Friday In Chicago...

Well…how can I sum up yet another exciting weekend in Chicago?

I’ll just stick with “crazy” for right now.

Very crazy as only my family can do.

My day began early Friday morning as I dashed to the airport for my flight. I’m pissed because I have to check my luggage and instead of doing my routine 30 minutes until the flight leave knocking over folks and cutting in line to get through security to run to my gate out of breathe and sweating, I’m there an hour and a half early just to check my luggage so I’m not throwing away my Enchanted Apple lotion, Crest, and D&G perfume.

Like my black ass could ever be a terrorist. As much as a bitch hates to fly, the last thing I’m personally thinking of is taking the plane down. Um hello, I’m on that bitch too! I’m too paranoid thinking every bump, thump, and grind is a sign the plane is going to malfunction. And we all know one thing, if no one else survives Tenacious is getting off of that plane some way, shape or form. Damn that, a bitch is at the emergency exit and I’ll take my chances with the skies.

Oh and T, yes I would have raided the liquor cabinets before I jump. Taking vodka to the head as I’m jumping off.

So I’m sitting and waiting and mad because well I’m at the airport early as fuck and I’m still grumpy because I didn’t get a lot of sleep the night before.

Find out I’m sitting right on the fucking wing. Next to the emergency exit seats *you know I’m not saving any one. I am not a hero* I hate sitting next to the wing and the jet engines. Fucking hate it. You know those are the first things to go and/or explode/detach when the shit hits the fan. Every little noise they make have me on edge. And I had a window seat?! I had to close the shades because I was constantly looking out the window…and this was before we even left the runway! I’m quick to call an attendant and ask what the hell is that noise, and how come that is doing that, and where’s the parachute…you know that type of thing. Just because I worked at an airport before doesn’t mean shit as far as I’m concerned. I just hate flying.

And they try to freeze you on the damn plane too but that’s another issue. I have to pack a jacket, a small blanket, and my Hello Kitty footies with me so I wont freeze to death while on the flight, be walking through the airport in the summer wrapped up like I’ve just left the North Pole.

This flight going to Chicago was pretty uneventful. Like I said once I closed the shades and stopped eyeing the wing like a hawk counting screws and shit, I was straight. I slept the entire flight, although I had to have yet the same argument with a flight attendant about my purse. Look it’s not going out my sight nor am I placing it on the floor, don’t you know it’s bad luck to put your purse on the floor, especially on a damn airplane?! And I left one of my books on the damn airplane. Hey if anyone picked up a hardback Stephen King novel *I know creepy right who in the hell reads a Stephen King novel on a damn airplane?*, that’s mine! I paid $18 for that damn book!

I get to Midway and I’m waiting at the baggage claim when I get hit on. By a lesbian of course, you know this is me you’re talking about.

I’m wearing my absolutely favorite shirt in the world and when I find the picture on my computer I’ll put it up…Objects under this shirt are larger than they appear, I know a riot right, and I’m trying to grab my bag when the girl that was on the side of me *whom I caught eyeing me a few times but I’m thinking it’s because of the shirt because it always get attention* and she’s like, ”So can I test that theory for myself?

Errr?!

Rather than ask her to repeat it because I know I heard it right the first time and I know what the hell she meant, I just cut a side eye and started to wheel my luggage away. While waiting for my grandmother to pull back around she comes up to me and ask for my phone number so she could call me. Um no bitch! I flashed the ring and told her in not so many words that I’m the president of the I heart Penis club so scram bitch.

*sigh*

I’m not even “lesbian friendly” so why are they after me? Has a rumor been spread about me via internet or something? Is my picture on a gay website with the words “Please Hit On Me…I’m Convertible” or something? I would be flattered if I wasn’t repulsed by the thought of a woman’s mouth on my body.

After playing with my fat baby cousin and my high yellow ass niece, you know I heart my babies, and showcasing the little Rocawear velour suits I splurged on for them even though I don’t really believe in buying “urban” gear for babies, like an infant need a Baby Phat blue jean outfit, I couldn’t resist because well they were cute and “splurged” meaning I was in T.J. Maxx and dropping a hot $20 when they retail for $48, I began the hunt for Red October, meaning my little fast ass cousin.

