Purple Pain

I’m convinced that some male fashion designers absolutely abhor women. They make shit for, what they claim, is for art’s sake when in reality they fucking hate us.

Don’t believe me? Well, feast your peepers on these fab frocks and please, by all means, tell me what you think.

(courtesy of weirdomatic.com)

And, finally … nothing quite says art like a big, stank-ass ashtray with a smoldering cig in it that’s really a chapeau:

(courtesy of puppiesandflowers.com)

Once upon a time, actually it’s more like once upon many a-time, I puked up stuff resembling these threads. That was a time when I was knee-deep in a nasty-as-fuck eating disorder where refunding food was a common occurrence. So, it’s only natural that when I gaze upon such stuff, it’s like a bulimic ‘Nam PTSD flashback minus the “DIDI MAO!!”, rats eating through my tumtum to get out of the bamboo/water trap and Charlie. Thank dog that I no longer do such a thing. Instead, I prefer to showcase my self-loathing via this blog, and by committing petty crimes like flipping off truckers on the interstate and flashin’ mah boobs at the religious nutlies who dare to ring my bell.

All was well and good.
Then came you.

Fortunately, this didn’t cause me to stick my fingers down my throat, but it did give me one helluva chuckle. After watching it a few times, it reminded me of something. Long lead-in, but it’s worth the wait.

There. That’s much better.

What’s next?

Oh yeah. While I was shopping for various sundries and my weekly supply of box wine, I had a wee run-in with one of the neighborhood’s more colorful characters. I’ve seen this woman around from time to time–yelling at trees and fire hydrants–whatever object is harshing her mellow that day. She’s harmless–as far as I can tell–and she’s never said one word to me.

Until today.

After my reign of terror in Jewel, I was pushing my goods in a cart out to my car. I was in my own little McCrabass universe so I didn’t notice her quickly sidling up to me. By the time I spied her, it was too late. I turned just in time to catch some spit with my cheek and a dirty hand moving quickly to my head.

“WITCH! WITCH!”

I know, I was surprised too, but not really. I’ve been called worse and consider being called a “witch” a huge compliment, a badge of honor if you will. Unlike Christine O’Donnell, it would be easy for me to capitalize on this moniker.

Ruh-roh, I forgot to mention an important detail here. I had a layer of my chocolate-thunder brown hair dyed dark purple/blue. Also, the ends in the back look like they’ve been ‘dipped’ in the same color. It’s subtle, and looks good. Not outlandish at all, and considering what I’ve seen lurking on the streets of Chicago, my hair color is fucking Ann Romney-esque in comparison.

Not according to my touched little friend.

I grabbed her paw just as she was about to fondle my purple goods.

“Oh, no touch, dearest. You touch me and you’ll lose your hand, mmmkay?” I said, my eyes locked on hers.

I noticed then she looked an awful lot like Miles Davis and it gave me pause, but not for long. There was no time to ponder this similarity since her other hand was careening quickly toward my hair. This time, I slapped her hand away, put my hand up, palm facing her and raised my voice.

“You try this again and it ain’t gonna be pretty. I suggest you walk away before you get hurt.”

My heart was pounding by this point because this woman was big — bigger than me. I was scared shitless but my eyes never left hers. She finally backed down and started to wander off. I watched as she stomped off and was about to get into my car when it appeared she was at a safe distance, when she spun on her heels and screeched:

“I CURSE YOU AND YOUR PURPLE HAIR YOU FUCKING BITCH!!”

With that, I blew her a kiss, got in my car and drove home.