Women's March

It must feel so good to have so many allies. 

I know your struggle. Hell, I live your struggle. 

I am a woman.

And it's hard to write this. It feels divisive because please believe me when I say I appreciate every pair of feet that marched today.

Unfortunately, it's hard for my heart to not hurt just a little.

When I was crying at work after the umpteenth shooting and you couldn't REALLY understand why. 

When you gave me an awkward pat on the back and didn't know what to say.

When you told me my Facebook posts about equality were pointless "white noise" but today my feed is flooded with pictures of white women taking a stand for themselves "and others".

When you ignorantly displayed micro-aggression after micro-aggression towards me then cried when Trump was elected. 

When you gently asked me if I perhaps misunderstood when I told you my interactions with police but today the entire fucking world stands with you. 

Millions marching for the precious white female. 

Yes, I know it was done for more than just that demographic. 

Yes, I know a lot of these people that marched today also take a stand for others, have been a part of the struggle since before I was born.

But when I see the protests for those young black boys, I can't help but notice the crowds are overwhelmingly brown.

Now, this orange man threatens the privileges of our precious white queens and they fear they will receive the same treatment we've endured for centuries?  

Now the world must stand? 

Now we must make noise?

I hate to sound divisive. 

We have the common goal of equality and freedom. 

We absolutely have the same enemy of the white supremacist patriarchy.

But why weren't you outraged when it was just me and my black boys at risk?

Why were you awkwardly supportive but unsure of what to say?

Why were my tears nothing but white noise that clearly made you uncomfortable but you can't stop screaming about the rights of your pussy today?

My heart can't help but hurt a little.

Even in our solidarity, you make my place clear.

My life is my problem. Your reproductive health is our problem, the world's problem.

I appreciate you coming along. I appreciate you standing up. I hate that you had to be personally threatened to get the fucking message. I hate that that's how it works nine times our of ten.

I stand with you.

I love your tenacity and strength. I love your solidarity that I know for many of you has always been there.

But when I see the millions, when I see the sea of people marching now that they've been touched personally, now that their white mothers and wives and daughters have experienced a mere fragment of our reality...

Well, I hate to be divisive but...

My heart can't help but hurt a little. 

On Being a Teen Mom...at 30.

When you're a teen mom at thirty, you feel like a teen mom again: completely out of place. Your friends are now catching up and having babies of their own but they're not really "catching up", are they? They're doing it at the right time. You were the one who clearly got it wrong.

Your friends talk about formula and breast feeding and what stroller to buy while you research "How to Get a 12 Year Old Through Puberty" on your own. 

You realize this will always be the case. You will always be the odd mom out. Hell, you always have been. You will always be at the wrong stage of your own goddamn life. 

Your pregnant friends will ask you if it's weird to have a different last name than your child's. They ask because they are beautiful, bad ass feminists that never took their husband's last name. Clearly, not the reason why my child and I do not have the same last name. His was never offered to me with a promise and a ring. 

I tell them not to worry about it. They are married. They belong to a family unit. Their different last name is a minor detail that doesn't take from the legitimacy of their family. Alright, so I just say, "No, it's not weird".

When you're a teen mom at thirty, you're reminded that you did it wrong, out of order, too quickly. Your friends are engaged married, expecting, mothers of toddlers and you're still trying to survive, trying to fit in, knowing you never will. 

Am I grateful to not be changing diapers? Absolutely. I am looking to get married and start all over the "right way"? Hell to the no. I love my child. I realize my blessings but there's just something about being a teen mom at thirty that makes you feel well, like a teen mom again. You watch them do it the right way, unable to stop the thoughts that you clearly did it wrong. 

The Fool

I was the fool. 

I was the fool that said we could still be friends. 

She invites me to the movies. Foolishly I oblige. 

She smiles that smile so sweet. The one strangers can't help but comment on. Compliments that ignite the sparkle in her eye. The blush in her cheek. 

Little does she know, it's that very smile that tightens my chest, that twists the knife.

But I can't blame her.

I was the fool.

I was the fool that said we could still be friends.

We sit close. We have no choice. 

In the darkness I smell the lavender and orange in her hair. I hear the song of her breath. I feel the warmth of her presence. 

