I don't know what it is about me, but interesting things seem to happen to me.
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From the time I once was delayed coming home on the bus for a half hour because some moron yelled at the bus driver for stopping to use the bathroom, to my problems with Christina the Psycho, I always seem to be around some strange incidents.
I have many theories. One has something to do with the fact that I am myself an interesting person: a voracious reader since I was in the womb, a Wiccan since I was seventeen, and generally the type of person who one might think is a little....off.
To make matters even more interesting, I come from an interesting place: Lake Worth. It's somewhere in Southeast Florida, I'm not sure of where exactly it is. Downtown consists nothing more than a long strip of Lake Avenue leading right to the beach. Its also the tourist area.
The rest of Lake Worth, however, isn't all as pretentious as downtown. I'm not sure what you'd call it. Yeah, it's poor and some areas are-I've been told-dangerous, but it isn't a ghetto and it isn't an inner city. It's where those of us too turned off by the fakeness of South Beach and too poor to live in Palm Beach go.
There's a large Hispanic population here, mostly Mexicans and Guatamalans. Anyone who's ever been around Hispanic people know how, er, Mexican men feel about the opposite sex. There was a period when I swear my name was Mamacita-that's what I kept being called.
There's also a convienience store/gas station about a few blocks from where I live. My father used to have me go to this place to refill his jumbo soft drink container for literally pennies. It was a creepy incident that made my father decide that he was better off thirsty. This is that story.
Normally dad usually had me go for a soda run during the day, but one night he had such a Diet Pepsi jones that he asked me to go out at eight-thirty on a Friday night. Though I was hesitant at doing it, I didn't want to offend my father. So I did the walking.
Now, most of the Hispanics who live here are migrant workers. Friday is the night they get paid. And you know what they do with that money? Get drunk! It's bad enough walking the areas where they live at night, but when half of them are drunk and your hands are full with a 32 oz cup filled to the brim with soda?
I had no problems on the way there, but it was when I started walking home that I really started to get scared. About halfway there, I noticed I was being followed by this really ugly, fat, pockmarked man who looked old enough to be my uncle. Keep in mind that I was sixteen at the time of the incident.
Frightened, I tried shaking him off by crossing the street. No such luck. Finally I stopped and confroningly asked him what his problem was. My Spanish isn't that good and his English was atrocious, but I got the gist of what he wanted the moment he pulled out a huge wad of cash.
He assumed that because I was a female walking down the street at night-nevermind the fact I was carrying a soda in one had and was dressed in a baggy t-shirt and jeans-that I was a hooker. I have to laugh at this because it was so stupid. In my best Spanish I told him to leave me alone. He did, thank the Gods.
And the moment I got home, I gave dad the change and told him to get his own stupid refills from now on.
See what I mean? Bizzare things always seem to happen to me.
Why do I do anything?
Only the Gods know why!