I Guess It’s Alwhite.
It’s that fucking time again. WHYYYY.
Well, I guess if you live anywhere in the US that isn’t the upper east coast, you’ve already been gliding through spring with that twitterpated smile on your stupid sun kissed mug.
But us New Yorkers? We’re just now reared into the lovely season of smiles and sneezes, short skirts and messy buns, and…tans.
Sigh. I’m not sure if you can tell but I’m white. I don’t mean my race, don’t be fooled by my oranged out profile pic- I am whiiiiiiite. Pasty. Pale. Ghostly. Translucent.
I don’t tan.
Yeah, i get it. You tan. I don’t. And not only do I not, I can’t.
I know! I can’t wear Abercrombie jeans, I can’t stomach whiskey anymore, my accent is non existent…I can’t tan. I’m beginning to wonder if I left Texas, or if it bartered with New York to take my shamed, pasty ass outta there.
All morning I was surrounded by perfect shades of sunkissed dermis peeking out from cotton dresses and cut off shorts, my own legs reclusive in a pair of black tights- my hands, perched atop my purse, glared out at everyone like the light of God.
I’ll try my hardest in the coming weeks to walk in the sun, mayhap lay out at the park should my skin not reflect the suns deadly rays at everyone in the general area…but at the end of the day I’ve come to understand…that I’m just that white.
And it’s alwhite.