DOUCHE start with. Which you are, if you play your guitar in the library. Harsh, I know, but really should I tip toe around this issue? Currently, there is a guy strumming away at his electric guitar. Now, it isn’t plugged in, but it’s not like it isn’t making noise. Since this just happens to be a LIBRARY, it just so happens that this particular building is QUIET. Due to these facts, the clicks, and the thumps, and the small dingy chords come across clearly through out the building. Creating the feel that there is a tiny rodent house band jamming away in the middle of the library. Thanks guitar guy! Now, Mr. Guitar I know your game… you plopped yourself down in the middle of the library wearing that cool old man golf cap, so you can look bad ass and attract some ladies. Am I right? No? You’re a liar then. Okay, so you’re a musician and you want to practice your craft a little bit, well guess what? This is a college, and we have a music program, with rooms you can noodle and doodle on your damn guitar till your fingers are broken nubs. You can also go out into the middle of the quad and attract all the hot community college womenz till your heart desires, but instead you must seek out the most centralized spot in the quietest building on campus.

For this you get the D-Bag award of the day.

Now at least have you attracted any hot co-ed campus rock chicks? Nope, you got yourself dudes, who, like yourself, enjoy rocking out, equipped with varying degrees of accessories (dyed goatees, silver ball necklaces, fingerless gloves) ya’ll looked as if you dived head first into a pond of Hot Topic. Just a hint, 1996 was over 10 years ago.

With each tiny riff, an uproar of the pleased dude grumble erupts. I got another hint: girls aren’t really into the “pleased dude grumble”.  So after I kindly tell you to quiet down, and you give me the “angry dude grumble” I highly suggest washing, throwing away your jean shorts, and getting a practice room… trust me, this advice is golden.

Porn Guy

I hate you.

Really I do. There is absolutely no reason for you to be looking at porn in public. It makes you look like a skeez, and it makes the rest of us feel gross and weird. People look at porn, that’s fine. People also have sex, take poops, and sing really badly to Donna Summers, does mean that they do it in the middle of the library? No. The library should be a place to study- and yes, I know that the guy to your right is looking at a dance crew on YouTube, and and the girl to your left is making her MySpace profile even more sparkly, but really… porn mixed with daylight, and a good dose of public, equals a rancid combination. If you must look at porn in public… go nasty out in your local public library, because they can’t stop you.  Yet, here’s what always mystifies me,  whenever I go to kick one of you out, without missing a beat, I am thanked.

“You can’t look at that”

“Thank You”

Mr. Porn Guy… you’re welcome, just not in my library.

Below is a letter I received, I have changed nothing, except for the name, to respect this guy’s privacy. Enjoy.

FAB-U-LUS SMILE :-)

Hiiii Miss Awesome :-)

You know when you smile your whole face lights up. So that means you should smile all the time! :D

You seem like a cooool woman, thought I’d stop by and say Hiiii.

You should write meeee, because I am one of the coooolest guys you’ll ever meet! OK I’m tooting my own horn here, Ha Ha! If you want to write me back then that’s cooool, otherwise the world will not end tomorrow if you’re not interested.

Soooo… Never stop smiling, laughing, and having FUN in life! That’s what I do!! Life isn’t worth living with out going on an adventure or two!

Take care, Hugs. Sweeeeeeet Dreams!

PS: Sounds like you would love to laugh, I mean who doesn’t. I have a definite sense of humor! So here’s a couple of funny jokes for you! ENJOY!!

Highway Patrolman

A highway patrolman pulled alongside a speeding car on the freeway. Glancing at the driver, he was astounded to see a blonde behind the wheel knitting!

Realizing that she was oblivious to his flashing lights and siren, the trooper cranked down his window, turned on his bullhorn, and yelled, PULLOVER!”

“NO,” the blonde yelled back, “IT’S A SCARF!”

The Bear and the Rabbit

One day in the great forest a magical frog was walking down to a water hole. This forest was so big that the frog had never seen another animal in all his life. By chance today a bear was chasing after a rabbit to have for dinner.

