Kelly Rowland And Lala Anthony Are Trash

When I saw Kelly Rowland I freaked the Fuck out. I lovedddddd her, but the rules at Miss Lily’s were clear: NO FAN GIRLING! Meaning treat celebrities like every other guest. Allow them their privacy, don’t scream, don’t ask for autographs, don’t take pictures etc…thems the rules and if you were caught breaking them you’d get reprimanded. So I stayed as calm as possible, coming off apathetic when interacting with her. However, at every possible nook, cranny, service station, I was losing my shit! This was a childhood idol, a chocolate queen, her body was bomb, I liked her better than Beyoncé growing up (when in Destiny’s Child) plus unlike B she could act. Shade all the way, I loved Carmen The Hip Hopera (that soundtrack was lit “You tryna act like I’m not a cop, you can bring the cuffs if you would like to if that’s your style”…let me download that right now), but that’s as good as it gets for her. Jennifer Hudson was Dream Girls, period.

Kelly came in with Lala Anthony, her son, and Lala’s cousin, Po (who I loved when Lala had that show), we gave them two tables, instead of the one they all fit at. I tried not to stare and drool when looking at Kelly, biting my tongue multiple times to keep my cool. At one point I almost said fuck it, telling my peers I think she’s getting upset I’m pretending she’s not major! They reminded me to follow the rules despite my instincts, so I did.

It started off a mess, they wanted ackee and salt fish (add dumplings, the gray ones, with some steamed okra and you have my favorite Caribbean meal). This was a weekday, that dish is strictly brunch. Meaning it’s only prepped for the weekend, Chef Andre (two time Chopped champion) told me NO. Persistent as always I groveled, begged, this was Kelly Rowland, please oh please. Side note I’m a really good beggar, everyone’s told me that since middle school, I turn my big doe eyes all sad and large, I pout, I plead, works like a charm. Chef Andre relents, duh, my talent is top tier. After going back and forth, because Lala wouldn’t take no for an answer the first hundred times, I tell them the good news.
“He’ll do it, but it’ll take half an hour.”
Meals have to be prepped based on time of day and type of service. They didn’t just have it lying in wait. After 15 minutes minimum, I kid you not, taking time away from my other tables, Lala says never-mind.
”But he’s already started it,” I inform her, explaining everything. She didn’t give af, she made me go back and forth a million times, just to be difficult. Then, then, Kelly pays.

The bill totaled $250, the standard 20% would be a $50 tip. Me being me, people usually left 22%-25% since I’m honestly an exceptional server. Miss Lily’s was my first serving job, prior I worked for Danny Meyer as a server assistant, possessing a fine dining hospitality background where the others had not. I brought in the most tip money, the managers used it to fuel the staff, mentioning it at pre-shifts. That’s why everyone quit when I left. Everywhere I’ve gone after I always brought in the most tip, people have left me more than half the bill. Nope not Kelly, she left me $20, making sure to say bye have a good one, before I saw the receipt. Mind you she used a fucking black card (her hands are soft af btw), to leave less than 10 %! A fucking horrific, high maintenance bitch. Tacky too. Everyone was pissed. Apparently Beyoncé liked everyone acting normal and tipped beyond normal. Like a legendary one, spoken about years later. I wasn’t there when Beyonce came, but a lot of the others on the floor that night were and expected the same from Kelly.

Long story short, she’s a terrible person, just like Lala. I’m not taking advice from an Uncle Tom defending another one. I have Chris Brown demonic ass (he literally has a demon attached to him) on a troll account. None of these people change, they support disgusting behavior, I have over two years plus proof of it. Then they lie pretending they didn’t know about Harvey Weinstein and Jeff Epstein, most of them are full of shit. That’s why I’m here. Times up. The devil always come to collect, you always reap what you sow and it’s my time. For once, I’m ready. Via: Access Hollywood

Living Proof To Leave Your Comfort Zone

Take the risk and leave, let the universe catch you, co-creating your path. Staying in the same place, stagnant, is a sure way to go nowhere. I’ve lived so very many lives. I remember working at Blue Smoke/Jazz Standard, promising myself I wouldn’t be one of those people who stayed for years and years. It’s easy to get complacent when the health care is phenomenal, the money is good, the people become a pseudo family, but I’m from here so I didn’t need that. I noticed rather quickly it was the family aspect keeping people from evolving. In the same time they stayed there for years more (when I reached four, I knew it was time to go), I worked in different places, including a restaurant where our regulars were celebrities. I’m forever thankful to myself for doing so. It led me on all sorts of adventures, added to how major I am. All of those people came here to make it big, but part of that means changing, which they were too afraid to do. Marrying each other, making a job their world. Thanks to leaving, taking a chance, aligning my actions with my goals, I met Mick Jagger (formerly my favorite day of life). Now I’m going to be all the things everyone there dreamed of, wealthy, famous, free.