Saw her waddling her already protruding stomach ass down the street and caught up with her half way and spent the next hour and a half, yelling and lecturing her. I felt semi bad because she started crying through half of it but fuck that shit! She is too fucking young and too smart to fall victim *again* to teen pregnancy. There’s too much out on the market for her to prevent getting pregnant *again* and I’m not buying her little excuse. Fucking is inevitable when you live in the ‘hood as it is and all the little girls on the block aspire to be the next video chick or Ray Ray’s baby mama, but dammit you don’t have to follow the “baby mama” route. Well not the video chick either but that’s another subject.

Go home and my brother and I had a few words. Get a fucking job you fucking bum! I told my mother she had crippled the boy by spoiling his lazy ass and he needs to get a damn job. I don’t see why the hell he can’t get a damn job and how the hell do you quit a job after you get your first check? Just plain fucking stupid. Everyone is always making excuses for him but I see past all the “woe is me” violin solo he’s constantly playing. Yes he has a learning disability and he can’t read very well but that damn boy can read enough to get a damn job. He is a wizard with numbers and is very bright, he just doesn’t apply himself. He rather hang out in the streets than get a damn job and tries to use his learning disability as a crutch all the time. Oh grow the hell up.

I’m hard on him because no one else will be. They fall to the little act he puts on and leave it at that. I have to stay on his ass because no one else will nag at him the way I do.

After stuffing my face with the neighborhood eats *oh Harold’s, White Castle, Nick’s Pizza Puffs and Italian Beefs, and Mild Sauce, how I have missed you* I laid down for a quick nap, yeah my fat ass maxed a bit and then I hit the block.

Good old OMAR just happened to be down the street and of course his eagle eye ass spotted me. But he’s been less crazy since he’s hooked up with some chick *run bitch run* and of course he had to walk around with the “smug” smirk on his face. Um boo she’s cute but not that damn cute *lol* and besides if I wanted your ass which I don’t that might be a problem. Damn girl look scared to me, should’ve escaped when you have the chance.

So we’re trading little insults and digs at each other, *typical of us of course* and I flash the ring. The crazy ass OMAR I know and fear shows up, right on schedule. Of course ending with the traditional “I’m a trifling bitch and I probably used my witchcraftery *his words* to get him to marry me, we’re going to be divorced in a year, he hopes I break a leg…” his usual rants and raves. And he’s doing this all in front of the “new” girlfriend. You know my ignorant, adding fuel to the fire ass, had to start laughing like a fool. He hates for people to laugh at him so I’m just taunting him like the bitch that I am and I go in the house and slam the door.

Maybe I’m just as crazy as he is. One of these days he’s actually going to run me over. One of these days…I feel sorry for old girl though. He is a horrible kisser. One of the worst kissers I have ever had in my life. How do you fuck up kissing? Just pucker your lips and touch mine. That’s it. His old wet mouth ass. I hate wet mouth ass niggas! And men wonder why I don’t like kissing too much. Every time we kissed, which I tried to avoid, it felt like he was trying to spit in my damn mouth, that’s how wet his mouth was. And even when I refused to French kiss, I still ended up with my mouth all covered in slob. *shudder* Mouth area just glossy as hell, just wet as shit. And we won’t even get on the tongue action, when he wasn’t trying to spit in my mouth, he was trying to suck my damn tonsil out, trying to sprain my tongue with his rough ass tongue. He was just horrible. Yet another reason to kick him to the curb. But…he could eat some coochie though. *shrugs* I wish he could have done that with my mouth and not the vagina.

*shudder* Ick.
I hung out on the block, talked to some folks that I haven’t talked to in a few years, got myself caught up on the gossip of the block and who got locked up and around 11 pm, I took myself in the house and crashed.

Caked on the phone with the fiancé for a little bit, yeah we’re lames on that, I will admit that one. When one of us is out of town we spend an obnoxious amount of time pillow talking to each other. Like at least 6 random calls a day to cake. Yeah yeah, I know that’s lame, but that’s as far as our PDA goes most of the time, we’ll cake on the phone, occasionally hold hands, a pat here and there, maybe an impulsive kiss but that’s as far as we take it. I don’t really like too much touching in public. And you know my attention wanders…*lol* ok not in front of him of course.

Went to sleep while the sound of constant car bass, random cat calls and shouts, and the hum of the air conditioner went on around me.

Damn it feels good to be back home!