Don’t Tell Me I Don’t Know Oppression, I Have Bed Bugs

A couple of weeks ago, I woke up with a couple of itchy spots on my stomach and arms.

“Dried cum,” I thought to myself, dismissing it and going about my day.

But the spots got itchier… and redder… and I started to wonder, had I really sucked THAT much dick over the weekend? And the truth was; I had. But I also had a separate problem. I was being bitten by some kind of bullshit bug.

After some quick research, I determined that I had bed bugs. Which, according to Google, are mostly harmless outside of the itching. I figured it would be an easy thing to take care of, or that perhaps they would go away on their own. Instead of continuing to Google, I made the mistake of telling some of my friends about my situation.

And I have never felt more alone in my life. Almost everyone has stopped talking to me. Almost everyone is treating me like I’m some kind of subhuman monster.

The thing is, up until this point, I’ve coasted through life as an attractive white woman that faced little to no oppression whatsoever. I go wherever I want. I say whatever I want, and I have the added advantage of not being a white man so no one can blame me for anything either. Sure, I get cat-called and I make less money than men, but something tells me that even if I were a man I’d still be forging travelers checks and exploiting my son’s disability to get money from the state. I also have no doubt in my mind that I would be the most cat-callingest wolf-whistling cooze-hound this city has ever seen.

Not anymore, though. Now I’m a pariah. I’m a leper. I’m an untouchable.

Having bed bugs made me realize what it’s be like to live with a constant social stigma. I finally understand what life is like for black people. Who, by the way, can’t even get bed bugs because the bugs can’t see them at night unless they sleep-smile.

Imagine my horror when I was refused service at a restaurant last week. I was seated, as normal, and everything was going fine until the waiter noticed that I was scratching at my shoulders and chest. He seemed genuinely concerned when he asked if I was uncomfortable, and I was appalled when his apparent empathy turned into bigotry.

“Ma’am are you alright?” he asked.

“I have bed bugs.”

His face whitened.

“You’re going to have to leave this restaurant. This is a whites only establishment.”

“But I’m white!”

“No, you’re bug-white. It’s not the same.”

“It is the same! I just have bugs in my apartment!”

“Well maybe you can go eat bug food with your bug pals then. You’re not welcome here, lady. This is a Christian establishment. We like our food hot and our white people bugless.”

I was mortified. I walked out scratching my head, and my body. In a couple of nights, these tiny bugs and held up a mirror to who I was as a white person, and sucked out not only blood, but every ounce of privilege I had left. I was finally an oppressed person.

I don’t know how things are going to be, going forward. I might learn to cope with my new status and accept myself as lesser. I might rebel, and find a new identity in opposition the oppression itself. Or maybe I’ll just hire an exterminator. I don’t know what the future holds. All I know at this point is that I’m finally a victim, and I can’t help but feel a little bit special that I now have another thing to lord over people’s heads. Thank you for listening.