You owe yourself a chance in this one life to shoot for the moon and land in the stars. Comfort zones kill. If you’re in the same place you were a year ago and you’re still unhappy, take the risk, LEAVE. The world is large, waiting for you to take charge of your destiny. Are you going to stay where you are? Via: Powers Of Book

Joints Are Outselling Cigarettes

Slowly but surely we’re coming around that mountain. Apparently marijuana cigarettes are outselling regular ones for the first time. Listen, as someone whose smoked both, the former is healthier and far more beneficial. There have been so many times where I was angry, or freaking out, smoked a bowl and literally just calmed down. Then I was able to shift perspectives, not be so overwhelmed.

A drink is good too, love me a stiff drink, or some wine. Both have stopped me from dragging people, especially at Miss Lily’s. The hardest thing I had to do there was 30 days of sobriety, everyone kept tempting me, but I persevered. Legalize it everywhere. Artist: Little Savage Design

Chanel Iman, My Most Regular Regular

Listen, what you’re not going to do is come for Chanel Iman, both her and soon to be ex-husband Sterling Shepard were regulars at Miss Lily’s. Chanel more so than Sterling, I can’t think of a time she was there and I didn’t serve her. That being said, I’m all for chivalry except when Sterling dined with us. Literally they would both reach for the bill, with him winning every time and my stomach would drop, because Chanel tips PROPERLY and he doesn’t. We were lucky to get 10% and he wasn’t above leaving coins and crumbled ass dollar bills. Whereas Chanel left 20% and above thank you very much. So with all due respect Mama Shephard, you’re lucky she’s the mother of your grandchildren, she’s drop dead gorgeous, has class, is humble and well-mannered. Traits she’ll pass down to those kids, leave that woman alone, especially since Sterling is perpetuating a stereotype of black people being bad tippers. Chanel you were always a joy and my most regular, regular.
TIP YOUR SERVERS AND SERVICE WORKERS PROPERLY, OR DON’T GO OUT, IT’S CALLED ETIQUETTE. Unless it was poor service, then tip accordingly, don’t reinforce low quality work. Via: Chanel Iman Insta

My History With Sophie Turner

Now that the baby’s born let’s get it popping. Sophie Turner, how did we get here? From the top please. I use to adore Sophie, believing she was one of the most beautiful creatures I’d ever seen…on screen. Cut to Miss Lily’s, Joe Jonas and his group DNCE came in with some random blond girl. Of course I was his server. I use to have the biggest crush on Joe, but at this point I was dedicated to my false twin and in enough drama with men.
Joe Jonas couldn’t keep his eyes off me, devour is an understatement. To be fair I was wearing the same outfit I had on with Jordan Barrett and that red pencil skirt was skin tight. Every time I turned around his eyes were on my ass, he was oogling all of me, but my ass was his favorite. It made me burn inside he was so obvious. I was honored, but figured he was on a strange date since mad people were there. The random blond was chatty, complimenting me, just kind, but tbh she looked really old. Several weeks later Joe was engaged and I was confused, like he was just eye fucking me and with some girl. Turns out Sophie looks different sans makeup which is why I didn’t recognize her. She was the random blond! Stunned, stunned by her face irl. This is why she not only made Joe post this Miss Lily’s picture for her birthday in 2020 to antagonize me, but sided with the Kardashian Jenner West coven. She’s mad I didn’t recognize her and that her man was openly into me.

This photo is outside of Miss Lily’s 7a, not Soho where I served them. Leaving me in a predicament not truly knowing if she’s racist, or evil, but really just jealous. At the end of the day you’re one of those girls who fights girls on Jerry Springer over a nigga. GROW UP. I was respectful even though I didn’t recognize you and you’re lucky I’m a girls girl, because Joe Jonas looks hot af in person and in pictures. Take it up with him and not out on me. He’s the reason your kids are safe. I want to like you, you’re a pisces, but you proved to be a bozo. There’s no reason to side with abuse and then add to it, if you’re really about women’s empowerment act like it. After blasting you like this we might be even, we’ll see. You owe me an apology and a thank you for not bagging your man sis. Congratulations on baby number two though Joe. Ps Frankie is soooo cute, he’s growing into his own!!!! Their parents don’t make ugly babies. Via: Joe Jonas Instagram

A Twenty Dollar Lesson

Blessed to have plummeted into drug addiction at a young age, instead of as an adult. Have you ever lost your mind? Been on the brink of death? Descended into madness? I have. Had it been later in life I’d have more to lose and wouldn’t be as wise, or street smart. For instance Kiki, this sloppy girl with an enormous, gelatinous ass had no idea what she was doing. Older than me, she’d never seen cocaine until she was an adult, believing herself a badass for doing it.
Kiki wasn’t cute, her dreads smelled nice, but were raggedy and thanks to Genc Jakupi she was obsessed with me. Despite having spread her legs the one time, before I arrived, he loved me not her. FYI this girl stole from the tip pool, was a hater to the actual pretty girls and was not well liked, or kind.

