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As a matter of fact, I have.
I was working at this shitty ghetto liquor store; it was morbidly depressing. I mainly worked shifts with the owner's son, and this guy named Abdul, who was actually pretty cool. Parents coming in, their kids didn't even have shoes, buying cheap vodka and lottery tickets. The son was a redneck ass who carried a handgun in the wasteband of his shorts "because there's so many niggers around here." The first time my roomate at the time (rather a flaming queen) came to pick me up, the son asked if "that was the faggot I was telling him about." When I told him that was NOT COOL, he replied that I should relax because he didn't mean anything by it.
He also had these huge muscular dogs, the black and tan kind, I forget what they're called. Each one weighed at least 100 pounds. They were also there because of the "niggers" because the son said he "never knew what they'd do next." I had squared it with the owner that the son wouldn't bring the dogs to work when I was there, and that he'd "try to cool it with the race remarks."
When he brought the dogs in anyway, I reminded him that I wasn't supposed to have to be around them. He said "Oh, so you can be around queers but not my dogs?" He assured me that they would be well behaved. So when one of them jumped up on me and ripped my dress with it's unclipped claws, I called![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
missgrete and asked her to come pick me up. I snagged a bottle of Captain Morgan on credit, and left that place never to return.
Funnily enough, I had just met H while I was working in that crapshack. So my life began it's gradual move toward improvement right around that time, which was summer of 1999.
As a matter of fact, I have.
I was working at this shitty ghetto liquor store; it was morbidly depressing. I mainly worked shifts with the owner's son, and this guy named Abdul, who was actually pretty cool. Parents coming in, their kids didn't even have shoes, buying cheap vodka and lottery tickets. The son was a redneck ass who carried a handgun in the wasteband of his shorts "because there's so many niggers around here." The first time my roomate at the time (rather a flaming queen) came to pick me up, the son asked if "that was the faggot I was telling him about." When I told him that was NOT COOL, he replied that I should relax because he didn't mean anything by it.
He also had these huge muscular dogs, the black and tan kind, I forget what they're called. Each one weighed at least 100 pounds. They were also there because of the "niggers" because the son said he "never knew what they'd do next." I had squared it with the owner that the son wouldn't bring the dogs to work when I was there, and that he'd "try to cool it with the race remarks."
When he brought the dogs in anyway, I reminded him that I wasn't supposed to have to be around them. He said "Oh, so you can be around queers but not my dogs?" He assured me that they would be well behaved. So when one of them jumped up on me and ripped my dress with it's unclipped claws, I called
missgrete and asked her to come pick me up. I snagged a bottle of Captain Morgan on credit, and left that place never to return. Funnily enough, I had just met H while I was working in that crapshack. So my life began it's gradual move toward improvement right around that time, which was summer of 1999.
