Grrr...I'm frustrated

You better believe I'm frustrated! How do you get a book published in this so-and-so country? I think I'm a good writer, but so does everyone else, so I knew it was going to be difficult. But I've read a lot of the crap out there that's either chick lit or African-American fiction and I'm not impressed.

But, damn! When you don't even hear back from people saying, 'dog, it sucked,' it really makes you question your ability to express yourself using pen and paper. I'm saying, send me a so-and-so format email saying my work should be used in kitty litter, that's all I'm asking for.

Dang it, I just need to put something out there before I go crazy or something. This is part of one of the chapters... Am I crazy or does it read like something decent?

After 15 minutes of fighting, we came to a compromise, we were going to spend two hours at the flea market, then we were going to Jamaica Ave., then we, said troublemaking children, wanted to go to a mall.

We arrived at the flea market and it was just that, a flea market. We got some good deals, but I had come to New York to spend time at Victoria’s Secret, Express, Limited and Forever 21. Those were my stores.

I loved them.

I wanted to spend some quality time perusing the wares.

But, no. As we took our purchases back to the bus at noon – we were all supposed to return to the bus for 12, I had a sinking feeling that we weren’t going to be leaving anytime soon.

Why, you ask?

Well, maybe because there were only six people one the bus. The rest didn't waltz back until 1:30 pm. I was blazing mad ('cause the bright bus drivers opened the sun roof and the noon-day sun was baking me like chicken wing).

Finally, everyone was on the bus with all of their parcels and we went down to Jamaica Ave. But the bus drivers didn't know which part of Jamaica Ave. to drop us off at. Oh, the smarts those two had -- instead of flirting with us at the hotel, maybe they could have looked on a map or asked the hotel concierge a question.

So, we spent a good half an hour driving aimlessly up and down the road. Finally, at 2 pm, we parked and they let us out. At first, I was pleased. There was an Old Navy and a Gap -- we thought, "mall!" But, alas, I was disappointed again. I spent three hours walking up and down Jamaica Ave. I got a pair of $5 shoes and some hair products for my sister.

It's now five pm on a hot, summer afternoon in NYC.

I should be cursing myself for spending all of my American money, but that wasn't the case. The bunch of unruly, disgusted, own-way brats we were rolling with wanted to go to Pitkin Ave.

What happened to the mall?

It's after five pm; the stores on the street are going to be closed. But a mall will be open until at least 9 pm. No, no one listened to my voice of reason -- that would make must too much sense. Off to Pitkin Ave. we went and, as we predicted, every darned thing was closed. So, now I'm tired, unwashed, vex and sour because I couldn't get to a Victoria’s Secret -- the one store I was dreaming of doing some damage in.

“Everyone!” Jane stood up at the front of the bus. “We’re going to stop for dinner.”

My face lit up because all I had consumed for the day was a hotdog, a Special K bar and some lemonade and I knew Debbie and Monica hadn’t eaten much more. The bus pulled up to a gas station and a Popeye's and we're told: "go get some chicken and come back to the bus."

I almost died.

Rudy and Co. had already called us 'posh' and I really don't think I am posh, but Popeye's at a gas station? That's just not right.

After the trip down, we couldn't go to proper place and have a bite? I had to get greasy chicken after I spent the entire day hungry and tired? You don't do people like that – especially people who paid good money.
The best part, the Popeye's was in the projects -- at least as project-like as I've ever seen – some rough looking guys were standing outside the restaurant watching the bus.

Oh no.

Not my little posh tail. I wasn’t leaving that bus. Sorry, if I sound scared for my skin, I am, but I ain’t trying to mess with no mean looking men outside of the Popeyes’ in the projects, OK. I don’t care who calls me posh, stush, too nice, whatever.

“This is crap,” said Debbie. She pulled out her cellphone.

“Who are you calling?” I asked. I was starting to feel faint from a hunger headache.

“My cousin. I need a proper meal. This is foolishness – I know this wasn’t a good idea.”

I can’t say that I disagree.