have recently done a lot of walking alone in the city at night. I’ve realized that the smartest thing for a young, meek, sexy,female to do, is walk around downtown at night. On Saturday night I walked from the Knitting Factory in Tribeca to the N/R subway at around 1:00 am. (Mom, if you’re reading this, I am making this up. It’s not true. I always take the family limo everywhere in Manhattan) I went to the Knittng Factory to see my friend Derek’s band play. Note: BUY THEIR CD! Very good music. Quality . Talented dudes. BUY THEIR CD!Go to downthelineband.com. I’m listening to it right now wearing nothing but a cowboy hat and red socks.So I ‘m walking to the subway and it’s only four blocks and I hear this whistling from behind me. I decide to ignore it. But there it is again, whistling. So I turn around and this guy, (looks about my age, nicely dressed, pretty drunk) smiles and says, “Hey.” I turn back around and keep walking. I’m cold, I’m tired, and I don’t feel like making new friends in China Town at this hour. Then, I hear another whistle. I turn around and glare at him.Asymmetrical Whistling Dude: Hey, what’s up? Why you look so angry. You’re so fine. You gotta know it baby, you so fine!Mindy: Thank you, but I’m very aware that I am fine, and I don’t need youremind me of it via an annoying audio sound.My complex sentence structure baffled the young male and I went on my way in silence.I made it the subway, was home about 40 minutes later, and was still very annoyed at the whole whistle thing. Why do men feel they need to remind women that they are attractive in passive aggressive, annoying ways? Should I start making catcalls in the streets at all the unfortunate looking men I see and say, “Just wanted to let you know, that you’re face is very asymmetrical and I’m never sleeping with you. Have a good night!”Well, I have to put some clothes on now. Although I’m quite comfortable, and the wool socks are very warm, we have yet to put drapes in our apartment, and I do not let people see me naked for free.
For Halloween I dressed up as a bloated ladybug. My costume didn’t have wings, so I was made fun of and called a budget bug. That hurt my feelings. Why did I choose to be a bloated ladybug? I promised myself, after last Halloween when I was offered 125 dollars an hour, that this year I would not dress like a cheap whore. It was really hard for me not to whore-up my ladybug costume--Isn’t it fun to create new words with hyphens?—(that was a rhetorical question. Please do not send me e-mails that read: Yes, it’s so fun to create new words with hyphens!) Note: the previous parenthetical commentary was mainly for my stalker who has been answering all the rhetorical questions in my journal via e-mails to me. Stop it, you psychotic excuse for a human being! It was really hard for me not to whore-up my ladybug costume. I could have easily worn a short skirt, fishnets, and boots with my furry top and hood instead of the shiny black pants, but I did not. I was comfortable, I was fury, and the only skin showing was that of my arms and my baby smooth face.What was I thinking?I fooled myself into thinking that, on Halloween, men want a cute little bug and not a nipple hanging out of a toga. Men don’t want cute.Women don’t want cute. I should have whored myself out. All around me there was skin and cleavage and pleather and sexy nurses and stripper/librarians, and schoolgirls gone bad. Boobs and butts and thighs and tummy . . .I felt so left out. I kept telling myself that I was ‘one hot thang’ underneath my round, thick fleece top, but it was no use. I wasted the one night I had to look like a whore and not feel guilty!As I sit here at the end of another typical Saturday night, clad in my black mini skirt, leather thigh highs, and white tube top with two milk cartons over each boob above the words, “suck it,” I realize that women should not need an excuse to dress like the dirty little skanks that they are. I guess the moral of this entry is: No man wants to go home with a bloated ladybug. . .no matter how drunk he is, and no matter how many times you’ve told him that he’ll never find the keys to the handcuffs and he might as well go quietly without a fuss.