The second week of working two jobs is off to an interesting start. As mentioned last week, we got a new coworker Monday.

She is probably the most memorable negress I've met in weeks. From her birth, her parents were aware of her glory, and couldn't just give her some old regular ass name like Champagne, Tiffany, or Shaquandanella. Oh no. She obviously slid out that 'gina on some "I'm here, motherfuckers" shit, so naturally, the name must match the child.

Momma accepted the challenge (because, face it, you know she was a single, unwed black girl) and dug deeeeeeep into the Big Book of WhatTheFuck and pulled out THE most grand, stupefying name.

Beyonce Giselle?!?

*throws trash can*

No.

Homegirl's name is:

MESHESHA.

I'll let that sink in.

I said, MESHESHA, yall.

DOUBLE.DIGRAPHS.on.that ass.

Who you know named Meshesha?

HUH?

You thought doubling up vowels and adding in punctuation marks all willy nilly into lil Jaa:Qu'ariantaviiush-Keronde's name or ravaging the dictionary to find the perfect name for lil Radiance-Empress Williams made him or her special?

HAYLE NAH!

When employers see:

Jaa:Qu'ariantaviiush-Keronde Jones
187 Fail Way
MyParentsHateMe, USA

on that resume, you think he's gonna be considered for anything other than zookeper or fry cook?

Psssshhhh.

Meshesha, though?

Destined for greatness from birth: Executive knob slobber. With no interview.

POW!

Meshesha (cue harp strums and sunshine) lives up to her glorious name. She's not bad-looking at all, if you're into hard jawlines and broad-backed broads. In a smoky club, one could glance over and be convinced they were seeing CCH Pounder's niece making it clap.

She's reasonably intelligent. Meshesha doesn't like being told what to do, so she's a liiiiitle abrasive. (Think: Tameka Foster-Raymond's stubble) She's about as refined and polished as an ashy '87 Toyota Tercel. Living with those piss-yellow Jaundice eyes, she's had to develop tough skin...that apparently reacts to lotion like Tyler Perry reacts to 'gina: she'll spontaneously combust. Her body is a lotion and stocking-free zone. She's a "modern" woman, I presume, that is silently protesting deoderant and doesn't believe in single-use condoms.

And I LOVE it. Ain't too many things on this earth better than a defensive, ashy, hard-faced girl.

10:38 AM. friday.

right this moment, Keith, the Milk Dud-looking coworker is breathing like a 3-legged tap dancing cow in heat. in this quiet conference room i hear (1)him assualting the keyboard as if it reached for his last pork rind and (2)Keith's breathing which indicates that his backfat has his lungs in chris brown-like choke hold or that (2b)his nasal passage way is obstructed a caramel buildup.

save me.



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Day four at the 2nd gig. Interesting thus far. The two jobs have kicked my ass this week. But, it shall pay off soon. Upside to this gig: they have free kettle corn in the kitchen. (insert fat kid drool) And I'm all about that.

The cast of characters I share my workspace with is QUITE colorful. Not all deserve space on my glorious blog, but here are some highlights:

April: Timid redhead. Picks her nose A LOT. Silent for half an hour, then breaks out wit a random story.

"I um, been having problems with my mail. I am supposed to have a Ralphs coupon, cause I shop there a lot. But they keep sending it to my old address. And I keep telling them 'stop that!'. I don't know. I need my coupon."

and hello.

overheard in a diner this morning:

eater: "yall don't have strawberry jelly!? blacks only like strawberry and grape!"

laughter

waitress: "hmmm. how about watermelon jelly!? or fried chicken jelly??" (laughs)

Silence.

eater: "......................................oh. mixed fruit is okay." (goes back to eating)

the end.

don't think you can disrespect folks in chinatown and they won't defend themselves.



how does it feel to get punched in the top of the head AND drop kicked by a woman who's only words of English are "FUCK YOU"?

she.went.THE.hell.off.

and i love her for it.

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fact:

this performance of jazmine sullivan murdering "kiss from a rose"...



is better than....


Mariah's last 2 CDs.

sorry, mimikins.

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I had 2 very vivid dreams in the same night this week. Each woke me from my sleep, and I can still recall many details from them both.

