The Stalking of Supa Sister

Now bear with me. This wack-ass story requires somewhat of a preface.

A few weeks back, Supa Sister had a yard sale. On account of she’s been going through some kind of purging and cleansing phase. Just had the intense overwhelming need to be rid of all the useless, non-utilized items cluttering her space. Wanted to make room for more personal and creative energy…or make room to purchase more useless, non-utilized shit. Who knows. Whatever.

Back to the yard sale. Things were going well. The dusty-ass artificial plants and old dishes and clothes were selling. It was all good. Late in the game, some fool rolls up. Strolling around like he’s interested in this or that. Buys some miscellaneous bullshit. Loiters. Tries to engage Supa Sista with inane meaningless chit chat.

Now let me stop here, and expound on fool. Fools immediate presence, looks, aura, vibe, and conversation did absolutely nothing for Supa Sister. And yes, fellas. Yes. A sista can size you up in precisely 2.3 seconds and decide if you’re someone she might entertain the remotest possibility of fucking with. So. Trust and believe when I say that, by definition- this fool was a buster.

Everything about said fool's game was weak and tired. Primarily, because he was old. Not 'oldER' as in ‘fit and worldly and suave and distinguished’(think, maybe: Sidney Poitier) I mean, old, as in: pot belly, impending Medi-Cal recipient, wino and smokers-cough kinda old. (think: John Witherspoon)

Just. Awful. He was pushing a nice enough black E Class, which out here in Floss Angeles, is enough to get a garden variety chickenhead’s cluck-ometer in motion. But Supa Sister could give a fat flying fuck. He coulda rolled through busting some donuts in the fucking spaceship Enterprise for all I care. Supa Sister just…really doesn't give a damn about superficial shit like that.

So. Yard Sale. Supa Sister tries to act all rushed and distracted and UNINTERESTED because she intuits (correctly) that fool thinks just enough of himself to try and step. And Supa Sister is just being honest when she says that it really pisses her the fuck off when an aging pot belly buster-ish fool thinks he can mack to a fucking fabulous and spicy-ass entity such as herself. For real. Shit like that upsets the natural balance of the universe.

So fool tries to engage Supa Sister in more useless conversation. Blah blah, cough cough. And sure enough, he eventually asks the dreaded ‘so can we go out sometime….?’

*sigh*

So Supa Sister is forced to unfurl her usual list of lame brush offs: I got a man, I’m working on my novel, ‘aint got time, I’m about to go to jail, I’m about to go to Afghanistan. On and on. But fool just would not fall back or disengage. And the combination of negotiating yard sale prices while simultaneously trying to dissuade this bugaboo to back up off me, Supa Sista got throwed off her game and made the biggest fucking cardinal mistake by mindlessly rattling off the digits to her coveted cellie number. I know I know, please don’t say it. A chick can get her pimp card revoked for some amateurish shit like that. Getting broke down under minimal pressure. Believe me, I’m ashamed. Truly. Ashamed.

Saving grace is, Supa Sister is a chronic screener, and if your name and number aren’t programmed in my cellie, you ‘aint gonna catch my ass. Ever. Like, it just won’t happen. And, three days later, this fool had continuously blown my shit up to the point where he was leaving me shitty ass voicemails like:

“You shoulda given me your other number, ‘cause I can’t seem to catch you on this one.”
and
“I’m on the list down at The Post. Why don’t you get all pretty so I can pick you up for a nice evening….?
and
“I’ve called you five times! (cough*hack*cough) You supposed to answer the phone when I call…”

Muthafucka, what? First of all – I DON’T KNOW YOU. Second – uh, hello? Five times and no return phone call? Sounds like simple mathematics to me. It equals - cease callin’ me, you pitiful old-ass simple muthafucker. And third – what the fuck? Get in your car and ‘look pretty?’ You need to go kick that game down at the Slauson Swapmeet, to a bitch who needs a ride to go pick up her WIC coupons or something. Miss me with all that unevolved unoriginal shit right there...

Okay. So YESTERDAY, Supa Sister rolls up fresh from work all tired and grouchy and crampy and shit, steps outta her whip, and who do you think just so happens to be rolling the fuck down her street at the same exact moment….

You are correct. It’s the fool. And this shit is no coincidence.

The fool’s a stalker.

So Supa Sister just glared at his fool ass. Just gave him the complete gas face. It was evident that fool was now in a fucking quandary, because he was unsure as to what he wanted to do – stop or keep going, stop or keep going. So fool was doing this drive-coast-brake thing down the street. Stupid. Ass. So I yell like a lunatic, “Stop calling me!” while giving him the finger, and he vrooms on down the street looking like the buster fool he is.

And I know that old hack is probably callin’ me all kinda bitch this and bitch that, but you know what? Whatever the fuck ever.

Call Supa Sista whaaateeever you want. Just don’t call her.