The frog called for the two to stop. The frog said, “Because you are the only two animals I have seen, I will grant you both three wishes…Bear, you go first.” The bear thought for a minute, and being the male he was said, “I wish for all the bears in this forest, besides me, to be female.”

For his wish, the rabbit asked for a crash helmet, and immediately put it on. The bear was amazed at the stupidity of the rabbit wasting his wish like that.

It was the bear’s second turn for a wish. “Well, I wish that all the bears in the next forest were female as well.”

Rabbit asked for a motorcycle and immediately hopped on it and gunned the engine. The bear was shocked that the rabbit was asking for these stupid things, after all, he could have asked for money and bought the motorcycle.

For the last wish the bear thought for a while and then said, “I wish that all the bears in the world, besides me, were female.”

The rabbit grinned, gunned the engine, and said, “I wish that the bear was gay…”

So I’m inside, trying my hardest my to get my buzz on.

Since the club only has a smattering of homely people cuddled together in their respective corners of the club, I have full access to the bar. This is the best time to pounce, because trying to get a drink after 11:30, requires elbows, tittie flashing, and some sort of magic to catch the bartender’s attention through the throngs of assholes posturing at the counter. So I double up.

At normal bars, the bartender is a jolly happy lady/man who will falsely smile in your face in order to get the best tips available for their beer pouring skills. Not at Club-Clubs: they are the jerkiest of jerk-jerks this side of the Mississippi. There must be some sort of contract they sign upon hiring,

“I _______, at all times must act like a douche-y douche, or my tips for the night will be withheld.”

It’s a wonder that these jackasses get tipped at all, with all the smirking and sneering, and general sense of being holier than thou. Yet, for some reason after I attained my obligatory rum and coke, I tipped, though I could have sworn the bartender called me an idiot under his breath.

After downing my drink, I glanced around the slowly filling club. The ‘raver’ dorks, had found a corner, which was pulsing with various strings of glow sticks that kept appearing. They had them around their necks, dangling from their heads, in their hands, and around their waists; it looked like the set of Tron barfed on the mathletes team from your high school.

Needless to say, it was not a pretty site. Especially when the hot people started to show up.

Ahh the hot people, so coked out and precious.

This particular night there was a theme, shirt dresses. I shouldn’t even call them ‘dresses’, because it basically appeared as if these ladies, globed on their make- up, poofed up their hair, delicately strapped on their nose bleed inducing pumps, and left the house forgetting to put on their pants. Giant, baggy, off the shoulder shirts; I’ll call them mini-skirt muu-muus. Only someone who thought that they were “sooo fuckn’ cool” would wear it, yea it was that ridiculous, and there were a ton of these bitches running around.

After, finally catching a ride on the buzz-express, I decided it was time to dance. People dance at Club-Clubs, and this is one of the best parts- granted there is the viewing circle of old dudes on the side (doing a slight two step), but for the most part, a giant mass of sweat, hair products, and Axe body spray form in the center of the dance floor. I danced, and I danced a LOT, thankfully no one tried to sneak attack my booty. Luckily the douches at Club-Clubs have a higher notion of personal space, which is not the case at Top 40 dance clubs, where everybody’s booty is free for the taking.

As the night was revving up, I found myself winding down, flopping on any available couch a messy clump of deflated hair and melty make up. I looked over to my right to check on the raver dorks who had been going strong the whole night. I found myself slightly amazed by their shear inhibition, in a club full of copy cat fashions, and extreme desires to be trendy they simply just wanted to dance (with glow sticks). At first, people would walk by giggling at the insanity of their dated dancing desires, but as I gathered my coat getting ready to leave into the cold and wonderful night air, I noticed they had accumulated a crowd of mini muu-muus, not to mock them, but to join in on all the glow stick fun. Even though I had found myself deeply annoyed with both set of groups- there was something rather pleasant about watching two separate types of people, I would have never pegged to mesh, dance together as if they had been friends all along.

So I tend to go out a lot.

