two-twenty

an open letter to the asshole who swiped my wallet from Lucky Cheng's this past Sunday | joanna

Dear Fuck-wad,

It took thirty-two years for this to happen, thirty-two years largely spent in New York City, for you or some thief like you to pluck my wallet from my bag. That's right, no one has ever stolen my goddamn wallet before, nor have I lost it — never — despite having gotten flagrantly inebriated, many, many times in some of the City's most delinquent-ridden establishments.

Do I now count Lucky Cheng's as among those venues? I honestly don't know. I didn't before.

The only beef I've ever had with a Drag Queen was down in Austin, Texas. She pointed at my tits and asked if I'd always been a woman. Catty bitch. But I can deal with a little nasty venom from a DQ; it's part of the schtick, right? Well, sometimes. Anyway, I think she was just jealous that I'm from New York. Whatever.

Look, I'm not assuming that you are a Drag Queen. The chances in this scenario that you are one, however, are significantly higher than they would be otherwise.

But even if you're not a New York City Girl, you fucking stole my wallet at one of the coolest, most well-established retreats for Drag Queens and Friends-of-the-Drag-Queens in the entire City. Shit, maybe even the world.

That fucking pisses me off. I resent you not only for stealing my wallet, but for prompting me to question — should the mood arise — whether or not I'll go sing Karaoke on stage with six-foot men in foxy Barbie-doll gowns, for possibly preventing me from receiving more lip-liner tips from a mocha-skinned diva with the most exquisitely drawn pout I've still ever seen.

Have fun with your MetroCards, and please, stay the fuck away from me. I know you know where I live... but I also know at least one place where you work. And if you don't think that the New York City Girl Community is going to be pissed off that you robbed me at one of their joints, sister, you are a fucking moron.

Joanna