Part I
WARNING: What you are about to read is opinionated, politically incorrect and extremely crude. I Naired My Balls For This? takes full responsibility for the content of this blog, but not for what may result from reading it. This story is based on true events and has caused sleepless nights for many gay men, and severe nausea in men and women alike. Proceed with caution! If you don’t like the blog … you can f*ck off. Have a blessed Easter.
Each morning, some of us wake up naturally fierce, flawless and fabulous, and ready to start the day. Some of us … don’t. I have been told that these second-class citizens (oops) … um… I mean, these other people, have to work at it. (And bitches, Colby has seen what you look like after “working” at it … so you may be headed for the beauty unemployment line.) I don’t know what it means to be part of this second group, but I will try and image how it feels for the sake of my blog. For my craft, if you will. I will put myself in the shoes of the common people and explain what my morning routine might look like if I had to work at it. Luckily, being ugly is not my reality, because Jesus loves me more. (Dare I say … I am one of chosen pretty people?)
My mornings regretfully begin at about 5:30 a.m. I say “about” because I have been known to snooze once, maybe three times, depending on the night before. (Don’t judge, we all snooze the damn alarm.) After shutting off my lovely-sounding alarm clock, I begin my pre-work routine. I walk and feed my dog, Boo Boo. Then I shower, moisturize, hang upside down for a few minutes, primp, style, get dressed in the clothes I laid out the night before, take my vitamins, drink a big glass of water (hydrate ladies!), check my gym bag, put Boo Boo away and finally run out the door. Right before walking out the door, I stop in front of my full-length mirror, and take it all in. (Let’s just say it … it’s that good.)
While getting ready, I normally have the morning news, Today in LA, on in the background. I don’t really listen to it until they get to the weather. The reason being is that I like to know if my intended outfit is appropriate for my day at work. The selection is based on weather conditions and temperature, because a lady is always prepared. The reason I watch Today in LA’s weather, and not some other channel, is because I love my hottie, Elita Loresca. (Titties for days!)
On one particular morning I happened to overhear information about an illness being referred to as “Swine Flu.” Immediately, as I was applying my expensive Deep Tissue moisturizer to my alabaster skin, I began to conjure up a picture of the infected people with, what I imagined to be, Swine Flu. I envisioned them as being dirty grunters with rude dispositions and an intense desire to get into the garbage like little piggies. Pig people! (Oh hell no! That ain’t right.) It was too horrible to imagine! I never wanted to catch this horrific illness, and after this vivid mental imagery faded, I started to panic! I began to think that if it was, in fact, how I imagined it to be, then Venice, Santa Monica and Downtown had already been hit! I had always called these people “homeless.” (Who knew it was Swine Flu?)
Yep … I said it people. I am not a fan of the homeless, and I am not afraid to say it! Curse me all you want, but before you place judgment, let me tell you why I have a lack of affection for the “home challenged.”
First, I want to say that I’m fully aware that the homeless population is commonly plagued with mental health issues, and the rest of them just have issues. (Who’s got some Colt 45?! Anyone?!) I think that it is all very sad, and I wouldn’t wish this chosen lifestyle on anyone. (Oh … and it is a choice, like being gay is choice.) I wish we lived in a world where mental health issues and homelessness didn’t exist. I wish we lived in a world where we weren’t visually assaulted by pictures of Heidi Montag and the Octomom every second of every day. I also wish I was 6’2” and looked f*cking amazing in a wife-beater at the gym. Guess what? We don’t live in that world, so we will have to deal with reality. We will have to help the homeless and treat the mentally ill, and I will have to settle for being 5’10” and f*cking gorgeous! Reality sucks, but that’s life.
Now, with that being said, I would like to continue on and explain why my experiences with the homeless have been less than stellar. (You will forgive me, I’m sure.) My encounters have consisted of homeless people barking at me, kicking at my head, screaming at me and my dog, bumping me, asking me for money and food relentlessly, and yesterday I witnessed a homeless woman yelling at two men of the same income level. I got to see her express, with passion: “I like to f*ck! I want to f*ck! It’s my business!” Hell, that was a positive interaction! I shed tears of joy upon witnessing that at 9 a.m. I wanted to yell, “Preach Sista’! Preach!” My friends have also had horrible run-ins with the homeless. One story that stands out for me occurred when my friend was walking down the street and a homeless woman spat upon her. Spat!? That is NOT ok! If Swine Flu was what I thought it was … well … my friend would be dumpster-diving somewhere in Downtown Los Angeles with the Pig People. That would be so sad, because we obviously would not be able to remain friends. (Ladies, don’t dumpster dive.)
