The speed of light and sound ain't got nothing on the rhythm of my beating heart right now.
My anxiety could outrun Jesse Owens and Usain Bolt, then teach The Flash a thing or two about running a mile in these shoes because this sugar honey ice tea right here is not easy.
You try dodging bullets on the daily ride home and see how you like it.
Bullets like unwanted tongue lashing from a unknown figure in a black jacket who looks like he could be my neighbor's dad.
Am I overreacting?
I mean sure, maybe he's just trying to get to know me--in ways only my doctor and the woman who changed my diapers knew how.
But from where I'm standing his words burn like alcohol on a paper cut and I left all my band aids at home.
What's my problem?
I mean, maybe it's the constant cultural exploitation of my body as a market for music, clothing, and cosmetic sales while I sit back and wonder when MY beauty will be good enough to go from black market to center stage.
I mean it gotta be somethin' like that right?
Nevamind the fact that he's most likely, with 86% confidence, undressing me as I stand outside for 15 minutes waiting on a 22 west bound bus that is most likely, with 95% confidence, about 5 blocks away, but I'll just keep my eyes down.
He can't bother what he can't see right? Oh wait, avoiding eye contact doesn't make me invisible? Shoot.
Did I mention the minimum 3 homeboys with him (just in case his verbal bullet wounds to my ego, identity, and self-esteem aren't enough)?
Man, I'm just trying to avoid being that 5'5, 140 lbs somebody's daughter on Fox 45 after prime time because I know that in a house somewhere between Northern Parkway and Charles Village I'll be charged with "asking for it".
Oh yeah, Ruby Woo by MAC definitely should come with the warning label:
"In case of any public appearance, like anywhere, ever, this lipstick becomes synonymous with yes to all sexual, romantic, or just plain arrogant advances."
Note to self: I was born with this skin, this hair, this life, so somewhere I'll always be asking for it.