don't hate the player.

Today I went to see about getting insurance with State Farm...and yeah, I don't think that's gonna fly, cause I'd have to turn tricks to make those kind of payments. But anyway, the office was in South Philly...go figure. So of course, some dude had to "holla at that" while I was walking by. Normally, I try to make these holla-at-ya's real nice and short. Today for some reason, I decided I'd stand around and talk to the brotha. The usual questions that I always get were asked, like what's your name, and you got a boyfriend? And when I said that I didn't, he was like, "what?! what's wrong with those dudes?!" <-(pronounced: dooodes.) I went off on one of those, "man, beats me" rants. Then dooode goes on and says that I'm the type of woman who deserves to be treated good with plenty of attention, and as he was saying this, he was just looking me up and down with that I wanna fuck you look in his eyes...which made me feel a little gross. The conversation drifted on about his job at Jefferson, where we live, where I went to school, insurance and car inspections, about what I'd most likely end up paying for insurance, about where I could get some hot inspection stickers in North Philly, and somewhere in there he threw in the fact that he drives a Benz, and all the while, he still had that look in his eyes. And then I said I should get going, nice talking. Yeah, I totally forgot his number, cause my short term memory doesn't really work that well anymore. If he was smart, he would've asked for my number...not that I really give it out. Hate the game.
On my way home, I saw my real estate agent drive by on 6th St. in his Range Rover, so I waved to Dave.

The bad part about living at the Trin: on a day like today when it's a little windy, the smell of cheesesteak lingers in through the windows...I think it's coming from Jim's, cause it's just around the way. It makes me ache for a steak.