I'm Puerto Rican, you don't cross me twice. in Musings

As white-washed and middle-class as I am…

I’m still a fucking Puerto Rican, ghetto project bitch. You fuck me over once, I promise you that you won’t meet that same bitch the second time around.

I try very hard to refrain from that type of harsh, ghetto, inner-city urban mentality. However, I will throw my Birkin bag on the street, rip my Louboutin’s off, and say “fuck this YSL shirt” and fucking kill you, legitimately fucking rip you to shreds, without any cares to how much botox, rhinoplasty, coronal lifts or collagen has occurred to my face. BITCH—I’m FUCKING PLASTIC! I’m fucking Tupperware. I’m the worst type of plastic, eternally young type of bitch too— the type that doesn’t give two fucks about a scuffle.

Gay men in New York City have no fucking chill.

I have a very high tolerance for bullshit. I’m a fucking hair dresser in NYC. I can deal with a lot of shit I shouldn’t tolerate. I’m the “yes, sir” I will make it work, I will make it happen, I will find a way.

I went out with Alex (which these are the things I don’t miss about being with him) and I was talking to one of his gay friends.

Strike ONE: “Wow, you look really nice… what consignment store did you get this from?” he said. “Oh! No!” I laughed, half offended “I bought this at Marc Jacobs in the West Village” I smiled, nodded, like an appropriate humble Puerto Rican boy.

Strike TWO: “Oh.Em.Gee, you smoke a lot of cigarettes! You should go to my Doctor for fillers, you look like your about 25” “Oh… Really?” I snarled “Well I go to your Dr. Dorfman, I had a slight brow lift, botox and fillers, I’m 31—” I tried to hold my composure “Mission accomplished, I look the age I was aiming for” I smiled as I walked away from him.

Strike THREE–final Strike: This faggot was wasted, I’m trying to shove him in my taxi, since he lives 2 blocks away from my apartment “Honey, how did you end up with Alex?—you’re like—really—really not his type” he slurred. “Oh! Well that’s neither here nor there!” I laughed nervously. I felt my blood getting to the brink of boiling. “Yeah! No offense, but you’re like super pretty, but you are like ghetto, white trash”

In my book… it’s like beep beep the nuclear power plant has exploded.

Alex snapped out of his stoned fate and said “shut the fuck up bro! you’re fucking lame” or something to that extent…

because all I remember is ripping my real Louboutin shoes off, throwing my fur scarf at Alex and right as I watched my fist meet his face, I remember watching my Birkin bag fall into a rain puddle in slow motion and thinking “fuck that dumb ass expensive bag”

I punched this faggot in the fucking face from down under into his nose. Slapping him with a closed fist on to his temple. “You fucking piece of faggot trash!” and feeling Alex ripping me off of him. His fingers digging into my arms as I tried to continue punching the fuck out of him.

I remember watching this gay guy look at me scared as I got into my red zone…
watching him stumble over garbage. Looking at his “Louboutins” that he kept referring to as “Louis Vuitton”. I don’t care if you wear payless or knock-offs, or you painted the sole of your shoes red… I would have even kept to myself that you said “Louis Vuitton” shoes when I clearly know that Christian Louboutin never made those shoes that you were wearing and you got them from a knock-off website. I could have let all of that slide and be happy, be drunk, but you had to push all of my buttons. You wanted to fucking one-up me when I didn’t fucking care.

You want to belittle me when I just took a breathe and still dragged your drunk ass home. You tried to test me and found out that I’m educated, but I will still fight you tooth and nail like a dirty, street Puerto Rican project trash, if you come at me the wrong way.

Alex ripped me off of this boy and dragged me to the sidewalk and slammed me against a car, pushing my bag against me. “Andy!!” he said “stop this bullshit, it’s not worth it!” and I still tried to grab him to continue fighting him.

I honestly didn’t know what was happening, because Shane was there and I thought I was hallucinating, the door man from my building was trying to walk me to my building but I was so lit up. I only saw blood and murder.

I allow people to push me. Shove me around. Call me names. Belittle me. But if you cross that line, I will fucking blank out and attack.

The absolute next thing I remember was being at my apartment and Shane holding me in his arms shoving a cup of water into my mouth and wiping my hands with a cloth. Alex comes in, slamming the door and grabbed a fistful of my hair saying “the fuck were you thinking!” and Shane knocking him off of me and screaming “DON’T FUCKING TOUCH HIM LIKE THAT BRO! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

I honestly don’t know how Shane came into my apartment or why he was there. I don’t know why I woke up between Alex and Shane holding me tight against him. I do know that I woke up feeling my jaw hurting and my knuckles scraped.

I don’t fucking know what I’m doing. However, if I am nestled between two of my favorite men, I must have done something seriously crazy.

I squirmed from between them to pee and when I came back out of the bathroom Alex was waiting for me, “Get Shane out of this apartment now Andy” he said in an angry mumble. I realized then I had one sock on and my shirt had three buttons ripped off, my body ached. And I said “Um no, he’s my bestest friend” I pushed past him.

“FINE!” he screamed “I’m leaving” he said going past me. “Okay… bye… again” I said as I walked toward the bed to Shane.

I get it Alex. I fucked your best friend. But he was there for me when you left me. he was there for me when lawyers came to make me sign papers to divorce you. Yes, it’s fucked up, he fucked the living shit out of me when you were gone and loved me, protected me, showed me I was worthy of being loved. Are you mad? Are you angry that he stood in your place but I ditched him for someone else? He was there when I signed my lease to my apartment. He was there when I cried my fucking face off in an empty lonely apartment with no furniture. he was there… it’s not personal, you were the fucking worst… and if he wasn’t there I would have died…literally fucking hung myself. he was there when i made a restraining order for you.

he would hold me, when i cried for you “he’s nothing baby, you shouldn’t love him like this, you’re mine, you’re my boy I’ll protect you”

Honey, I’ve survived worse than you. You get the fuck out before he does.

I’m Puerto Rican… cross me twice doesn’t happen. He can stay, you need to leave or suck it up that he was more of a man to me in a span of weeks than you were in a span of years. he was more of a man to me in a span of drunken fucks than you were in a span of marriage and standing me up.

Special men like me don’t happen to guys like you more than once. And you eat what I give you or you fucking starve. Cause I’m too good for you, and you want to come back. I don’t need you, I want you.