Both standing at 5’9 (she made someone measure us back to back) she constantly compared herself to me, once remarking that my torso was longer than hers, wishing for my body proportions. True. I was also a fraction of her size, better dressed, bigger boobs and better looking. She loathed that I was stick skinny with a big ass, she also commented on my upbringing and diction an uncomfortable amount. Still it was us against them, we spotted each other when stealing drinks, lied to management, and eventually partied together. Kiki hated me, admired me, respected me…it was a complicated relationship. When I left she was one of 8 people to follow, you didn’t have to love, or like me, but even the people jealous of me respected me. I ran that place properly is why.
One day Kiki and I split a gram. I watched her tables while she went outside to meet the dealer. Afterward we bee-lined to my model agent friends house in Williamsburg, then Freehold, doing key bumps in the photo booth. Here’s where she made a critical mistake:
The night ended and she told me to save the coke…

Amateur hour. She had an outline of my narcotics history mind you.
As soon as she let me leave without taking her share, I knew she was new to this, not true to this.
The next day, Saturday, my day off, she messaged me to meet her at Miss Lily’s “with the goodies.”
I didn’t respond. Devoured the bag is an understatement. By the time I received her message I was on a bender with my roommate. Not only did Dani help me finish that bag, we polished off one she had, and were on our way to my model agent friends apartment for more. P.s that night was MAJOR.

Sunday, our next shift together, I handed her $20 bucks.
“What’s this for?”
I simply replied “It’s gone. It’s all gone.” Then she understood.
I didn’t apologize, nor did she expect me to. Kiki knew it was her fault. Never, ever, leave your share, especially with a connoisseur. You either take your half, or get your money asap. Period ma.
Now I’m free of addiction, as well as recreational use. Talking about bring the goodies, that sh*t was gone with the wind. I have zero regrets. If you’re still struggling I believe in you, it may take time, but you’ll make it through. Artist: Thom Minnick Art

Jack James, Me, The Beatles And The Stones

Before I go into why the Woods are my favorite Stones family (in tomorrow’s article), restoring my faith in the band, I must tell this one. After winning my lawsuit against Miss Lily’s I got a part-time gig at a pizza place in Park Slope, Amorina. I was the phone slash delivery girl, organizing all the take-out and pick up orders. The staff like the restaurant was small, and run by an insane woman named Ellen. Italian, hot tempered, miserable (cuckquean) and out of her mind. This bitch woman literally held my last check of $500 hostage after I quit. Mind you, I left due to an underserving tirade, which she was known to do. Her own daughter commented her mom was off. She’d just snap out of nowhere, then act like everything was normal. As she’s refusing to give me my money, I’m making plans to attend my missing friend Robbie’s memorial. When I started the job he disappeared, causing me to leave in tears one shift. She’d been with me through this traumatic ordeal and didn’t give af. I had to pull up to her restaurant TWICE to get my money. Unhinged. At least she apologized to the staff after I read her ass for being bogus af.

This is where I met Jack James, a beautiful, tall, chiseled musician/model hailing from Texas. He loves Elvira, made me laugh until I cried, and like myself is a classic rock whore. We were kool and the gang until we started reppin our sets. A rivalry older than Bloods VS. Crips-The Beatles or The Stones, which is the better band? He barely let me speak, making his opinion fact before storming off. An attack akin to stepping on someone’s motherfucking kicks. Indignant was an understatement! Affronted I harbored this resentment until I got him back for his Harry Styles boa dig (a slight tiff that turned into a WMag social media post, with designer Marc Jacobs inserting himself). I never said I was above it, I’m petty. Being a Stones fan is a lifestyle. In my eyes he came for my entire existence! The Rolling Stones influenced me more than anyone, ever. Without them I’d literally be dead. Their music was the only thing that kept me alive my first year at Emerson College. Deep in the throes of addiction, nothing but cocaine, coffee, and cigarettes as sustenance, I lived on the verge of two worlds. I became skeletal in frame, going from a Double D to a D (boob weight never regained); my friends remarked I was on a different drug every time they saw me. My friends told me verbatim I was going to die. It was that bad, I just kept cutting straws, snorting lines and doing me. While the Stones had always been my everything, it was that year I needed them most. Just one more song to keep me going. My ringtone was Cocksucker Blues (the tour rehearsal version), that’s how dependent I was on the music.

Don’t get me wrong I fucking love The Beatles, LOVE. Had Jack let me expound my answer would have been this: you can’t have one without the other, it’s symbiotic. One’s rooted in pop, the other in blues, yet they’re both rock bands. The Beatles who invented albums and music videos (easily the most musically innovative band of all time) sing about what they wish the world to be, The Stones sing about it’s actualities (both groups have range, this is the same generalization of you can bring the Beatles home to your parents, not the Stones). For those using sales as a determinate, name one Stones song you can play for children? I was singing Yesterday in elementary school. The Stones have more soul, I can dance to their music, it’s hood relatable for the ignorant who think rock is white people music (black people created rock n roll), they’ve always credited black people, they created the template for the musicians lifestyle (sex, drugs, rock n roll), they created the “bad boy,” they broke gender, fashion, and race barriers/norms, challenging the status quo at every turn, changing the cultural landscape. The Stones dressed in drag when it was illegal, influencing everyone from the Chili Peppers to Nirvana to do so. I’m a revolutionary, because The Rolling Stones made me one. But, but, they need The Beatles, it’s the Yin to their Yang. You can’t have one without the other, nor do we want to. It’s the perfect musical balance.

