How dare she?

21 May

“why?”
I turned around.. “Did you just ask me why I don’t have spare change?”
“Yeah, why?!”

I was looking into the beady eyes of this old black lady. She looked a bit glazed over, looking my direction but not looking at me. Her hair was slicked into a neat ponytail, she had on clean pink and orange lowtop Creative Recreations, and she was in a convenient corner on the stairwell of the train station holding a dirty white cup.

How dare she; how dare she wake up before me, put her clothes on starting with underwear, use her two feet to get her ass to the same train station I do, plop down with her two completely working arms (I looked, they had hands attached) thrusting a cup in my face–and question why I didn’t have money for her ass?

I hit a man the last time I was angry like that. I blacked his eye, destroyed his glasses. Wore a hard ass 3-finger ring with hard ass rhinestones.. that left a severe little imprint.

(What? He called me a bitch.)

Anyway, that’s what transpired during the last time I fumed like that. And today I had on my big gold owl ring. In order to make sure I didn’t knock her head against the tile wall, I walked away and tuned her out.

And got on my train.
Mad.
And laid down.

And realized I just got mad at a schizophrenic lady. Or at least I will convince myself she was fucking crazy to ask that. God bless them, because once again I didn’t see her for what she was: a woman who had lost so much confidence in her worth and intelligence that she’s reduced herself to a state similar to the barnacles on a whale. She didn’t harm anyone or forcibly feed off anyone, like a true parasite. Just like barnacles that stick out their feather feet to comb the ocean for plankton, literally along for the ride on whatever whale they land on–she spends her time weaving her hand between peoples’ faces while she focuses on nothing, exhaling demands for change while inhaling resentment towards her from the other pissed off people mouthing “This bitch.”

Really?

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