When a White Woman . . .

In the larger realm of all things white people, there is little funnier than a white woman--usually of the clean cut appearance--throwing down to gangsta rap.  And, in that regard I mean messy bun, old sweats fuzzy with holes in them, a white Hanes tee that's probably snug up top as it's from an old lover or some such, and that hair . . . yeah, that's like three day old hair that hasn't been washed.  Yeah, when that woman throws down, starts dropping gangsta signs, slipping out motherfuckers, dicks, and tits while jumping around her house in pure single girl, moment alone, who gives a shit fashion movies always tell us that shit is about to become epic.

In that regard, that has been my week.  Epic.  Coffee, bun, sweats, and mother fucking gangsta rap.  Yeah, I dropped that out earlier this week and people who claim to know me jaw dropped like a fat kid salivating for cake.  Except, they weren't wanting cake.  Instead, they were downright flabbergasted that white girl me--and as one said "with those baby blues . . .YOU?"--busted out some moves, grime, and four lettered bombs to plow through a day.  Hell, I made a comment to a class about it and a ballsy kid is the back "Wait! You mean like '90s rap, right?" I've never wished I had a camera out so much as I did then.  Eyes buggin' from kids in the 'hoods of imagination in NYC. . . I'll let you finish that picture.

You're welcome.

Though, I have come to learn that apparently a disproportionate amount of people think that vodka, bourbon, and Adele keep me upright.  Oh, there's that even more fucked up contingent that think I'm some bizarre ass fearless bitch who stays upright on sheer will and the tears of defeated foes.  There's some other theories that people tell me and--to be honest--I side eye that shit chalking it up to drunken diatribes or perhaps bad shit they've been smoking.  In all reality, I wish I drank as much as I think about it.  Hell, if I did I'd have a reason to physically feel the way to do more days than not.  Not to mention . . . going through life with that kind of buzz I'd never have a downer.  Fo sho.

In all reality, as I bust a move to my white girl mix of Eminen and Wiz Khalifa in many ways it is symbiotic to those hilarious soothing, energizing, and hilarious scenes,  but well . . . this is me.  I dance, my friends, like a white girl.  A white girl!  I tend to imagine myself as a gazelle, for which I'm told "a baby gazelle." Um, yeah, you know that still makes me a gazelle? On that note, this week has been your average middle aged white woman bustin' a grime in a pair of sweats her mother would burn, hair on ninety percent dry shampoo, a tee from an old lover or some such that shows its age, lavender toes, and a few cups of coffee thrown in for adulting measure.  Though, in the movies those chicks never need a bra.  Yeah, if I jump around my flat like I'm breaking down some '80s breakdance moves I'd--legit--knock an eye out.  So, I don a bra.  Moreover, as anyone who remembers my gangsta throw-downs in my college apartment, newspaper office, back end of the library, or study sessions will tell ya: I own it like  a two year old dancing to the music in her head.  At forty . . . I'm more gangsta and sleek in my head than in reality.

Though, if ya don't know . . . whatever gangsta rap can't fix a good whiskey and coke will.

Rest assured, I'm my usual Pandora bracelet wearing, blazer sporting, tossing on pearls with jeans gal.  I'm still noshing on mangos and yogurt like a good white girl, and walking home with lilacs in May to feed my soul that I would like to say is black but is more like a dusty rose gold, and Adele wailing woman you come to see at as that liberal you let hang around.  Just, behind closed doors and inside the headphones you might want to think twice.  That liberal keeps her shit in gear by loosing her filter in the lyrics.

On that note, this Missy Elliot song needs a whiskey and coke to fly.