Cut to now and gorgeous Jack is literally in a band with Sean Lennon’s wife Charlotte Kemp Muhl, and I dated Mick Jagger. You can’t make this shit up. You truly, genuinely can’t. So next time Naomi Campbell decides to lie for two white men appropriating our Caribbean culture for profit (Genc and Binn Jakupi), before Georgia May Jagger, her equally idiotic siblings and affiliates make assumptions (based on race), do make sure it’s someone who isn’t well connected. Should I continue on how many people grew up with me, displaying you’re liars and racists or…? Who did Melanie Hamrick know before raping Mick & murdering L’Wren Scott? Exactly. Jack, Daddy, are we the guardians of rock n roll? FYI he also loves the Rolling Stones, don’t come for him. Via: Jack James Busa Insta, Uni_Loonies & Riley And John

My Crystal Vanished Into Thin Air

Opening my palm I let Simi, the first person to tell me I was a witch forreal, forreal, slip a stone into my hand. It’s small, smooth, and unexpected.
“What is this?”
“Obsidian to protect you,” she replied simply, before walking through the curtains obscuring us to greet her table. We’d just begun our shift, primping to peacock. No one wanted to be the duff, the ugly duckling. Trust when you were, the guests, management, and coworkers alike treated you as such. Part of teamwork was being beautiful, for better tips, for the aesthetic we promised, for the vibe. No one saw our sacred interaction at the back of Miss Lily’s, an ode to music, the tables are shaped and designed like vinyl records, reggae album covers are used for wallpaper. Reflecting back, I’m certain we’d done this in a past life, in a different time, in a different place.
Had I not experienced the power of crystals with Psychic Shanna I’d brush it off as silly, but the crystals she’d given me to wear on my person, were a factor in her ruining my life. “Wear this and I’ll always be connected to you.” Dutifully, I store it daily in my bra.

Simi gave me the obsidian after I’d gotten into an inevitable altercation with a Mexican line cook, who had a crippling Napoleon complex. Elias felt he should be above me, not only in stature but at life in general: I made more money than him, I was a woman and I was black. This however is America, as soon as a person starts speaking Spanish, they’re deemed Mexican, and speaking the language of the help. America is black and white.
Look at the movie Clueless when Cher (played by Alicia Silverstone) offends her maid seeing no difference between Mexico and El Salvador, Arrested Development, matriarch Lucille Bluth (Jessica Walters) more than anyone makes cracks at this countries views on Hispanics, or 30 Rock, Selma Hayek and Alec Baldwin’s relationship peppered intentionally and intelligently with stereotypes. It’s everywhere, openly too under Trump’s “Build A Wall” ideals. Hispanic’s allow it, like with Hilaria Baldwin, keeping them immobile in a socially constructed racial hierarchy. Black people see something, say something, that’s why we’re out of chains and in The White House.

Elias got a reality check after calling me a nigger, only to be fired by a nigger, because of a nigger (but that’s a story for another time, because it’s WILD, WILD). That’s when everyone realized despite my Upper East Side diction, aka white sounding voice, I’m out of my mind and about that life. Ironically it’s said upbringing that makes me entitled, the sun shines out of my ass and the white people knew black people were cooler. Do you know how many times at my friends StuyTown apartment, which was akin to Rachel and Monica’s as a hang spot, all the black people would wander off when certain groups got too white? It started with one or two going off, then one by one the other blacks trickle into Derek’s room in search of each other. After awhile someone, usually Laine, would enter with a hey guys let’s hang out together speech; we’d converge in the living room, becoming one big United Colors of Benetton ad. It wasn’t intentional, it was just the vibe.

Through all the drama I kept the obsidian for two years, in the same pocket of my purse, alongside three others. Day in and day out, the same place. I’m not someone who loses things due to habitual placement and my OCD. Two years it stayed put, until one day it just disappeared. I kid you not! Out of four crystals in that inner purse pocket it was the only one. When I left my house they were all there, saw them with my own eyes, the pockets were such that nothing could fall out due to depth. Had that been the case the others would have followed suit. Ten minutes later, the walk from my apartment to the train station, this lone crystal vanished. Vanished into thin air. Couldn’t believe it. My mind boggled. My flesh goosed. I Googled it asap. Turns out when you don’t need a crystal anymore, when your vibrations aren’t aligned, it’s common for them to disappear. As if I couldn’t be more perplexed this was an ordinary occurrence, experienced by tons of people. Apparently they appear somewhere else, for someone else, or enter a different dimension all together. I will forever wonder where my obsidian went, who it serves now. Via: Solace Crystals

Genc Jakupi, Naomi Campbell & Jordan Barrett (2/2)

