Anyhow, while waiting for an incompetent customer service attendant at Sprint, a stranger (bitch) initiates a conversation with what else? "Where are you from?" Since I am asked this question so often, I already knew what he meant. But, the Shallow, Mean Girl in me would not let him make it.
Me: Excuse me? Like, technically?
Stranger (bitch): What country are you from? Your background?
Me: *Smirks* I am from America and I am black.
Stranger (bitch): You look like my people.
Wayment. Did I mention he was 101 shades darker than me and 8 feet tall with a deep foreign accent? Okay, sir. I see you just want to make talk with me. I am not bothered.
By the way, I did google the "Fulani" people in which he referenced. Beautiful, I must say. But, I didn't see not one single picture that even remotely resembled me. At all.
I do appreciate all of the nationalities people try to stamp me with. Seriously, I do. But the moment a motherfucker tries to give me an "Oriental" stamp, Imma have to let them have it.