The first dream featured my childhood best friend, Chris. In the summer of 1989, when my family moved into our house in Hampton, Chris' family lived 2 doors down. I don't recall exactly when, but I'm sure that we met until after kindergarten began. We bonded instantly and were soon like brothers. Even on school nights, we'd divide time between my house and his. We accompanied each other on vacations, to family reunions, etc. We fought with and for each other and planned to travel the world together after high school.

When we were in 7th grade, his father abruptly (2 weeks notice) moved the family back to Georgia. And I fell apart. I had other good friends, but my brother would no longer be there, so nothing really mattered to me. We talked regularly on the phone and that helped us both cope for a while.

I saw him once after when he came back to visit a year later, but by then he was girl-crazy and noticeably rougher around the edges. His interests had changed. He picked fights and cursed a LOT more. Obviously, it wasn't the same. He returned to Georgia. I mourned that lost friendship for quite some time, but stayed up on his life through an aunt that still lived in VA.

His dad moved the family around a lot, so keeping in touch became impossible. We spoke our freshman year of college in 2002. He had, literally, become a pimp. He told me about all the "bad bitches" he had working for him, providing him a nice lifestyle. And that was the last time I spoke to him.

I just needed to get that out.

Now, in my dream last night, I was sitting on my car in front of our house in Hampton. This was during the holidays, in the present. Chris drove slowly past the house in an SUV. There was an Asian woman in the passenger seat, and a child in the back. He slammed on breaks, as if he had forgotten I lived there. He jumped out of the car, we embraced and reconnected like old times.

He'd grown to be taller than his dad, who was at least 6'3". He was still skinny as all hell, as expected. The woman was his wife. Their two-year old son sat in the back seat. He turned his life around, became an activist, and was doing quite well. I was elated to see my brother again.

He had some appointment to keep, so we exchanged numbers and promised to keep in touch. He got back in the SUV, strapped his son in, and started up the car to drive off.

Then the SUV exploded.

I got burned across my face and torso from being so close.

And then I jumped up, sweating, shaking a little, unable to go back to sleep for about an hour. It felt SO real. I searched my face and torso for burns in vain.

I drifted back to sleep and was back in my neighborhood, in a larger version of my house in Hampton. Dozens of friends and family members were there, eating dinner and having a dope time. Suddenly Lil Wayne shows up. Yea, I don't know why either. He was a normal dinner guest. Normal, conservative clothes. No entourage. No gold teeth. No rapist face tattoos.

Suddenly he disappeared. And then houseguests started dying. It was a scene from a horror movie. Most of the dream was spent hiding from Wayne and watching loved ones die. Each murder brought him more pleasure. Somehow, I wound up hiding above a doorway (don't know how) and when he crept into the room I dramatically swooped down and stabbed him with a pencil in the temple or neck (can't remember which).

He melted.

All dead houseguests came back to life and the party continued as if nothing happened. Not sure what these dreams mean. Both were extremely vivid. Both involve loved ones dying.

This morning I was startled by another death-related dream. I was back in my old room in my parent's house in Hampton. While cleaning, I looked out the window to see an unfamiliar car parked in the middle of the yard. The driver vaguely resembled my uncle Jerome, who died in 1995 of Cancer (two days after my birthday). From my window, I watched him turn and face what appeared to be a child's car seat in the back of the car. He raised his arm, and fired a gun into the car seat. I couldn't see whether there was a baby in the seat. He then faced forward, and shot himself in the head.

I jumped up again, awake as hell. Scared to go back to sleep. I wrote it out in my journal, unable to find the reasoning or explanation behind this or the other dreams.

Any thoughts?

"Hey, come here. ...What's your name? ...LeRoy?"

-My MexiCoon store manager to me last night at work, trying to get my attention.

El hahaha. Of all stereotypical Colored names...LeRoy? Really?

That gave me a much-needed GOOD laugh.

[Mexican accent]fucker[/mexican accent]

So. i'm entering week numero dos at...MexiMart (that's tells you all you need to know).

rundown: slowly-but-surely failing retail chain, declining in popularity yearly. recently merged with another bankruptcy-bound retailer to form a bigger, equally hopeless "conglomerate". in short: a bunch of undeservingly optimistic, proud motherfuckers, basically. sales goals, long-term projections, elaborate corporate policies and the like: fairy tales. My mother, the bargain queen, won't even shop there.

what is to be said about me working there? not a damn thing. i use my muscles to unload trucks and stock shelves, but this isn't about me, mmkay?

