I’m sick of chubby and portly and misshapen young black women wearing stingy shirts, bad bras and too-small pants that leave too much fleshy real estate exposed; I am sick to death of them walking around thinking this is cute and acceptable.
I’m sick of being terrorized by their muffin tops.
I’m sick of the war on fat women, whose poorly designed, usually flower-festooned blouses and stretchable Capri pants are relegated to some dimly lit, hard-to-find corner of the department store staffed by a woman who not only hates the sight of herself but also the sight of customers.
I am sick of the ghettoization of certain body images.
I’m sick of seeing six or more inches of young black men’s underwear blousing from the tops of their sagging jeans; sicker still of their low-slung self esteem that’d make them think walking around like that is fashionable or even OK.
I am sick of black asses.
I’m sick of being trapped in traffic behind dangerously slow drivers drifting left and right and finally getting around them only to see they’re too distracted looking down at their smartphones to drive safely. Then there are their pedestrian counterparts who also stare at their phones while they’re walking, forcing the rest of us to play a sidewalk version of Frogger by avoiding the hazardous pitfalls of smacking into someone too busy masturbating a phone to walk a straight line.
I am sick of the technologically obsessed.
I’m sick of the Tailhook nature of navigating daily life when people are so blithely rude they let doors slam in the faces of the people behind them, they jostle and slam into others without so much as an “excuse me,” so by the time I retreat back to home base I feel like an abused slab of dough.
I am sick of man’s inhumanity to man.
I’m sick of white people — those familiar and those who are strangers — who do not respect the personal boundaries set forth in the tacit understanding between us and who close talk me to death and spit on my glasses or touch my hair without my invitation.
I am sick of space invaders.
I’m sick of Bieber, Swift, Rihanna, et. al., and all the other sickly sweet mediocre nasal-whiners passing off their talent for “singing” empty, quasi-confessional lyrics, and I am sick of their fans who, by mob rule, force the rest of us to be inundated by the soundtracks of the nothingness that passes for popular culture.
I am sick of groupthink.
I’m sick of lyrically lazy black rappers, especially the ones who call women everything but that and who stack millions rapping about the temporary, new-money garish excesses of their pretend lives but who do not pay child support or taxes, yet they throw money in the air at strip clubs.
I’m sick of haters trying diligently to make President Obama’s two terms out to be a catastrophic exercise in democracy and affirmative action when his administration’s problems aren’t any more grave, shocking or heinous than any of his predecessors’.
I am sick of covert racism disguised as political punditry.
I’m sick of faux poets taking the mic in a Love Jones-called-and it-wants-its-finger-snaps-back show of derivative and stalled creativity, talkin’ ’bout “I just wrote this” as they “page” through a “poem” on their smartphones.
I am sick of the laziness immediacy begets.
I’m sick of gruff, mumble-mouthed public servants — clerks, cashiers, attendants and anyone else charged with customer service — who treat the rest of us like they’re holding a personal grudge against us when there are people who’d kill for their jobs.
I am sick of bitter ingrates.
I’m sick of being held hostage by the public (on the bus, in line at the bank or the post office, at the Laundromat), one-sided cell phone conversations about babysitters, babies’ mothers, last night, soccer practices, mistresses, rescheduled meetings and postponed drinking dates by people who have absolutely no sense of public comportment.
I am sick of cell phone abuse.
I’m sick of self-important men in golf shirts who walk around with Bluetooth earpieces who appear to be speaking to no one in particular and, because they want to be seen this way, they look at you like they’re talking to you when, in reality, they’re talking to someone on the phone.
I’m sick of language slayers who transmogrify words, obliterating them beyond recognition and who make nouns into verbs when they say stuff like, “I wanna politic with you” or, “Can I conversate with you?” Then, they’re offended when you gently correct them by saying, “Yes, you can have a conversation with me.”
I am sick of non-readers who won’t stay in their lane and use words they know, and I’m sick of bridling my tongue with them.
I’m sick when sensitivity between men is downgraded to a gender-specific punchline like bromance, man tears or man crush.
I am sick of the unnecessary perpetuation of testosterone for butch’s sake.
I’m sick of Chad Johnson, Lil’ Wayne, anyone named Kardashian, school shootings by people too young or too crazy to have even worked through a complicated set of emotions; I’m sick of terrorism, of war, of black mammas yelling at their children in public; I’m sick of Donald Trump and of anyone who ever again writes down or records anything he says about anything; I’m sick of Will Smith, his kids and anything to do with his marriage.
I’m sick of being silently ill-tempered and of obsessing over whether all the seemingly mundane and sometimes malicious behaviors of people I must share the Earth with will leave me embittered and crusted over in a curmudgeonly, misanthropic crunchy outer shell.
I’m sick of micro-managing my soul. I am sick of myself.
Are you sick with this?
CONTACT KATHY Y. WILSON: [email protected]