I really fucking hate teenagers. Especially teenage girls
There was a brief window of time back when I was a teenager, and wanted to sleep with teenage girls, that I thought I didn't hate them. But now that I'm older and wiser, I realize, no, I really do hate them. All of them.
Giff and I were enjoying the fine spring air last night, walking from Bed-Stuy, where we live, to Fort Greene, a rapidly gentrifying area of Brooklyn. And we were jumped by teenagers. We'd passed them a block earlier. One fat girl ran up behind Giff, clotheslining her and wrapping her arms around Giff's neck, saying, "Why'd you fucking hit me, bitch? When you were walking by just now, why did you fucking hit me, bitch?"
We didn't. Neither of us hit them or even really came near them. Fat Girl kept up with it, though, almost a narrative, explaining to us why this was going on. Her two friends came up, one of them shouting "Get her purse!" As if us having allegedly hit her would make it perfectly okay to run off with the purse. They kept that up the entire time.
I didn't know what was going on at first. At my age, the only time someone grabs you from behind is when one of your friends is a dick and decides to surprise you in public--that's what I thought was going on. I came to my senses and started after the fat girl, yelling, "Get off of her," and then, "What the fuck is your problem?"
"What the fuck is your problem?" seems to be something of a mantra of mine. I find myself coming back to that phrase as something to yell at people, or mutter under my breath. It seems to fit a lot of situations in my life.
Anyway. They never explained what the fuck their problem was. But it was clear, they wanted Giff's purse. I moved, unclear what I was going to do but definitely wanting to get that fat bitch off of my favorite person in the whole wide world.
I turned when I heard a guy yell, "Don't you fucking hit her!" This was apparently not aimed at the fat girl hitting my girlfriend, but me; a 6'5" pre-teen boy was coming straight at me, with his fist raised.
"Is this really happening to us?" I thought, and "Oh shit, I'm going to get my glasses broken!" I must have squirmed or soemthing, because next thing I knew is that I had been punched in the back of the head.
I hope it hurt.
I hope he broke his hand, and he doesn't have health insurance, and this is going to keep him from getting his basketball scholarship, and this is the final step before he drops out of Junior High and gets knifed trying to get methadone from the clinic not two blocks from where his friends tried to mug us.
At that point, Giff realized we were on a busy street and that all she needed to do was yell "Help!" and they would scatter. Which they did, with me helping out. And the three girls, and their broken-handed friend, and at least two other spectator friends of theirs all scampered off like cowards.
Giff lost her glasses. We don't know if they were knocked to the ground, or were stolen, but we couldn't find them anywhere on the ground when we went back.
It was a really amateur job, regardless. If they wanted Giff's purse, they should have just come up and grabbed it, and fought and overpowered her and ran away, not carried out this ruse to try to convince us that she'd hit them and somehow deserved to have her stuff stolen.
Really, if I ever decide to mug someone, I'll do a much better job than those cowardly fuckers last night.