Keep the Queens out of Fashion, Please

He pulls at the two strings of green velvet dragging behind me. The dress is me, I am the dress, it does not matter for we are attached as long as I am paid hourly. The fact that there is a person inside of this hideous notion of an ensemble is irrelevant. He doesn't know how they are tied so he proceeds to drag me into another room where someone else will hopefully know. Bow? Sailor Knot? Bathrobe tie? Jesus Christ. The four layers of dangling fake pearls knock against each other silently as my personal space is violated. I am like a cart behind a horse. A very big, gay horse who wears white denim and a black and white striped vest. Beetlejuice has taken a shower, pierced his ears, is partying in WeHo and now he is here to say things like "fierce" and "bracelets are so in this season" or "look bitchy and rich." Five minutes pass and someone makes an executive decision. Knot.
Thankfully I have forced my way into the i-pod dock where my decidedly good taste in music can play away on shuffle til infinity. I learned my lesson a few days previous when this Queen commandeered full musical reign and initiated a no-holds-barred Britney Spears marathon. And while I am a victim of getting my boogie on in the privacy of my own home to "Toxic" or "Circus" this is where the buck stops. It goes without saying that her entire body of work is not necessarily solid or worthy of listening. The entire day I exist in fear that he will throw my i-pod against a wall, slam his cliche Pride Day music into the stereo, and rail on about with his obsession with Mariah Carey.
Queen says no pleases, no thank yous. When he literally comes an inch from running me over with a rolling rack full of Made-in-China-Ruin-the-Planet-Overpriced clothing, he laughs and says, "Oh! Look at me, running you over." He has not slowed down, adjusted course, or apologized. I scramble to a safe spot away from the metal wheels and think of all the ways I can accidentally punch this man in the face.