I’m so excited to write you guys today, ELECTION DAY! I just got back from the polls, where I pretty much skipped all the way to the door, presented my voter card, punched my votes, and when I came out from the curtain I laughed an evil laugh and told everyone in the room to suck it.
Because no one expected us black folk to show up today, because we’re stupid, or we’re poor, or we haven’t had enough of that “hopey changey” stuff like one miss Barah Salin said. I don’t want to give her anymore media attention you know. I don’t mean to get all cheesy on you today, but go vote if you haven’t. Even if you’re part of the Pee Party or whatever shit you call yourselves. At least do it, because you can! And this is one of the most exciting mid-term elections of our time!! Because I’m proud to be an American….
Okay okay. Enough about that.
In other news, The Year of the No is really tough. Last week, I had to go to a meeting at our Mayor’s office. When I got there, I joined a group of people for a tour of a press room. Our tour guide was HOT. He was tall, average weight, blonder hair, no wedding ring.
God, I rully rully wanted to flirt with him. But it’s The Year of the No. So, I can’t. FACK. I kept hoping he would walk over and say hey. But he didn’t. Then he asked us all to put down our e-mail addresses, so then I was hoping he would shoot me little e-mail later…maybe something like:
Hope you enjoyed the tour. Would you marry me?
or maybe he’d pull a Marko Polo with a:
Do you like what you see?
But no, I haven’t gotten any of that. Instead, I third-wheeled it to a costume party over the weekend, where I proceeded to get sloshed off of sangria, champagne, beer, jello shots, peppermint patty and buttery nipple shots. Geez. I felt awesome the next day. And then I remembered this:
My rounds of karaoke, where me and Nicole sang “Everybody,” by Backstreet Boys…don’t remember it? OH MY GOD WE’RE BACK AGAINNNNN, BROTHA SISTA EVERYBODY SAY AM I ORIGINAL…YYEEAAAHH..AM I THE ONLY ONE? YEAHAAAHHHH…AM I SEXUAL? YEAAAAA……
We also sang Spice Girls, “Wannabe,” and Michael Jackson’s “Billy Jean.” We called our selves The Sharts (as in the shit farts) and no lie, we were a huge hit.
So at the party, Nicole and I are talking, and she’s telling me about this annual party that her family is going to. It’s this huge event with live music and dinner and it’s black tie. I’ve been with her family before and it’s a damn good time. So she tells me it’s $150 per couple, and I’m like sure, no problem, I’m completely in. Despite the fact this party is three months away, Nicole was like, “I mean maybe Gizzy can come.”
So now my friends aren’t even trying to set me up. They have completely given up on that, and suggested Gizzy as my lifelong partner. I mean, I love you Gizzy, but you don’t have a dick. And I mean, there are times I’d actually like to have a man as a date. What the hell? That’s how revolting I am!
I wanted to drown myself in the sangria bowl right then and there.
It’s like the day when the celebrities stop getting stalkers, it’s official, I’ve stopped getting set up.
Sigh. Someone send me a Taylor Swift sympathy card before I cut myself Demi Levatto style.