FREE: Triple anti-biotic ointment for the scabby-faced ratbastard who
I had just freed myself from an excruciatingly long and boring date with a guy who probably hasn't had an original thought since 1985 and who had no problem blowing his nose loudly and publicly over our small cramped dinner table. After a grudging kiss goodnight, I tore down the 14th St. Union Square subway stairs and hid behind a pillar to call my roommate for a real night out. That's when I felt your fingers fumbling clumsily inside my purse. You were so obviously not smooth that I actually felt a little embarrassed for you..it conjured up similar emotions I felt the first time Joel Thomas tried to get to third base in the back of my '84 Volvo-and he didn't even have the excuse of being nasty-ass crackhead. Maybe it was my petite stature and my innocent demeanor that made you think I'd be an easy target and that you could ruffle through my bag with impunity the way my boss roots around for his balls every morning while he dictates his memos. Maybe you figured that I would rather hand over the entire purse complete with wallet, Mary Kay lipgloss and tacky hair clip rather than make a scene in a crowded subway terminal on a Friday night. That was a pretty stupid assumption-but then again you are a crackhead. How could you have known that I'm an opera singer and can project my voice over a full orchestra in a two thousand seat hall with absolutely no outside amplification? Boy, you sure looked embarrased when I screamed,"Get the fuck away from my purse you asshole!" loud enough to stop all passerby within a five hundred foot radius. And it was kind of silly when you started trying to run and sign something at me simutaneously. Now I happen to know sign language and was curious what "shgdul" means in crackspeak. You booked it over to the turnstiles and seemed a bit surprised when I followed you after a perfunctory glance to make sure said lipgloss and wallet were still intact. It must have been a little uncomfortable to have fifty people staring at you while franctically sliding your card through the turnstile and having "insufficient fare" keep popping up. Then, whoopsie, you dropped your card and almost slammed your face into the metal divider when you bent to pick it up. Gotta watch those inanimate objects-theys tricksy my precious. It was also probably a little awkward for you when I marched over and asked you what the hell you thought you were doing. Think how I mustv'e felt when you turned around to face me and I realized that half of your face was a gigantic purple scab. That's also when I noticed that you were taller than a fucking Yeti and dressed mostly in burlap. Now, I can handle confrontation up to a certain point so I accepted your feeble excuse that you "staggered" and regained your balance by sticking your hand in my open purse. The fact that you used the word "staggered" at all kind of impressed me a little bit and I decided to approach the matter diplomatically in the interest of my own scab-free face which I happen to like. So I stifled all feelings of indignation and rage and came home and polished off a pint of pistachio Haagen-Daaz to celebrate the end of a spectacular night.
Later, I did a little soul searching and felt kinda bad for you--it can't be easy walking around looking like your face dryhumped a cheese grater. So if I ever run into you in the subway again-I'll leave my purse open. Hopefully you'll be smooth enough to actually nab the gigantic tube of antibiotic oinment that will be there waiting just for you.
this is in or around my purse