ah yes: the store also has CHOCOLATE zebra cakes, and NOT plain ones. so...yea, they can go ahead and shut operations down. they're destined to fail for this alone. they clearly have no knowledge of how to run a business. no zebra cakes? goddamn self-hating fucks.
bueno.

unemployment y brokeness are two friends i'm trying to ditch. no los me gustan. Ugh. even with all the complaints i could launch into, i shall remain thankful for what i have and have accomplished in this short time in California.

i did get this job on the spot. and, as stingy as they are with the hours, and as craptastic as the pay is, tis SOMETHING. this shall hold me over until my Soulja Boy-inspired abortion-flavored kool-aid hits it big. or until so and so sees the light, we shack up and he moves us out of the country...whichever happens first. in the meantime, this pay most certainly is not the business. i have to make these MexiGoons understand that:

(a) I am a motherfucking grownup,
(b) I am NOT splitting rent with 8 other adults, and, therefore,
(c) canNOT survive off of this funky ass gig alone.

the fact that i am one of three coloreds is extremely comical to me. yo soy una minority. like, forreal. en serio. in my week of work i've seen many gasp-worthy things. let's start from the first day.

first off, i'm being trained by colored number two, who i shall call Otis, porque that's his name. and I don't give a fuck. Otis curses more than i. MUCH more than i do. and i love it. bald, loud, funny negro. from long beach. makes the commute to the valley "because long beach has the best pussy." okay fine.

our very first exchange:

him: "yea, they told me there was a new nigga. where you from, nigga?"
me: "um, moved here from New York."
him: "ooooh! how's the pussy in New York?"
me: *silently clutching pearls* ".................good, i guess."
him: "that's what i heard. mmhm."

so, needless to say, Otis provides many entertaining moments. after my first night, he declared, "Alex, you's a good nigga."

great.

my second day of work, i saw a coworker with a rat tail. in 2009. on the back of his mexican ass head (has "tijuana" tatted on his neck). my new goal in life is to obtain a picture of this so you may pass it on to future generations; it is life-changing.

en el día tercero, i seent the.most.VIOLENT.underbite this side of the rio grande. aye dios. nightmares, much?


and today, i had a conversation with Kandy. I don't think this is her real name....but, this is what's tatted on her neck. so i'll be calling her Kandy, thanks. So, Kandy is a spicy, beef supreme Chalupa Latina...con extra sour cream. she's the kind of mujer that eats guacamole-flavored pork rinds by the fistful. with hot sauce. a MexiCunt, if you will. homegirl is thorough as hell. knows everyone on staff, and is always heard telling someone, "YOU MUS GOT ME FUCKED UP!!!"

lay off the Maury episodes, chica.

she's the first real-live lip-liner, huge bang, and red lipstick-wearing latin chick i've encountered, outside of a movie. she is stuck in a time machine in the mid-1990's on the set of Selena, and she's chasing Selena y los Dinos through the mall with her Celia Cruz fanclub card in her purse.

"¡¡Selena está aquí!!"

i was recently referred to as a blog snob.

*silence*

fine. i'll take that. here's the thing: (i've said this previously) having a blog and knowing how to write are two totally different things. just because wordpress, blogspot, tumblr, and the like are free, does not mean that you should feel required to snatch perfectly good, peaceful webspace and establish some grammatically-reckless, self-aggrandizing, unimpressive web presence. i see dancers, "fashionistas" (which instantly tells how LOST you actually are), "artists", "writers", and so on, popping up all over the internet, spewing garbage and uncleverly-worded stupidspeak to the world. how grand and amazing can you be? you've no regard for subject-verb agreement!! hmph!

jackass.

...and have the NERVE to badger folks to check out your FAILtastic, vomitacious content?!? boo and bye.

to see so many goddamn linguistic paraplegics raping the beautiful English language (R. Kelly-style, sans lubricant) is frustrating, to say the least. in a perfect world, blogs would have minimal intelligence requirements, and would shut down and explode upon detection of stupidity. or something. but no. folks are running round pretending to be "deep", emo, artsy, aflluent , and brilliant, and are, instead, successfully failing at life. i'm all for freedom of expression, but not when it harms the masses. sir/madam, you "right worst then" you speak, and are morally opposed to spell check. fuck you.

*middle finger*

get a journal instead, motherfucker. keep that lame shit to yourself.

thanks, but no thanks.

down with bad blogs.

judgmentally yours,

alex.

******
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