The World is Watching and the Perfect Black Dress is Perfect

I’m still holed up in what isn’t quite a hell hole but borders everything I never would’ve imagined in my reality back when my Upper East Side address was valid.

Nothing great comes without sacrifice unless you’re a spoilt Upper East Side Princess — which I am not.

Laugh out loud!

Okay. So, I am doing well! I may get a job as an Associate Editor at one of the most prestigious trades in the industry and sadly — all I can muster is the fact that ten years ago — this prospect would be a welcoming diversion from the chaos of uncertainty. But the older I get — the more I gravitate towards the hope that I don’t compromise my gypsy-mentality for a more streamlined edition.

I enjoy the notion of sailing through as I work hard as hell to tame the currents of my erratic peace of mind that can be reached if only I stay the course.

But, I must settle down and re-organize the shelves of my discontent. I can’t continue to be this person I don’t recognize amidst persons that don’t threaten my disposition — and yet serve as reminders of what is fundamentally adrift each time I code in my entry and open the door to a new existence.

The door opened and it wasn’t disastrous.

I was alone for about 22 minutes. The stream of new and old occupants felt like the good days of old. Bunk beds, shared spaces, questions, answers, and history lessons. Discussions that border on the enlightenment of what the world is tracking down as relevant.

America rules!

We are all the rage and Donald Trump is the exit that leads to Brexit. I was epically surrounded by a gal from Brussels and another fiery lass from Russia who is quarter Korean.

This was the best laid scenario!

I talked they listened, they spoke and I listened. Then the other Black girl returned and we forced her in. It was delightfully insightful.

Basically, the two foreigners were aghast at the state of affairs in Los Angeles. They didn’t expect the volume of despair from the homeless situation. They have concluded that the city of their dreams is anything but and this is because they bought into the hype.

I try to convince them that there are other options. The Russian should consider going to grad school in Santa Barbara. And the other one from Brussels didn’t need my input — because her itinerary was bloated with the fundamentals of someone who knows how to institute the dream of a burgeoning fashion designer.

We talked!

It was beyond. They hate Donald Trump and can’t understand how Americans are able to tolerate our disfigured reputation abroad. The deal is that President Obama gave us the right to gladly claim our birthright — and then we decide to fuck it all up by inviting a racist bastard and a desperate politician — who are both transparent in their quests for history-making adulation.

Holy shit! I am so glad I am holed up with these gems.

It was so damn late but we kept at it.

One of us fell asleep and I eventually retreated to another episode of Stranger Things until the light in my view dimmed.

I slept hard and good.

I woke up because the sun’s signal shadowed the pangs of nervousness — as I remembered that I still hadn’t decided what I was going to wear to my interview.

I got up and rummaged through my hefty luggage and there it appeared.

The black dress with the off-white trimmings peeked above the pile of confusion and I immediately reached for it. The chills and quaking threw me off kilter but I maintained decorum for the sake of my bunk mates. If not for them — I would’ve squealed with nostalgic surrender.

You piece of shit! How dare you do this to me.

You held back until now. I am ready for you! I can fit you like a glove — just like the days of old when I took measurements and weight for granted. I want to feel thirty-two again without the baggage of gray hairs and sporadic periods. I want to believe that time hasn’t passed me by. I want to accept the privilege of anchoring a publication that says everything I want to say. I want to believe that I am not too late to be wrapped up in a shell that forces me to prove that I am as valuable as I believe I am.

The perfect black dress can’t be underestimated.

It fits! I look good. I feel better. The stares from passersby helps to channel the proof that I won’t fail.

So, I perform like a champ.

As I walk back into the sunlight — I catch my reflection through the mirrored offerings of my bank and pose as I begin to reflect.

Deets of the moment: Race can’t be summed up in an essay that targets White people who don’t like Black people because some White people also echo your sentiment.

You just have to check into an AirBnB to find them.

I think the job is mine.

I’m not elated. I am hopeful and watchful. I like that America is being put on blast and I love that I get to debate with the world. I also adore the fact that my dress gave me life when I needed to breathe.

When I am situated — the dinner party will be beyond…