Little does she know, it's that very smell of lavender and orange that causes my tears, it's that poetic rise and fall of her breath that rebuilds my wall. It's that exact warm presence that ignites the match that inflames my courage to love again. 

But I can't blame her. 

I was the fool.

I was the fool that said we could still be friends. 

We walk out together, not hand in hand, not side by side. The streets are busy and she's a little ahead. 

We stop at her car and she hugs me.

She's a villainous murderer. Me, her latest victim. How could she intend to do anything but kill me? 

Doesn't she know what a hug does to me? A mere brush of her skin against mine sends me spiraling down into anxious despair, so why the fuck would she hug me?

She knows better. 

I can blame her.

I do blame her.

I was the fool that said we could still be friends but she should fucking know better. She should know that shit ain't possible. She should know better than to smile like that and smell like that and breathe like that and emit that goddamn, fucking glow. 

No.

No.

I can't blame her. God, how I want to blame her but I can't.

It's not her fault. 

I was the fool.

I was the fool that said we could still be friends. 

I was the fool that fell. 

An Open Letter...

 I've seriously considered breaking up with you at least three times. My friends tell me to relax, take my time, give it a chance. 

I thought about the things I don't like about you. It's so new; they're things I couldn't possibly be sure of. Maybe you're unreliable. Maybe you're not successful enough. Maybe you won't make enough money. Maybe you'll leave. Maybe you're the lie. Maybe you'll stay until you can't handle the crazy in my life. Maybe you'll stay. 

Look how you try. Look how you push through. Look how you promise. Look how you hold the potential to quell each of my fears. 

But still I doubt. 

I'm afraid of you. 

Maybe I like you only because you like me. Maybe I only love the love I feel from you, the admiration, the adoration. Maybe I'm just a narcissist. Maybe I find you valuable because you see greatness in me. Maybe there's nothing more. 

I told my friends about you. I told my cousin, my uncle and my sister. Why am I telling people? Why is my face lighting up when I do? 

Maybe I like you. 

You scare me. 

When I think of the fantasies, the mansion in Beverly Hills, the farm house on Long Island, I see you there. It's easy to see. 

Maybe I'm just scared you're it. 

I hate to doubt...

It's never a good sign with me. 

Maybe no one will ever make me feel as comfortable and at home as you do. Maybe they won't accept me like you do, like he didn't before you. I'm completely unaware of my body when I'm with you. As if I've never had an imperfection, an insecure thought. I'm your goddess and you my king. Your body is perfection. Maybe it's all I love, the intrigue and excitement it carries. 

I'm afraid of you. Afraid that you'll hurt me. Worse, that I'll hurt you. I'm terrified of myself much more than I am of you. 

But then I see you. But then I feel you and it can all melt away. I feel you and I want to stay there forever.

You carry my heart so well. My mind and my body too. I’m not sure you realize just how well you see me.

Can I stay forever? Will you have me? Will you have us? Can my crazy come too? 

Maybe I just love you. 

Hold me and tell me it will be okay. Can you do that? Can I accept that? 

I want to see you fly. I'll be your biggest support. 

Maybe I need time. 

Maybe I love you.

Maybe I just love you. 

Just Do It...Maybe.

Love unconditionally.

If you like her, tell her.

If you want to call him, call him.

Tomorrow isn't promised. 

Don't be afraid to express how you feel. 

You never know when they'll be gone.

You never know when you'll be gone.

So just do it.

Seize the day. 

Have no fear. 

Be ruthlessly giving with your heart. 

Unless we're talking about a crush.

A crush that you're not sure likes you.

Or a crush you KNOW doesn't like you.

In that case don't say shit. 

Take that shit to the grave. 

Expressing crush feelings will lead to nothing but guaranteed emotional death. 

But yeah, everyone else? Like your mom.

Go tell your mom you love her and shit because you know, you never know.

The Hardest Breakup

My love, my love, my love. Parting is such sweet sorrow, especially with you. 

For many years, you have been the light of my life. In joy and pain, every moment was better experienced with you by my side. 

I hate to leave you, my love; I've tried before but to no avail. I tried to just see you on Fridays, my special day with you, but when you'd call me on a Tuesday, a Wednesday, oh god, a Sunday, how could I ever say no to your sinful seduction?