Lately, it seems as though I’ve been trying to squeeze every last breath of fun out my remaining youth. So much so, that sometimes I worry that I’ll wake up a dried 40 year old, with only the re-admittance stamp from the previous night at the club to show for myself.

Then I realize that I’m not that much of a Club Hag.

Notice how I wrote, “not that much” probably the only things that separates me from the Club Hags are: a ton of hair spray, cocaine, and fake boobs. I would say bad fashion, but after inspecting a variety of past clothing choices, I’m going to remain slient on that one. Because of my partying ways, I’ve been deep in the trenches of a variety of clubs, and they’re all basically the same- a place to look cool and get laid. It’s the reason some clubs have photographers, everybody wants to be one of the hot people featured in their fancy smantzy dance shots- unfortunately I tend to look like I’ve either had a seisure or peed my pants when someone takes a candid of me dancing.

In the realm of nightlife there are a variety of clubs:

Top 40: For those of you who want to get humped by thugs in white t-shirts, or fondled by foreginers.

Reggae: If you want a guy with dreadlocks to sneak attack your booty with some grinding action.

80s: If watching circles of fat girls sing to their favorite hits is your thing.

Punk: Let’s beat each other up while running in a circle!!

Indie/rock/alterntive: I can’t see, because my hair is in my face, this place is really dark, people are smoking (isn’t this california?), and my ironic fake glasses keep fogging.

Last night, I ventured to a type of club I hardly ever go to; A Club-Club. Oh, you’ve seen the glossy flyers of half naked ladies positioned every so slutty, with glittery writing behind them, “CLUB SAXXX presents Gemini DanceScapes…” They always feature some world renound DJ you’ve never heard of, and promise something free-ish if you’re a lady before 10pm.

Yea… I went to that type of club. Below is an account of my experience.

I showed up at Club Slide around 9:30. Like most of these venues, if you show up early enough they make you wait in line. Honestly, there’s no reason for this, except to fabricate the popularity the club. Once inside, it’s a bunch of awkward skinny guys and homely ladies sitting on opposite sides of the vaccant club waiting for some action to get started. Hot people show up around 11… because hot people don’t have their act together in real life. I was alone, and a touch annoyed that I had to wait in line by myself since my friends had yet to arrive. I was already done with texting everyone that I could, and couldn’t think of any more tactics to look busy/disinterested as many find they must do when they are standing alone in a social situation. I shoved my hands in my pockets and decided to take a look around me. Directly ahead was a teenie tiny girl hoisting herself in a red corset. Two of her guy friends promptly started to help with the tugging, as she giggled in the spectacle of male delight. Mind you, I was here early… meaning I was dealing with the B-Team in attractiveness. So she was basically coasting on the fact that she: 1. had long hair (albeit stringy) 2. wore a ton ‘o make up & 3. the aforementioned corset.

As the bell of the ball contiued to revel in her self made showcase, I heard a very dejected voice say, “wow looks like people are really dressing up for this rave.” I casually glanced behind me to find a multi gendered- multi raced contingent of dorks. I have much love and appreciation for dorks… being one myself, but my respect goes out the window, when dorks not only proclaim their dorkiness, they thrust it in people’s faces. Example? That guy with a ponytail who helped you with your computer virus, but sneered at your inablility to understand HTML code, while wearing a Nintendo shirt that barely covered his belly. Just because I know all the lyrics to “Dance Magic Dance” from the Laybrinth doesn’t mean that I’m going to quote it… that will just make me look like an ass, and you uncomfortable.

Obviously, feeling slightly out of place, the three guy-two girl group looked at the corset fiasco ahead of me. As a response to the statement previously uttered by one of the ladydorks, ladydork number 2 (who was wearing a school girl outfit, complete with plaid skirt, white shirt, and tie) said, “Who cares! We look good anyway!” To which even the dudedorks laughed at.

Finally my friends showed up, we entered the club, got drinks and stood in our respective circles, and waited for the crowd to arrive and our buzz to kick in.