But the one homeless moment that stands out above all other encounters, the one story that will be forever burned into my memory occurred outside of a 7-11. (Most homeless stories start outside of a 7-11 or a similar location.)
Each morning, some of us wake up naturally fierce, flawless and fabulous, and ready to start the day. Some of us … don’t. I have been told that these second-class citizens (oops) … um… I mean, these other people, have to work at it. (And bitches, Colby has seen what you look like after “working” at it … so you may be headed for the beauty unemployment line.) I don’t know what it means to be part of this second group, but I will try and image how it feels for the sake of my blog. For my craft, if you will. I will put myself in the shoes of the common people and explain what my morning routine might look like if I had to work at it. Luckily, being ugly is not my reality, because Jesus loves me more. (Dare I say … I am one of chosen pretty people?)
My mornings regretfully begin at about 5:30 a.m. I say “about” because I have been known to snooze once, maybe three times, depending on the night before. (Don’t judge, we all snooze the damn alarm.) After shutting off my lovely-sounding alarm clock, I begin my pre-work routine. I walk and feed my dog, Boo Boo. Then I shower, moisturize, hang upside down for a few minutes, primp, style, get dressed in the clothes I laid out the night before, take my vitamins, drink a big glass of water (hydrate ladies!), check my gym bag, put Boo Boo away and finally run out the door. Right before walking out the door, I stop in front of my full-length mirror, and take it all in. (Let’s just say it … it’s that good.)
While getting ready, I normally have the morning news, Today in LA, on in the background. I don’t really listen to it until they get to the weather. The reason being is that I like to know if my intended outfit is appropriate for my day at work. The selection is based on weather conditions and temperature, because a lady is always prepared. The reason I watch Today in LA’s weather, and not some other channel, is because I love my hottie, Elita Loresca. (Titties for days!)
On one particular morning I happened to overhear information about an illness being referred to as “Swine Flu.” Immediately, as I was applying my expensive Deep Tissue moisturizer to my alabaster skin, I began to conjure up a picture of the infected people with, what I imagined to be, Swine Flu. I envisioned them as being dirty grunters with rude dispositions and an intense desire to get into the garbage like little piggies. Pig people! (Oh hell no! That ain’t right.) It was too horrible to imagine! I never wanted to catch this horrific illness, and after this vivid mental imagery faded, I started to panic! I began to think that if it was, in fact, how I imagined it to be, then Venice, Santa Monica and Downtown had already been hit! I had always called these people “homeless.” (Who knew it was Swine Flu?)
Yep … I said it people. I am not a fan of the homeless, and I am not afraid to say it! Curse me all you want, but before you place judgment, let me tell you why I have a lack of affection for the “home challenged.”
First, I want to say that I’m fully aware that the homeless population is commonly plagued with mental health issues, and the rest of them just have issues. (Who’s got some Colt 45?! Anyone?!) I think that it is all very sad, and I wouldn’t wish this chosen lifestyle on anyone. (Oh … and it is a choice, like being gay is choice.) I wish we lived in a world where mental health issues and homelessness didn’t exist. I wish we lived in a world where we weren’t visually assaulted by pictures of Heidi Montag and the Octomom every second of every day. I also wish I was 6’2” and looked f*cking amazing in a wife-beater at the gym. Guess what? We don’t live in that world, so we will have to deal with reality. We will have to help the homeless and treat the mentally ill, and I will have to settle for being 5’10” and f*cking gorgeous! Reality sucks, but that’s life.
Now, with that being said, I would like to continue on and explain why my experiences with the homeless have been less than stellar. (You will forgive me, I’m sure.) My encounters have consisted of homeless people barking at me, kicking at my head, screaming at me and my dog, bumping me, asking me for money and food relentlessly, and yesterday I witnessed a homeless woman yelling at two men of the same income level. I got to see her express, with passion: “I like to f*ck! I want to f*ck! It’s my business!” Hell, that was a positive interaction! I shed tears of joy upon witnessing that at 9 a.m. I wanted to yell, “Preach Sista’! Preach!” My friends have also had horrible run-ins with the homeless. One story that stands out for me occurred when my friend was walking down the street and a homeless woman spat upon her. Spat!? That is NOT ok! If Swine Flu was what I thought it was … well … my friend would be dumpster-diving somewhere in Downtown Los Angeles with the Pig People. That would be so sad, because we obviously would not be able to remain friends. (Ladies, don’t dumpster dive.)
But the one homeless moment that stands out above all other encounters, the one story that will be forever burned into my memory occurred outside of a 7-11. (Most homeless stories start outside of a 7-11 or a similar location.)
Too be continued...
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