So after the whole Evan incident, I decided that I needed something. So I went to someone who I knew could help me.

Now, let me explain something. In Jamaica, they call you what you are. If you are brown, your name is automatically "Brownin'". If you're fat, it's "Fatta", "Fats" or "Bigs". If you're Asian looking at all, your surname is Chin. They call you Miss Chin or Mr Chin.

So it is no surprise that with navy blue-black skin, the man now standing in front of me, is called "Blacka Ras" or "Blacks" or "Ras". 

He raises a naturally perfect eyebrow at me, and I clear my throat.

"I want ganja."

"How much?"

"Enough to fill my pipe. It's small." I take the small, three inch glass pipe with the most undersized bowl ever and showed it to him.

He sighs and produced a tiny bag of ganja, and handed it to me.

"How much— "

"Yuh good. Yuh look like Yuh need it, man."

I give him a look of utter gratitude. "Thank you."

I walk outside to sit on the makeshift verandah outside his little shop. I'm already stuffing my pipe. I plop onto the ground, light the herb, and take a few long drags.

I'm instantly at peace. Wow. I'm  happy and mellow, and truly at peace for the first time in a long time.

That is, until I catch a glimpse of Fucking Shithead grinning at me like he wants to play. I have this awful habit of staring — and for some reason, men take it as an invitation. Unfortunately, I only realise I've been staring when he gets up and starts to walk the fuck over.

Shit, shit, fucking shit.

He sits on the floor beside me, and says "I saw you staring."

"Yeah, I do that sometimes," I say, trying to give a hint.

He then proceeds to shit on the hint.

"You like me. Wanna come over?"

Now, contrary to popular belief, I have to know who I'm fucking. I'm the child of two doctors, and I know way too many STDs to be willing to dish out one night stands. 

"No thank you." 

The thing with Jamaican men is... They don't give up.

"Uh a go miss out."

"Um—"

"Mi can mek yuh leg dem twiss up."

"But—"

"When dah buddy deh reach yuh... Yuh bawl out. Yuh feel it inna yuh belly."

"I—"

"Yuh nah go able fi walk afta."

Now, doesn't that sound familiar? I just started with my mouth open, not even bothering to interrupt him again.

"Yuh nah go able fi keep still. Mi woulda haffi tie yuh up like wan goat."

Now, I do like BDSM, but having a strange man claiming that he would tie me up like a goat is very disconcerting.

And it would have probably gotten worse, if Ras hadn't come out and been a hero at that very moment.

Just as Mr Horndog opens his mouth to continue his rant, Ras steps out, cutting the fucker off at "an'", the anger on his face making it clear that he overherd some, if not all of our exchange.

"Wah di bomboclaat yuh a trouble di gyal fa, Jerry? Yuh cyaa' jus shut yuh rass mout fa wan time inna yuh bloodclaat life? Yow, coom out a mi fuckin shop. Coom out!"

Jerry does just that, muttering profanities under his breath, and calling me a "dutty gyal".

I sigh. Ras comes up to me with a concerned, yet amused look on his face.

"Yuh good?"

"Yeah. I'm just gonna... Go home. Now."

"Okay."

I get up slowly — I'm usually slow in my movements when I'm high — and leave.

When I reached home about half an hour later — I live fifteen minutes from Ras, but I was admiring the trees, birds, flowers, dogs, cats, rats and butterflies — I check my phone and see three WhatsApp messages from Evan. He wanted me to come over to his house, just like he said.

Sorry. I don't think things are going to work out.

I waited with baited breath, and then I get:

OK. O.K. OKAY ENEMA. OKAY.😒

I roll my eyes at his bitchiness. I had long ago learned to not let such things bother me. Thank god he isn't contesting it.

I lie down on my bed, corner eyeing the Bob Marley poster, enjoying the effects of marijuana.