Blacking out wasn’t intentional, finishing the rum punch pitcher was celebratory. Having only seen one functioning relationship in the entirety of my life you’d think I’d be a cynic. Wrong! I’m a sucker for romance and was determined to find my other half. The universe incessantly guided me to find my twin flame, I waited for Genc Jakupi to return. Instead I got word he was dating actress Madalina Ghenea. Flooded with relief that he wasn’t my person, I could finally leave this plantation behind. Minus Serge Becker, the other owners and managers became snide upon the news. See the problem with me, I couldn’t be free if others were oppressed. The disparity in how I was treated versus everyone else made me cringe. I used my power to protect them, which angered my bosses. Sorry not sorry, this was a staff of colored women, almost all of them were products of systemic racism and they were being taken advantage of.
Once at a mandatory meeting we each read aloud from the policy booklet. I kid you not a hostess in her late thirties stumbled over the word “willingness.” Pausing.
“Why’d you stop?”
“I wasn’t sure if I said it right.”
The only two people who could read aloud cohesively were Kelsey, a stout girl with dope, big ass hair, and me (there was a HIGH turnover rate, don’t be offended, you wasn’t there). We had “white” schooling meaning we went to school with predominately white people, meaning we weren’t robbed a proper education, outliers. Foster care and low income neighborhoods limited their access to opportunity. Miss Lily’s in their minds was a step closer to an artistic career. And while I was stoked to be working in a mostly black restaurant where explicit music played, I couldn’t have stood out more. My voice made people forget I was black, or Caribbean, so did some of my experiences. Until Miss Lily’s I honest to God believed everyone who grew up in New York City did coke in tenth grade. Swear. The majority of us were natives.
“You grew up with white people?”
“Yeah,” I also thought diversity thrived.
“Oh that’s why. I never even seen coke. Like cocaine? In real life? Nah I’m good, I’ll stick to weed only. That’s wild. Yo, you’re crazy.” Working here was the most white people they’d been around at once. Causing such psychological segregation some believed in earnest whites were a different species altogether, referencing a YouTube video conspiracy. White people were untrustworthy, demonic, racist, reptilian aliens, dropping into the mountains from spaceships. That’s why they’re so evil. That’s why they’re called caucasian. Deadass not kidding. Growing up multicultural I was the one left to debunk their theories, reminding everyone whites are human too; the people I grew up with are family. Between you and them it’s the latter who’d have my back. Espousing trailer park views from the opposite end of the spectrum is what this was. I was bewildered, my bubble burst, no idea I was in a bubble at all, but aren’t we all until we’re not? Their sentiments were true to their experiences which varied from mine. And yet I was the most woke, due to said chasm in our upbringings. I had knowledge coupled with a sense of entitlement. Yeah, kids left my specialized middle school with drug addictions, they also took buses state to state attending protests and rallies. Activism and community were imprinted in my being. Walking in others shoes only broadens your worldview.

Most of the senior money night girls had slept with the owners, some had both brothers, hoping to marry up. Instead the Jakupi’s would come in the next day with a model, or actress, and make the bedded waitress serve them. How degrading. Those same girls loathed me for receiving perks, down to paid vacation, sans spreading my legs. In Albanian culture women were property, that’s how they’re taught (operative word) to view us.
Detest isn’t a strong enough word, the hatred I accrued for Miss Lily’s was ineffable. Between illegally taking from our tip pool to pay hourly workers, cultural appropriation, the racism, the sexism and unnecessary petty power struggles, waiting for what I believed was true love was why I stayed. Drinking and drugging before, during, and after my shifts was my coping mechanism. I would get shit faced (never made a mistake though impressing everyone, myself included), and that night with his brother was no different.

The last thing I remember is laughing with supermodel Jourdan Dunn. As Lupe the Mexican busboy gave a synopsis of the night, fragments of Friday came to mind.
“You was at the table with Mr. Binn, you and the blonde lady was rubbing on his legs, all over, then you tried to kiss her. She said no I don’t go that way.”
The woman I tried to kiss was Dua Lipa’s mom in front of her dad! I have no recollection of any of it and more than likely I touched his penis. No wonder Binn was acting weird, nice even. I felt bad I led him on, but at the same time there were few people I disliked more. The opposite reaction of everyone else. Turns out Genc was unanimously the meanest owner, everyone was terrified of him. When he showed up the air stiffened, phones went away, spines straightened and silence blanketed those he passed. He was fire you for blinking the wrong way mean, on the spot in front of everyone, permanently banning you from the property. Binn was the nice brother. Except he wasn’t. Duplicitous for sure, his sole purpose was to punish me for making his brother soft. All he wanted was to turn Genc against me. Eventually he succeeded. Part of it was his attraction to me, Genc wouldn’t share like he’s done in the past. With Madalina in the picture he took this drunken forgotten moment as a green light. Furious by the thought of me with his brother Genc breaks up with Madalina, who actually came to lurk me before dating him.
Numerous women came to see who captured his womanizing heart. Madalina Ghenea was breaking her neck from a booth to do so. I caught her, thinking nothing of it since I had no idea who she was, I wondered if she was black or nah, then proceeded to check my phone. As I scrolled through social media and replied to text messages I felt a presence, she was standing next to me.
“Can I help you with something?,” I ask in a perfunctory manner. To be honest she wasn’t in my section, and I was busy making afterwork plans.
“No, just looking,” she stood looking at my phone for five minutes before walking back to her booth. Only when I saw a photo of them together did I remember her.

