Blonde and Bitchin'

Or: Anna the Roommate Needs To Let It All Out

Sometimes, my roommate Anna gets really, seethingly, horrifyingly mad - and, like a beautiful, flaming blonde phoenix, she must release her anger. Also, sometimes she gets really funny then. This is when I love and fear her the most. Here is the latest withdrawal from her deep, boiling wells of rage:

I just got a new job, so I have to say my level of irrational anger on the subway has decreased, but i am still on edge much of the time. The other day I must have been in a particularly foul mood judging from the amount of time (none) it took me to roll my eyes when I heard the opening piano notes of the new Mary J. Blige song blasting out of some skank's phone. It's not that I don't like that song...I fuckin love Mary J. Blige. anyone who can sing the word "holleration" so nonchalantly is ok by me. I just didn't want to hear the scratchy, shitty cell phone version at piercing levels at 10am. Then, it turned out this skag had a goddamn walkie talkie phone and I was ready to kill myself. Not only would I have to listen to her talk, I'd have to hear the clicking between every phrase and all of the bullshit whoever she was talking to was saying. And let me tell you: in case you thought this call was urgent, it was not. I think this is how the coversation played out:

"hello?"
"sup."
"how you doin?"
"good, how you doin?"
"chillin, i'm on the train."
"word."
"word."
"where you at?"
"home."
"you aint got work today?"
"no."
"i'll call you back, i'm going underground"
"word."

We are not in vietnam. We are not in iraq. There is no need for walkie talkies. Don't be friends with these people.