Rant : Identity Crisis
I meet some interesting people sometimes. They seem to like to tell me interesting things about themselves. I’m not usually as interested in hearing them as they are in sharing them…
“I’M ACTUALLY AMERICAN”
Are you really? So which part are you from? The part where I gave a damn and cared about your heritage? Or the part where I can tell you’re talking shit?! I am also going to go right ahead and guess that your life long goal was to move to Australia and become a piercer in some cheap suburban cosmetics store.
Yes, that is a little aggressive… perhaps.
My little task was simply to buy a plug for my brother’s ear. In order to achieve said task I had to continue to converse with so-called Yank.
I have a quiet respect for all piercer’s in general. They have the ability to stab people in uncanny places with small pieces of sharp metal and claim it as a profession. They all seem to look alike, and I am yet to meet one who doesn’t have at least 7 random holes in their face to demonstrate their acquired skill.
This is the first piercer to ruin my piercer image. From now on whenever I meet a piercer, I will think of her. (Thanks). Not only was this person attacking my ear drums with an alarmingly false American accent, but she also claimed to be member of the African American race. And when I say she, I’m also assuming she was claiming to be a girl. (Too far?)
You see, Miss America was apparently born with a birthmark. Yes, one nice big cyclone causing birthmark that covered her entire body and made her skin appear entirely white. Except for the part of her head that is covered in hair…that part is black. You can’t see that though, because it is covered in hair. The rest of it was trashed with pasty white skin and blotchy red freckles.
Now, you can imagine my thrill as Team America continued to tell me her opinion of the slave trade in the Deep South. So while I am admiring her gaunt appearance, I also have to map out, to my knowledge where certain places are in the USA. I’m not one to rain on someone else’s parade, so I waited while her vocals morphed into a southern drawl and her grandmothers memories of the Harlem renaissance where re-enacted.
This is the point where I begin to feel guilty. I was no longer simply using this girl for her pure entertainment value, but I was standing before her with my sanity. Poor little hustler was clearly jealous and felt she needed a good story in order to explain how she had lost hers. Nonetheless, Americans still freak me out, even the pretend ones.