From time to time - whenever I consider the extent of homophobia in our culture - I think about making a go of being straight, of meeting a nice girl whom I can actually marry.
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But this morning, thanks to you, Plastic Bitch on the Metro, I realized why that's a bad idea.
As we filed into one of the trains at Metro Center, you spilled your skinny no-foam latte on my shirt and neglected to apologize. Until then, I was perfectly happy to overlook that fact that you were flouting Metro's no-beverage rule (you were probably up late last night gabbing with one of your girlfriends, so I'm sure you needed that morning boost of trendy caffeine more than anyone else using public transportation today).
Judging from your appearance, you probably had to get up at the crack of dawn to put yourself together (another reason you needed caffeine more than anyone else on the planet). Black skirt, white blouse, enough makeup to give a drag queen a run for her money, hair pulled back tight: you've got your act together, I'll give you that much. Your look was marred only by your flip-flops, which naturally drew my attention to that tattoo of a Chinese character on your ankle. OMG!! A tattoo of a Chinese character - that's, like, so totally original! Did you think of that yourself? I didn't initially think you looked Chinese, but maybe you've got some trace of Chinese ancestry or something.
You can't be a total flake, because you had a book in your oversized purse. Something by Cornel West, I noticed - OMG you must be so totally intellectual! Do you list "racial politics" as one of your interests on your faceboook profile? Maybe Cornel West was even your professor at Princeton (your alma mater as well as that of your dad, and his dad, and so on). Wait - let me guess - you majored in poli sci, didn't you? Or was it psych?
Don't get me wrong - I'm no misogynist. I know lots and lots of really cool girls, and I happen to live with two in particular. But from now on, every time I think I might want to be straight, I'll think of going to a bar in Adams Morgan (you probably prefer Tom Tom's) and, because my straight buds are making comments about your tight butt (how many hours have you logged on the treadmill since eating that rice cake yesterday?), going up and hitting on you. I even got a taste of what that would be like this morning. Self-absorbed as you seemed on the train, listening to some song by the Pussycat Dolls on your Ipod, you managed to catch me staring at you. When you snorted as if to tell me you're way out of my league, I wanted to assure you that I wasn't checking you out but rather thinking of ways to trip you on your way out of the train.
Alas, I got out before you. The badge prominently hanging around your neck told me that you're a staffer in the 109th Congress, so you were probably getting off at Capitol South. How cool, though! You're some Representative's Assistant's assistant, which makes you, like, a total power player. So that must've been you I saw coming out of Smith Point last Thursday, drunk after two $15 appletinis that daddy's credit card no doubt paid for.
I can't be sure, but I'll use your bulging pearl necklace as a sign that you work for a Republican. Which means that you probably don't support my right to marry my boyfriend, which is the reason I harbor these foolish thoughts about getting with a girl in the first place. Thank goodness I saw you!!