Roscoe Made Me Do It

Dated: 6/22/12


I have missed a couple of days of journaling. To recap, about two weeks ago, I went out with my friend Sabrina to a club called Roscoe’s. We went to see the queens from RuPaul’s Drag Race. It started off slow and then the fun began. By the time the Queens had started performing their show, I was on drink number four. I had bought a pitcher of liquor and that was mistake number one.

I had two cups of whatever that was and then I ran out of liquor. I was sharing my pitcher with two other people. I had noticed that I was out of alcohol and so did my newfound white dancing partners. “You’re so fucking cute”, one girl said. “Thanks”, I replied as I screamed back at her. She then proceeded to pour Jesus Juice into my cup. I was now in love. I gargled that down and then my new gay white boyfriend turned to me, looked in my cup and filled me up. I felt like a happy gay man. I was now in double love.

Partying with white people is the way I desire to live life. By the end of the night, I had managed to have a full lip-lock with one of the drag queens, became heavily intoxicated, lost a shoe after conversing with strangers and totally embarrassed my friend. That was great.

The next morning I woke up with a terrible hangover. I was an hour late for my online job. I woke up to threatening messages from my online boss: “ARE YOU THERE? ANSWER ME! SAY SOMETHING!”  I responded, apologized and she told me my new assignment via yahoo messenger.

I was supposed to withdraw the $2,760 that I had deposited into my account, from the check she sent me, and Western Union it to a “THOT” named Chiquita Riley. I washed m y ass but felt like shit while doing so. I went to the garage, grabbed a bike and hauled ass to the currency exchange. I did not notice until three blocks down that the bike was on flat. I felt like regurgitating, I was sweating like Lindsay Lohan taking a breathalyzer and I felt like dying.

I went to three different stores trying to use an ATM machine but the limit was $200 on them all. I rode to a Walgreens nearby, where there was a Chase Bank ATM, which was who I had banked with. I bought a bottle of water immediately. Two girls were at the ATM and I could barely stand and had no patience. I took my parked bike, left the store, walked across the street and then stopped. I lay the bike on the ground, then my bag and flopped on the grass. I had taken a nap in the park on the campus of Chicago State University. I was officially homeless.

I dozed in and out of consciousness to make sure I was not raped. Two guys walked by and they probably thought that I was a real bum. I looked to the sky and shook my head. Even the big man upstairs was laughing at me. After a few odd minutes later, more so like thirty, I got up and rode home. I put the bike back into the garage and with what little strength I had left, made it to the front porch. I felt vomit coming up. I gagged but nothing came up. I lay on the railings of the porch for some time and soon after mustered up enough energy to open the front door.

I closed the door and ran straight to the toilet. I raised the top and there were speckles of piss but I was willing to take that risk. There my face was, leaned over in a toilet bowl but once again nothing came up. I proceeded to go upstairs to my room, also known as hell, and flopped onto my bed. The central air worked everywhere in the house except for my room. Of course we lived in an all Black community!

My online boss was messaging me about the transaction and I was near death. “Fuck this shit”, I said out loud. I ignored my online boss for the remainder of the day. She then sent me more messages, which came to my phone, accusing me of running off with the company’s money. Before I went to sleep, I ate some crackers to try to settle my stomach. My Mom and then “Stepdad” have no knowledge of this because they were both at work.

I recovered the next day. My online boss was furious. I apologized for my behavior and she forgave me. I told her I was skeptical about the job because I had not spoken with anyone else from the company or had any tax papers from them. She manipulated me and said that everything would be fine.

Later in that day, I went to the bank to withdraw the money and was held up by the tellers. I soon found out that the check was fraudulent. I took my phone out and contacted my online boss, via Yahoo Messenger. I told her what had happened and she vanished like one of Drew Peterson’s wives.

I had to close my bank account and I felt shitty. Oh well, I had been scammed before when I saw my ex’s penis.

I really have to take initiative to ask questions. Otherwise, I might become a consistent dumbass of scam. 


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