Why does the whole world insist on trying to turn me into a gangster? I am the whitest, most proper girl that ever lived. You should all just accept this sad reality as I have. Ghetto-ness is just not within my reach. Let us collectively move on from this fact and never mention it again.
Also, the same moron who referred to me as “gansta” asked me the following question in response to my declaration that I have been eating a lot: “What have you been eating alot of? vagina? dyke!”
This is why he and I are no longer friends. And, “a lot” is TWO words. I am clearly the superior being for knowing that.
He later wrote me the following: “You are a snooty french girl with a fluffy dog.” French is capitalized. Apparently Marfa High has neglected to teach grammar, spelling, and human decency. I should jaunt over there and have a word (or an altercation) with the headmaster.
And there we have it: the three most persistent untruths about me popping up in a single day:
1) I can be make gangster (yo-lona, olanda, y-niqua: it’s all been tried before. And failed. In fact, I have a habit of making qhetto girls hate me. They’re all just like, “kill the white girl. Rahhhhh!!!” Why THIS white girl, I do not know. I once had the Prince of Namibia dispatched to beat me up! Really, and I’m so nice! But there you have it. Even if I changed my name to Chanel, it would not work out).
2) I am a lesbian librarian. That one endures alarmingly. So what if I wear turtlenecks and glasses and have Anne of Green Gables hair?
3) I am “Snooty French Girl.” Evidently I was dubbed that atrocity approximately one year ago, when I first came to Marfa. For some reason the inhabitants of this town grapple with the fact that I’m actually nice. And they’re bored here, it would seem, so they took quite a fancy to talking about me. According to them, I had raging affairs with many married men, shared brothers, and seriously dated guys I barely knew. All within the first ten days I was here. I wish! Well, not really. In all the hubbub, it appears my American-ness was overlooked, not to mention my complete lack of meanness and pretension.
Back to my story: It was not in fact vag, but cheese. Please do not make a crack about them being one and the same. A predecessor before you has already done that, and I reacted no more favorably to his wry and condemnable sense of humor. For the most part, as the Dollar is not doing so splendidly, I eek out a meager existence. Although I had a most delicious curry tonight!
The sexual harassment persists; it is fast becoming the one constant in my life (apparently, boy clothes and “period hair,” - think Pride and Prejudice, not menstruation- as it’s been called, are not enough to fend off men. They must be deranged). I am no more jaded for it though. Which means I am no less weary with each new lecher. It amazes even me that I don’t put more stock in the tinkling bells in my head. Perhaps if I were vain. But I am not, and so I assume the most innocent of situations before they are proven to be sex lair-ish. Ah well. I will elaborate on that a bit more when I get over the trauma of it all. I promise to find humor in molestation! It will be my crowning achievement, just you wait!
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Tapenade, and Pine Nuts