My Story Pt5

     My mother's side of the family is hard to describe. She had 2 older sisters and one younger brother. They all had different fathers which in the fifties labeled my grandmother. Well honestly it still would label her and she would deserve it by the standards of any year. To tell about her I must explain that she had no idea who her parents were. She was shuffled from house to house until she turned 5. The people who were taking care of her died and left her land and money. Whoever got her received it all. My great grand parents Snoop and Bootsie were not in love. They married each other as some sort of deal, no one is clear on what the terms were. They were business partners and nothing else. They slept in separate rooms and on Thursday nights everyone knew that my great grand father's girlfriend would come and stay for the night.

     Snoop and Bootsie owned a few nightclubs and drive-in theatres spread out over town. The most notorious of establishments was their house. It used to be an old plantation, someone had bought this and turned it into a hotel. In the front yard sat a tall twisted tree that everyone in the predominantly black neighborhood called the lynching tree. This is where they would sometimes find the body of a young man who had committed some offense upon the white community. Their first act after buying the house was to chop this down. They then renovated the smaller houses on the back of the property into living areas for friends fallen on hard times. All of this paints a sunny happy picture of what type of people they were. Do not be fooled, they were criminals.
      The house itself was used for a number of things, gambling, illegal drinking, and prostitution. Many people have told stories of murders on the front steps and the back rooms. This is how she grew up, surrounded by people who gave in to temptation and celebrated the rougher side of life. In turn, she was self indulgent and unapologetic. She slept with whoever she wanted and often left her children with her parents even if they were one the verge of death. She didn't give hugs or even really care that they were there.
     She had my Aunt Stephanie first. Stephanie is quiet and deadly, literally. I always thought Aunt Fifi, the second oldest, was the toughest of all of them until one Thanksgiving while my grandmother was saying the prayer Fifi leaned over and pointed at Stephanie and said, "Look at that bitch gigglin'. She already pissed me off tonight but I'm not gonna mess with her 'cause I know if I fight her it'll be to do the death." I was shocked because I always thought Aunt Stephanie was the high silent one. I voiced this somehow and Aunt Fifi replied, "Hell naw! That bitch is crazy! She's the only one in this room I would think twice about goin' at." This gave me a new respect for Aunt Stephanie. I knew she carried a .45 everywhere she went I didn't know she didn't have to and that her reputation proceeded her and the bullets.

I still miss him the most on nights like tonight. He would be listening to me talk (his favorite pass time) and watching me hungrily. He would ask me questions and let me rant about a day I barely remember. We would be sitting on the couch in his man room, the bar. He would be chewing his nails and geninuinely interested in what I had to say. That was something I doubted at the start until months later he would referrence something I had said casually in our first interactions. His glass bong was always next to him like a baby bottle, his fingers running through my hair, before I cut it to erase his touch. I talked about me, which is rare because I wasn't used to people listening. I've spent my whole life as an ear. My glass of wine would never be empty nor would his pipe piece. When I was done spilling my emotions on our carpeted floor in my nonchalantness, he would turn on the XBox and we played and talked shit as if we were just friends. Shit talking always lead to play fighting and everyone knows where that leads. Or was that just us? For six years he was my clutch. He was my drug, my best friend. Now it's just me left with emotions spilled on floor for no one to see. I'm not coping or concealing my inability to cope well, at all. I need something I can't give myself and that I don't want from anyone else other than him, but I no longer want him.

Fakery!

                                 Who in the hell was I teaching how to fry chicken?!

                                                      An who's foot is that?!?!?!


That was actually my first thought when I realized a twitter "friend" was in fact some random person's alter ego and not real at all.

As it turned out he was not gay or multiracial. He was simply the black man below bored with his "straight" life and looking for fun. What he didn't realize was that his fun was our real lives and we are all bruised now for his entertainment.

     Having said all of that I will tell you what people who know me the most do not know. I'll spare you the juicy story about a guy I dated for six months who turned out to be using a fake identity and was a wanted felon. I will instead tell you my secrets as promised.



     When I was 14 my mother drank the heaviest or maybe I noticed it the most. Being my first year of high school I couldn't really deal with it so I would lock my room door and go into AOL chatrooms to find fun things to talk about. While in one I met a friend named, "creepo". He was hilarious and we would stay up all night telling each other stories about home and school friends. I didn't hold any punches, with "creepo" I was me. I could even laugh about how my mom was on wine bottle number three and would be hitting the floor soon. Off and on through life we talked for 12 years always on AIM or through emails. It was one of the best friendships I've ever had. We shared real thoughts and experiences. We never lost touch no matter where life took us. He was my secret pleasure! No one else knew that I confessed my worst sins and best pleasures to a complete stranger. A little while ago after going through a really bad breakup I kind of cocooned myself into the internet. I regularly checked my facebook and of course created a twitter account. There is always an option to search for people by email so I searched for a few people that I hadn't heard from in a while. "creepo" was one of these. The first account that came up was for a 19 year old bisexual female. I knew this couldn't be right because there was no way a 7 year old could have kept up with my 14 year old conversation. The next one was a picture of a girl my age that I had seen in a few of creepo's photos. This one disturbed me because when I clicked on her pictures I expected to see him. I didn't. I saw some guy who looked nothing like all of the pictures I had seen before. I sat there trying to justify it all by telling myself that this guy was no where near as attractive as creepo so obviously creepo was insecure about his looks and had used the cute guys pics. I am always straight forward so I sent an email and explained how I had seen these pictures. I told him I didn't understand why he thought that was necessary.
     When I got a reply to my email my mind literally couldn't compute it all. You probably guessed, creepo was the girl. She sent me this long emotional email about how she was sorry and needed to get help. I felt mentally molested. I felt like she stole my experiences that I would have gladly given her had she said she was a girl. For 12 years I had been telling my everything to a person who never existed.

i was telling my world to her :^/