And no, it's not only me. You have other loves, women fall at your feet, women just as powerless as I against your sweet bliss. I never cared. We'd enjoy you together, side by side, escaping our cares and drowning in your love. 

Oh god, how will I do this? How will I ever survive?

My dearest frozen yogurt, I must be strong; you must be strong. We must say goodbye. 

I have met someone new. He will never compare to you. His name is Kale and he's boring and always green with envy of our love but he's good, oh so good for me. He's the one I should be with. Please forgive me, my love. It is time for me to finally start doing what's best for me. 

I am freeing myself and you as well. Go on and feed the children of the world. Go on and comfort the lonely and depressed. Go on and be the basic, white girl staple. You've found your calling and are fulfilling it marvelously.

But it is now my turn. My turn to find my own path, a path towards my new "love" Kale, a path towards exercise, a path towards bending over, tying my shoes and not being lost for breath. 

My dearest frozen yogurt, maybe some day our paths will cross again. Maybe one day I'll see you in the streets and be able to say a simple "hello" without dragging you to my bed. 

Lord, give me strength. 

Alright, I've dragged this on too long. I must walk away. I love you frozen yogurt. I always will. But I must go a new way, take a thinner path. 

Wishing you all the toppings in the world. 

With love,

Marissa Joy

A Tinder Love Story

After reading the title alone you've already decided that the following blog must be undeniably bullsh*t. Tinder stories are a dime a dozen but a tinder love story is simply some unicorn, dragon, tooth fairy nonsense. We've all heard of our co-worker's sister's dental hygienist's mom finding love on tinder in stories our friends tell us to prove that it can happen for you too! But we all know these stories can't possibly be real. Even if they are, it doesn't matter because love never finds us, only our co-worker's sister's dental hygienist's mom, right? We are the rule, never the exception, right? 

Well, luckily for me, I've always believed in dragons. 

Here's some helpful backstory for my tinder love story:

1) I've been on tinder for a while.

2) I think women are sexy. 

Okay, that's all the backstory you need :) 

A few months ago, I'm swiping around on tinder and have my settings open to both men and women because (see #2 of backstory). I come across a lovely lady's profile and read her details. She says she's not looking for a hookup or a romantic relationship but more of a "BFF situation". My first thought is, "Who the hell looks for a best friend on Tinder? This sh*t is nutty as hell." So naturally, being the fan of the absurd that I am, I swipe right! And we're a match! Happy Day!

We get to exchanging some messages, then phone numbers and bunch of text messages later, we decide to meet up. Our initial "first meet" (what the young, cool, non-comital kids like to call a first date) was supposed to be attending a Buddhist lecture on death followed by some yoga (her idea because she's just that cool) but it didn't work out. I was sick or she was tired. I don't remember. Instead, we kicked it old school and just met for drinks. 

Driving to the brewery, I couldn't help but get a little nervous. Even just through the text messages we'd already exchanged, I'd felt a connection with this woman and I'd seen pictures, not too shabby, not too shabby ;) She'd told me she was interested in both men and women and I was (see #2 of backstory). I thought to myself, "Men f*cking suck and she's gorgeous. Who knows!?"

That first night we shut the place down. We sat and drank and talked and talked. I told her things no one else in this world knows about me with ease. She listened with an open heart and unflinching face. I felt an instant connection. 

At this point, my lovely best friend, Sarah, has grown to be the one person I'm truly comfortable around. Historically, I've always thought it impossible for me to feel completely at ease around another person, including family and/or lovers. I'm not sure why, well, maybe because I struggle with judgement...I always feel it, whether it's there or not. If it's there with Sarah she sure as hell does a good job hiding it but I don't think it's there. When I speak she listens and cares and is there for me. Whether I need to cry, dance, drink or drink and cry while dancing, I know who's always down to join me. 

Best friends are hard to come by, 'best friends found on tinder' isn't really a thing that happens but I suppose now my son's dental hygienist's patient's co-worker can say their co-worker's dental hygienist's patient's mom met her best friend on Tinder so there's always hope!

My dating life has never been easy...nothing unique there. I may also be in the process of getting my heart broken (still waiting on a confirmation text) but that's another blog for another day that I'm sure I'll never write so for now, you're stuck with my sappy best friend post because you know what? The bitch is fabulous and she deserves it. She's an amazing individual on her own as well as as a friend. Plus, she's one of those super woke white girls that speaks up against inequality every damn time so...winning. 

