NONSENSE: Wrote a Story ‘Bout It. Like To Read It? Here It Go . . .

“Get the Fuck Out Mah Face” ft. Angelique the “Saucy Dame Dizzle” and the NeighborHOOD Police Man.

The Scenerio:
Pizza Luce on a Sunday Night.
Me, Myself & I had just sat down to share a “quiet moment” with a tasty slice of piping hot pizza.

I was starving. So much that I had left my friends at the club to indulge in my cheesy delight. Couldn’t wait until after the afterwards . . . hell no - I might perish on the dance floor, never to blog again.

Just as I’m wiping grease off the corners of my mouth; in walks the neighborhood “Po-Po” whom I’ve known since high school (many moons ago). Usually he plays his position by the front door; ass and balls clingin’ to a wooden stool, with his nose stuck in a book. We’ve chatted many times before . . . but nothing spectacular . . . straight up small talk.

He’s not a bad looking brother; tall and attractive, maybe 10 years my senior. Still I’ve never felt compelled to flirt with this man. Ever. Being the friendly chica I am, I initiated our usual chit-chat.

Lique: Hey there Mr.Officer, read any good books lately?

Not that I gave a damn, just making small talk.

He ignored my question and took a seat at the table next to mine; which was a “first” because this Negro aint never “popped-a-squat” next to the Dame. I waited for a response to my question.

Po-Po Ne-gar-o: I don’t usually see you out on a Sunday night .
Lique: Yeah, I don’t do the “Sunday” thing too often. . .

Silence

Apparently this guy had something else on his dome-piece other than Sunday nights and books. You see, I was looking like this, but I have a strong feeling his mannish, “Po-Po Ne-ga-ro” mindset must’ve entertained an image more like this
; because what came out his mouth next, was from waaaaay out of the left-field:

Po-Po Ne-gar-o: I saw some pictures of you in lingerie. . .

I shuffled through my memory-dex . . . Angelique, lingerie, pictures . . .”Po-Po Ne-gar-o” . . . MESSEGE DOES NOT COMPUTE.

Lique: Me? You saw pictures of me? When? How? I’ve never taken photos in lingerie.
Po-Po Ne-gar-o: Oh, it was you. It was you and two other girls. It was classy, but you we’re in lingerie.
Lique: Not me. *shakes head* When were these so-called photos taken?
Po-Po Ne-gar-o: You were still in high school. And one of the girls had on a sheer body stocking, you could see everything. I very clearly remember your face.
Lique: Not my face. I’ve never taken any photos in lingerie; Especially in high school, with two other girls. Nope.
Po-Po Ne-gar-o: I’m telling you, IT WAS YOU.

He was very matter of fact. Considering he’s one of Minneapolis’s finest, I’m sure he encounters master liars all day, every day. He was convinced it was me.

I started to get real uncomfortable and pissed off because to this very day, I’ve never worked up the courage to take photos in lingerie. (With the exception of a few sepia photos I took last year . . . and they very PG-13, so much my Grandmother or Son could see them and I wouldn’t feel a bit of shame). This fool was set-tripping on the Dame and I didn’t appreciate it. The cheese on my pizza started get cold. I wasn’t hungry anymore.

Lique: So. . . when did you supposedly see these photos? How did you come across them?
Po-Po Ne-gar-o: One of the officers found them in a raid.
Lique: A raid? I aint never been raided . . .*laughs*
Po-Po Ne-gar-o: No, not you. We found them when we raided some guys house. IT WAS YOU. But they were classy and all. . .I remember your face very clearly.

That’s when I knew for sure “Po-Po Ne-gar-o” had it twisted . . . coming out the gate with some mess like that. He’s going as far to add a drug-dealer into a mix of the story. For real? Wow . . . Yet still, although I know it wasn’t me, I felt like I had to defend my honor.

Lique: Look, if it was me, I would “own it” and admit was me. But it’s not. I didn’t roll like that in high school. I don’t roll that now. Many men have tried to get me to take pictures in lingerie and play the starring role in their video tape fantasies. It’s not going to happen. I can honestly say I’ve never participated. Can’t be having any documentation. You just never know whose hands it might fall into; such as the scenario you’re presenting to me now. So for the last time, I’m telling you IT WASN’T ME. I’m not going to argue with you about it. And why are you bringing all of this to me now, anyway?

Po-Po Ne-gar-o: I tried to mention it once before but you gave me “that look”, so I left it alone.
Lique: Hmmm . . . I don’t remember that either. I must have a serious case of amnesia, not to remember any of this. So what’s your point of mentioning it now?

More awkward silence.

I stared his ass down, waiting for answer . . . but not too long.

I grabbed my greasy paper plate and made way for the trash . . . and then the door. I should’ve stuck around, but I had already given his statement too much energy. The more I insisted he had the wrong person, the harder he pushed back with IT WAS YOU.

I played it cool, but I was flustered on the inside and angry because I allowed this man to make me feel cheap and guilty for something I’ve never done. And why should I feel this way? Even if it would’ve have been me in the pictures . . .what difference does it make?

Why would I allow someone to take my power and make me feel low? This is what I’m talking about when I speak of “owning other folks grime”. Just how many years has this man undressed me with his “Po-Po Ne-gar-o” eyeballs and reminisced on photos of someone else, thinking it was me? He could’ve kept that shit to himself. What was he attempting to accomplish by sharing this information? If anything, it set a tone of indifference, the exact opposite what we’ve had over the years. That’s much too bad . . . for him.

What’s next? Time to get rid of the trash, immediately. After this post, the uncessary bullshit goes straight into the dumpster. I have more pressing issues at hand, like being happy and accomplishing some of the goals I have set before me. Oh, and then there’s preparing my son for the world, as to not get caught up like “Po-Po Ne-gar-o”. Yup, there’s work to be done.

So, keep street-dreaming Mr.Po-Po. Hold tight to your delusions. Your bogus memories are the closest you’ll ever get to the Dame. Sorry bastard.