Friday, September 15, 2017

September 15, 2017

Dear Diary,

Lately I've been thinking that my whole life has, quite frankly, been a journey down a sewer pipe. Nothing is really working out for me and I've seem to run out of people to blame for it inspiration, which means I must be missing someone something. I keep wracking my brain for a scapegoat solution that would make everyone forget about the crimes I've committed restore my life to the fountain of privilege hope and optimism it once was.

When I was in school, I remember reading a book called, "Black LIke Me," about a white guy who took drugs to turn him into a Negro. He really didn't turn into a Negro, though. It's not like he wore overpriced Nikes and basketball jerseys all the time. It just turned his skin really dark so that he could experience what racial discrimination is like. I'm not sure if he ever turned white again, but the book left its mark on me.  Ha ha. I made a joke!

Anyway, I sure hope the book sales were worth it. That stuff doesn't wash off.

Today, you don't have to actually be dark to be black, though, which opens up all kinds of possibilities. I can just declare myself to be black like that nut job in Seattle and people have to accept it. That's what everyone's doing. White women, in particular, are identifying as black, which I think could go a long way toward generating a boatload of sympathy a whole new respect for me.

Of course, this kind of transition would require a great deal of discipline. For one thing, I'd have to learn to say "axe" instead of "ask." That's a toughie, but the biggest hurdle I see is learning how to keep a beat. To be perfectly candid, I've never been an especially good dancer. Bill says I just clop around the floor like one of those dancing horses you see at the circus. But if I've learned anything, it's how to kill my critics turn a negative into a positive: I'd identify as the only black woman who couldn't dance! That would get me the disabled vote, too. I'd just have to watch more "Soul Train" reruns.

I like the way this is all shaping up. I think I still have a polyester jogging suit somewhere in the closet and I'm sure I saw some AfroSheen in Bill's medicine cabinet from the nineties. That stuff never goes bad.

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