Enter Jordan Kale Barrett.

Prior to his arrival I’d endeavored for months to get a new job. Weird things kept preventing me from leaving: the open call would start an hour later forcing me to leave for work, it would get cancelled, one time I even ran into Binn and had to about face the interview I was walking into. Bizarre. Try as I might for months the universe wouldn’t allow it. Until Jordan made the brothers angry by hanging out with me for hours, posting me to at least fifteen instagram and snapchat stories. He wanted to have his Chrome Hearts sunglasses launch there. Covetous, Binn came the next day waiting for Jordan’s return. It was under the guise of loyalty to his brother, but it was really for him, prompting a huge blow up between us. My last shift.

“I’ve had ENOUGH!” I screamed. Screamed it, stomping my feet in vexation.
“I’m going to get this place if it’s the last thing I DO!” I bellowed, fucking bellowed pointing my finger towards hell. At that moment I stopped working, ordered food and drank wine, none of it paid for. Ariel who’d clocked out closed the restaurant, as I’d refused. Within 72 hours Miss Lily’s caught a case. I won my lawsuit to their chagrin. I ran that place, I got at leasts six people fired, including the director of operations. My ruling was revered even by the haters, eight people quit in two weeks because of me. They weren’t making as much money, nor did they feel heard. Had Genc not stalked me three years after my termination I legally wouldn’t be allowed to talk about this. But he did until March of this year.

No one believed me until they did. How far did Genc go?

He tapped my phone, broke into my social media and email accounts. He knew where I was, where I was going, who I was talking to.
Which is how he knew I was moving and got one of his old employees from The Box to give me a room. Mallory converted her studio into a room specifically for me. Posting the ad on Craigslist a ton. The apartment was large, two bathrooms, a washer dryer, dishwasher and super cheap. A nutcase, the aspiring singer let it slip when she told me she worked there. She knew Serge Becker too she bragged. “Oh, so you know Genc.” This was a matter of fact. He was one of the owners there, starting out as a doorman, he’s credited for making the place popping. No, she responded quickly without looking me in the eye. Her voice changed an octave. This broad was a bad liar. Made more obvious by the fact that she briefly dated Jono Mason, his close friend and manager there. Weird I thought. Until I overheard her on the phone giving a rundown of my day, everyday. When she moved to California her bff Ace moved in and took over. Just like Binn. In the images below Genc is the Iphone 6s.

Everywhere I worked afterwards Genc sent people: Vashtie, cousins, aunts, employees, to spy on me. Two years after Miss Lily’s I worked at Follia. Nani, my co-worker, invalidates my experience until he starts doing it to her. Despite my urgings (like physically trying to stop her fingers from touching the buttons), she drunkenly rings their doorbell in the middle of the night.
“You shouldn’t have done that. They have an intercom camera,” I warned.
“Who cares? No ones even home,” she claims brimming with arrogance.
“Yeah they are,” dragging her I point to their window where Agron sits on the landline. The very next day it begins. Nani is leaving Le Bain. She orders an Uber. The driver, an Albanian man, starts talking about Miss Lily’s and suggest they go Saturday night to the Soho location. She started getting random friend requests from Albanians. When she’s wrongfully fired from Follia she starts working at Villanelle, a little known restaurant on a side street in Union Square. He sends people there too including Naomi Campbell. Keep this is mind.

We end up meeting a drug dealer who’d dealt for The Box. He revealed himself to be Genc’s enemy, in that moment I decided to have sex with him just to spite Genc. I was furious at all the lies he told. Jordan Barrett, hated me due to whatever fabrications the Jakupi’s told. Taking control of my narrative I made my social media public. Genc had stopped me from getting writing jobs, jobs in general, dates, he was a psycho. If he couldn’t have me no one could.
Once I had lackluster sex with the dealer he got worse. He started paying people not to hire me or Nani. Accommodating her nursing classes she left short staffed Villanelle; guaranteed gigs, places that begged, suddenly shunned her. I’d get callbacks for trainings and never hear from them again. I had to borrow money from my friends when he started interfering in my transition to creative director of events.

Messaging him on instagram I cursed him, elucidating the karma surely coming his way. As an olive branch he sends Naomi Campbell to Villanelle, for Nani to serve her. The next day Naomi Campbell messages me ‘Happy Birthday.’ I’d added my number to her insta rolodex when she added text me to her bio…except…I don’t remember adding my date of birth. More importantly she’d message me throughout the week intimate things. Suspicious I shared my concerns with Mike Brown, my roommate at the time, a correspondent for Full Frontal With Samantha Bee. How did she know my week was terrible? I just messaged my friends that. Genc.

