Cultural Ambassador and Not Being Funny

I had my test Tues night and when confronted with either going to my stats test to show how I am the stats queen at my ghetto Hunter College class or singing gay Karaoke to celebrate John staring 30 in the face aka his 26th bday, guess what I chose? I’ll do what I did in college, cry to the professor and tell him that I am going through a rough time and I had a personal breakdown. I hope he buys it, or else I my not be getting into Columbia again.

That decision sealed me as the cultural ambassador to the gay community, as I am self-crowned queen of fag hags in Greenwich Village. Gay men fawning all over me, buying me drinks, and cheering me on as I sang ‘Don’t Tell Momma’ and the Drag Queen loved my bag, by the way. I fucking love Gay men…except for the Bear Party that we almost ended up because we thought that was the Gay Karaoke place. Instead of cute theater fags I find large hairy gay men, who are not fans of women since they gave me and my female friend shit for going into the place. Which we did not because it was a bear party. I love gay men so much, they are outgoing, friendly, and buy me free drinks without expecting a blow job.

However, when you go to a gay bar with a gay man, expect to go home by yourself. Especially when it is his bday. As I learned on Wed. morning.

A quick aside, my landlord’s son lives upstairs he is not a fan of us for a myriad of reasons. I can’t tell you why except that he has taken a strong dislike to my roommate, and by default me. He is such a tool that I am about to call the city on him and say that he is harassing us. Back to the story…

John gets home at 5am as I am asleep, and evidently, he had such loud sex, with doors slamming, knocks against the wall, et.al. that the landlord begins to bang on his floor to tell him to shut up. My friend is sleeping in the living room, listening to it all ensue, getting her final dose of her gay culture lesson. I am so drunk that I sleep right through it. Suffice to say, the landlord hasn’t made the copy of our mail key yet, hasn’t sent the super to fix our leaky tub, and is being a fucking jerk. Little does he know that I am a vindictive bitch who will make his life a living hell with the help of 311 Landlord Tenant Relations. And isn’t withholding my mail key a federal offense, impeding upon the delivery of mail?!