Weaves, Protection, and Moustaches... elements of any girl's week

I'm thinking that maybe the name of this blog should be something like "seen near the 92," since that's where my material has been from lately. The day after I returned from my exile in Texas where I rediscovered the simple pleasures of hula hoops, starf*cker shots, and handlebar moustaches, I came across a chunk of weave right on the sidewalk by my house. The next day? A used condom. Placed neatly in front of someone's car.

Today, my friend CP submitted this jewel of a conversation that took place while waiting for the 90 in Anacostia, the birthplace of artistry, poetry, and wifebeaters on children:

him: you from the hood, aren't you?
me: um...not really
him: well, you work with people like me, don't you?
me: what do you mean people like you?
him: well, i don't like to say black cause that's ignorant. i'm not black, i'm human, we're all human. i'm adriatic. that's a race, not a color. like you, i wouldn't call you white, you're european, that's your ancestry. see, i'm a intellectual. we not all stupid you know. and we not all dogs.
me: who's we?
him: you know...us adriatic people. we have hearts ya know.
me: i know...
him: well, it was a pleasure meeting you. see ya around nigga.
me: what?
him: sorry, sorry, no disrespect. that just means i think you're cool
me: haha, ok
(he shakes my hand and then leans down and kisses it as i'm about to get on the bus)
him: you're gonna go home and sanitize that shit aren't you?

Gold. Pure gold, son.