The pandemic was a godsend. I was finally making money after Genc left me in financial despair. Except he then hired someone in the Department Of Labor to re-open a claim from Miss Lily’s from when I sued them. When two claims are open at once they stop paying you. He then made it look like I was committing fraud, getting them to change my answer to yes I rejected a job. The week of Valentines, every year he tortured me on V-Day embittered by his own cowardice. Suddenly I owed nearly three thousand dollars.
Now I’ve called the DOL at that point multiple times and on one call I was sent to a “higher up.” This person never gives there name, never records the conversation and tells me I’m going to be sent something, but not how it’s to be sent, ambiguous and strange. When I call back they fix the issue. Genc didn’t know this, in an attempt to get my banking information he has the hired person send something via text two days after its resolved. Notice the website and phone number discrepancies. The first picture in each is the authentic one.

Mick Jagger, who I was dating at the time, sends someone to speak to him, and finally after five years he leaves me alone. All the crying, mental and emotional distress from someone using their resources to stalk me, a woman who has never dated him, who never spoke to him, who was not his property, finally came to an end. I almost killed myself is how trapped I felt by Genc Jakupi. What kind of life was this to live when someone controlled it? He was a coward and a psycho who felt his behavior was appropriate, because I’m a black woman. A problematic, toxic white male, who used his resources to dehumanize me, I owed him nothing. Still, his brother who started it all by being a malicious liar get’s the most ire.

Naomi Campbell in cahoots with Genc meddles in my relationship with Mick Jagger, causing a rift between us and his children. Pretending to me know she tells people I’m a prostitute who didn’t grow up on the Upper East Side. I’ve met her once in my entire life at Miss Lily’s on a Sunday. Accompanying her was Lenny Kravitz. On Sunday’s we dined royally; devouring stacks of waffles, pancakes, bacon, jerk sausage and fried chicken. Avoiding grease on my face was of the utmost importance. Lenny Kravitz had turned his entire body towards me to watch me do so, peering through his signature shades. Gorgeous, silent and judging me I put my pinky up as I ate. Stoned, this seemed like the proper thing to do.
All the while Naomi struts back and forth erratically. My heart skips entire beats. Am I dreaming? Anyone who knew me KNEW I LIVED for her. I wanted to scream and chase after her, but fan girl-ing was against the rules. Taking my “nonchalant” attitude as an affront Naomi starts low key shading me. Hurt, I almost risk it all, telling her the protocol, after chasing her and tugging at her clothes of course, in a perfect world that was my ideal. Interacting with her at all was a joy. Until she meddled in my love-life to appease Genc. That one interaction showed me her true colors, I firmly believe from experience Naomi Campbell does horrific things. She continued texting me on and off, until I chewed her out for helping white men do dirt. She never messaged me again. The divide she caused between Mick Jagger’s naive children and myself grew. Who I am was in their face had they bothered to look. Living under the safety net of his legacy made them amenable, they aren’t good at judging character, or reading people, despite knowing them for great lengths of time. Their myopic range of experiences kept their bubble intact. However they weren’t the only ones conditioned to write black women off without the benefit of a doubt, not by a long shot. Hollywood runs rampant with racism and revolting behavior from performative activist, black and white alike. If you think your faves give a fuck about adoring fans, let me assure you. They don’t. Let me ask you something, who the fuck are you to invalidate my life with your abysmal stereotypes? Via: Blackbook Mag

Genc Jakupi, Naomi Campbell & Jordan Barrett (1/2)

Negative one hundred and seventy two dollars was the approximate “amount” in my bank account. A haunted apartment in West Harlem led me to a psychic gypsy in the East Village. Biblical warnings kept me away from those types, deemed demonic and unsavory, but I was desperate and scared. Ignoring the paranormal events taking place wasn’t working anymore. Hoping she’d shed some light on wtf I was, I went, my last resort. Psychic Shanna didn’t have a doorknob, you could see straight into her home. She feared no one for a reason. I didn’t know that then, but boy was I about to learn. Once I rendered her services no longer necessary, she placed an evil eye on me. I went from having my own apartment, a well paying job and an internship with artist Maxi Cohen, on the brink of becoming a full time gig, to couch surfing, losing everything down to my cat. The epitome of living on a prayer.

Getting a job became impossible. Thanks to her evil eye only scams came in, one I fell for which is how I ended up owing the bank. I needed money ASAP Rocky and escorting was not an option, I mean it was, but I’m not that type of girl. Serving was my only hope, a path I avoided for two reasons 1) the money was fast, consistent and addictive, I didn’t want to get comfortable 2) there are no margins of error, a simple mistake and someone could DIE; do you realize the weight of waiters? Hello allergies. Also between school and interning, back of house experience was all I had time for before. How hard could the transition be with Danny Meyer on my resume though?
Try super hard and not in the fun way. Without two years NYC serving experience I was met with constant rejection. Miss Lily’s, a tony Caribbean restaurant in Soho, was the only place that took a chance on me. Being hot was their main criteria, they’d teach me everything else.

