brahs

three guys walk into a bar. wait… three guys on a bender of alcohol, cocaine, and klonopin walk into a bar. i should mention i’m working at the bar, it’s 8am, and they haven’t slept all night. no… they haven’t slept in two nights.

i love working the morning shift. the bar becomes my domain. everything’s calm, people are sober, and i play delightful wake up music at a reasonable volume -some reggae, manu chao, maybe a little calexico and other white boy shit, and some hip hop once the afternoon light begins to glow. i enjoy this routine, and i enjoy being a solo worker in charge of everything from the dishes to the ambiance. these three dudes are looking like trouble set on spoiling my good time. did i mention they’re my coworkers?

“yo, let me put on some cypress hill.”

“not right now, dude. i’m just trying to chill with my music.”

“don’t be such a bitch!”

and then…

“hey guys, can you give me some room and get on the other side of the bar, please?”

“duuuuuuude, angie’s having a hissy fit.”

or was it…

“i think she’s on her period. chill out, half pint!”

i stop engaging, laugh, smile, and breathe.

“uh oh, we got angie mad! do you hate us, angie? we got nothing but mad love for you. angie needs a hug.”

“touch me and i’ll cut your balls off.”

“oh shit! you knew what you were getting into when you started working here at the boy’s club.”

it’s true. i did. but i’ve never worked with so many people raised as boys. social work attracts a different set of folks. i’m not used to having them as bosses or coworkers. i dislike it. since they don’t consider me a part of their creepy, special gender circle, they have no respect for my space or words. if they did, when i said, “get out of my face,” i’d get, “chill, brah. no worries.” there would be no attempt to give me a massage or a hug; i’d get insulted maybe, not belittled, and left alone.

mind you, i can handle testosterone. i acquiesced to their musical requests, played nice, and was generally loveable and had fun with it. all this despite the fact they hovered over me, made me fuck up the till, were jackasses in front of guests, and gave me shit when i put drinks on their tabs. this nonsense lasted the entirety of my six hour shift, and, for the most part, i gave in to the universe and gave up on the morning i wanted. attachment only leads to suffering, after all. and i knew any other reaction would only be countered by older brother bullshit and references to my menstrual cycle. in the end, it didn’t matter. paper does not beat rock, and i don’t know the hand gesture for boredom. the boy’s club rules on.

these motherfuckers right here.

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About trying not to touch anything

living in a space where i am half packed, or half unpacked, depending on how you look at it; going somewhere else; wanting to write about my misadventures on a planet i don't feel like i should be on

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