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The T Zone

I probably mentioned my previous employ at Papa John's earlier. It's the only real job I've had other than my current one at Smiley Media. If you're anything like me (is anyone?), then you might assume there's no room for life changing innovation at a major pizza chain. However, you'd be wrong.

When we were hungry, we'd make ourselves a pizza. It's possible that you're not supposed to do that, but it was a laid back environment. My boss was my friend, as were most of my coworkers. Deliveries would take a back seat to dough fights, and phone calls would occasionally go unanswered. Almost every day we'd each make a pizza.

I loved Papa John's pizza. It was a good deal better than other pizza chains, and I thought I'd never get sick of it. As some of you may have experienced, working at a restaurant will make you totally sick of their food.

I'm Almost Trayvon Martin, Maybe

On Imported Blog

I'm almost Trayvon Martin, maybe. I don't mean in the way that its been being batted around lately. I come from a white suburban upper middle class family, with all of the privileges that come along with it. So what, though, that's my karma. I’m trying to make sense of things, and process my feelings. I just need to get it down on paper.

I’m almost Trayvon Martin, maybe, because I was attacked on the street for no good reason once, too. But I survived, and wasn’t too badly injured. It could have been much worse. But two black kids Martin’s age jumped me, broke my face in a dozen places, and stole eleven bucks and my iPhone. I didn’t used to describe the kids as black, but now that all this racial stuff is being shot all around, it seems pertinent. But you know, before, I didn’t have to say it. People would ask me where it happened, “47th and Baltimore”, and then they would ask, “Were they black?” and I would nod. Or they wouldn’t bother asking, because they kinda knew already. Sometimes I would joke, “Nope, it was two little asian girls.”

I didn’t think a lot of it, and I didn’t cry for justice, or talk about how messed up it was, or make it all about the evils of a society where black people can just run around and smash the faces of white hippie kids and steal their phones. I just figured that was life in the big city, and I should be more careful about when I go to the punk rock coffee shop to get kale smoothies.

So, I laid on my mom’s couch taking as few painkillers as possible, and let the scars from the reconstructive surgery heal, and tried not to think about the medical bills. Something called PA victim’s assistance covered them mostly, but its not the most efficient system, and I still get some really big bills from creditors and some harsh phone calls, and my credit is probably a mess. It also put a strain on my relationship with my mom, but we’ll be ok. My mouth is still kind of numb, and some of my teeth are loose. I hope they don’t fall out, but one or two probably will, in the next twenty years or so. My kissing has been slightly impaired, which sucks, cause I like kissing. But I’ll be fine. First world problems.

But, the thing is, I’m scared of black kids now. I clench my fists when i walk by them on the street, and make the meanest eye contact that my bearded, bespectacled face can make, and hope its enough to keep me safe. I relax a little if the black guy is older, or carrying a pizza or something, but not much.

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