By the skin of my teeth is how I finished training, there was so much turmoil occurring in my life I wasn’t focused (plus I called out to attend Kylie Jenner’s Galore Magazine party, priorities). Before my final training, the general manager, Krystyna, informed me this was my last shot. Out of my trainers six tables, I was given three to take as my own. Everything was riding on this. Truth be told no one believed I’d make it, just another pretty face on her way to getting cut. Couldn’t open a bottle of wine to save my life at the time, but Jaquana brought in the most tip money that night, by a landslide. We stood in a circle filling out the tip sheet, each of us announcing our earnings. I went last, when I spoke there was silence. Surpassing my trainer by nearly $200 on a slow night might I add, he stared daggers at me. Everyone was astounded. Turns out I had a knack for selling without selling, my specialty was getting people drunk. My liquor sales were unparalleled, I went from working dead nights like Sunday’s and Monday’s, to money nights Thursday, Friday, Saturday. A HUGE deal at Miss Lily’s, there was definitely a hierarchy and favoritism. Money nights weren’t given to just anybody, which left a lot of senior staff who campaigned for years to work those shifts fuming. Emptying pockets was my thing, bringing in the most tip became my niche everywhere I went.

Miss Lily’s was the Studio 54 of restaurants. Answers to questions I ruminated on for ages were answered there. Would Mick Jagger be into me? Would Anna Wintour disapprove of my attire, or person in general? Our regulars were celebrities, supermodel Chanel Iman always sat in my section. Musician Vic Mensa got so use to my service he’d try to pay me even if he ordered from someone else. Like the time he ordered take out from the bar. Mensa searched for then spotted me, sliding his credit card into my hand wordlessly. Confused.
“Why are you giving me this?”
“Ahhh, because you always do it…” he responded equally puzzled.
“Well who did you order with?” He points to the bartender. I instruct him to give her the card. Mensa walks over, looking back at me every other step, like a child being dropped off to pre-school for the first time. I nod giving him reassurance throughout the whole transaction, you’ve got this kid, I believe in you. And it is me he thanks on his way out.

Countless famous patrons poured in, nearly everyday and when Chef Andre won Chopped twice it got bigger. FKA Twigs planned a beautiful birthday for Robert Pattinson, I was their server. Getting hit on also wasn’t unusual for me. I became desensitized, this was the norm. The only time I broke down was when Fabolous came in, he was so swagged out. Nessa, my work wife had to take my table while I cried in the vestibule. Really, out of everyone Fab? My peers ridiculed. For the rest of the night I just looked at him from different areas of the restaurant. Fan girl-ing was a big NO NO, which is why my interactions with Solange, Kelly Rowland and Naomi Campbell were beyond awkward, especially Solange. Mortified was an understatement.

The first time I met Genc Jakupi I had no idea who he was. Wiping down tables in the front I smelled the most alluring scent, searching for the source I found him checking me out on his way upstairs. I thought he was just a neighbor, but the owners lived above the restaurant. Mistakenly I believed this lovely elderly couple, my first friends were the owners, Feride & Agron. They were actually his parents. I found out who he was the night of a blood moon eclipse. There we were patrons and employees alike craning our necks for this most celestial event, when a voice behind us ask “Is anybody working?” The look of fear in my co-workers eyes, pure terror as they scrambled to get back inside. Genc, who had presented himself as nothing short of polite in our small interactions notices I notice. “Relax, relax it was a joke. I was joking,” he adds. Taking one for the team I allow Nessa and Mo to stay outside while I manned the place. Genc didn’t scare me, he made me nervous, but I felt safe with him.

“You’re going to get fired,” Nessa pleaded with me to serve Genc’s table, but I refused! Yes he was in my section, but he was also pretending one of the aerialist from The Box was his girlfriend. He’d been in there with a different woman every time I’d seen him and this one was being super rude to me. He was trying to make me jealous, but all it did was anger me. Nessa, who had the entirety of the front had to come to service his table. He watched irately as I delighted tables with laughter and stellar service. If he fired me he’d never see me again, so he didn’t. Genc’s love for me gave me power (I thought he was my twin flame, he wasn’t). My bosses would be chewing me out, as SOON as he entered they did a 180. It became that he didn’t even need to be there, no one was allowed to disrespect me. Ever. Infuriating his brother, who was left in charge of watching me when Genc moved indefinitely to Europe. His brother watched me like a hawk day and night, night and day. He had it out for me since NYE, when I got wasted on the clock and went to sleep in the front of the packed restaurant. I should have been fired, I didn’t even get a write up. However I was punished. Chiwetel Ejiofor from 12 Years A Slave was one of my tables. They were heading to Future’s concert after party and I was invited. Didn’t get to go for obvious reasons.

Genc moved to Europe indefinitely pretty early in my employment at Miss Lily’s. We never had a conversation, a date, sex, anything, he was use to women throwing themselves at him. I wasn’t that type of woman. Psychic Shanna told me the man I marry takes initiative and ask me out. I keep meeting boys with different faces and this would be how I know I found a man. Genc wasn’t a man. All he did was stalk me and run off potential suitors. His brother ended up falling for me when I blacked out one night. That’s when everything took a turn. Via: Buzzfeed