So for now, screw men; it's never going to happen for me blah blah blah, but that's okay. For now all I have to say is I love you, Sarah. Thank you for the love you give me in return. 

I...

I have something really honest to say but just can't say it.

I have so many questions to ask but just can't ask them.

I am so angry but am not allowed to express it.

I'm grasping at straws of hope but feel as if it's in vain.

I'm so mad at him and her...and him. 

I wish I could protect.

I wish I could rescue. 

I wish I could help but selfishly do anything not to think about myself, about my own terrifying hope. 

I wish I knew him.

I wish I knew who he'll morph into ten years from now.

I wish things worked out. 

I wish I wasn't so strong but...thank God I'm so strong. 

I'm fooling myself.

I'm sabotaging myself. 

I wish he knew me. 

I wish he listened to me. 

I wish I could be honest. 

I'm glad I can forgive. 

I'll forgive.

I have so many honest things to say but just can't say.

I wish they'd be bold and brave and wouldn't shy away from the light of change. 

I wish I could give them strength. 

I'll worry about me later, maybe never. 

I wish I knew what to do. 

I wish we'd all find peace. 

I'm Not Poor. I'm Just Fat.

Ever go on a date with a GORGEOUS man and you know it's not going to lead to anything but you have to go out with him anyway because he's GORGEOUS? Yeah, don't do that.

Ever eat a LOT because of your emotions and then fail to really take the time to deal with this issue to the point that your weight increases...significantly? Don't do that either.

Ever try to purchase something on a bullshit website that for whatever reason won't accept your credit card information and then you idiotically KEEP TRYING and KEEP FAILING until the website refuses to even let you try any more for the sake of your own financial safety? Definitely don't do that either.

Because if you do, you  might end up like me last Friday.

I didn't write any blogs last week (sorry reader/mom) because I had one hell of a week at work. My job is pretty chill and stress-free but last week it was like the powers that be found out that fact and tried to pay me back with one week of hell. So, needless to say there was no blogging, no resting, no fun. There was also, no hair-perfecting, no make-up, no general appearance trying. 

So Friday afternoon rolls around and I'm FINALLY done with my work for the week. I have about thirty minutes left before I can leave my job (at a reasonable hour) and decide to do something I've been contemplating doing for months. I just got paid and had a little extra after bills n' thangs so I decided to whip out my debit card, get serious, and join Weight Watchers. After a hard week at work and frankly a hard month for my self-esteem I figured it was time I did something about it. This was me being proactive and taking the first step to a new me! What I should have done was shut the hell up, sit the hell down and just eat a donut. I don't learn. 

I go to the website, enter all of my information and press submit! I'm ready to be a fat free, skinny bitch! Too bad the site rejects my information. At first, it was my mailing address, something about it was "unacceptable". Of course the site won't tell me what exactly is unacceptable but something is just wrong. I write out East instead of abbreviating it, I try a different city...nothing works. Finally I give up and just put in my sister's address; I'll pick up my Weight Watchers starter kit from her. 

Trouble doesn't end there because why would it? My sister's address is acceptable but now my debit card information is not. The problem is either insufficient funds (which I ruled out...it was pay day) or a problem with my billing address or the spelling of my name. Again, the site can't tell me what's wrong exactly. That would be dumb. So after a dozen times of changing information the site freezes me out. "After ten sad attempts at beginning your journey to a new you, you unfortunately don't know enough information about the old you. We can no longer process further requests with the given credit card." Not exactly what the site said but that's precisely what I heard coming from my computer in Oprah's voice.

Needless to say, I'm beyond annoyed, hating that this is how my work week is ending. I shut down my computer and take my big black ass home. But first, to the liquor store. A week like this doesn't need to end in Weight Watchers; it needs to end in wine. Duh! 

I go to the drive through because I'm a G like that and my local liquor store has a drive through. I push the button for service and turn to get my debit card out of my wallet while waiting for an employee to come to the window. I turn back around after retrieving my card and see the window slide open only to reveal the most beautiful man known to man. Not only is he the most beautiful man known to man, he's a man I went on a date with. I remember him right away (except I still can't remember his name) and my face is instantly covered with "Oh shit." I feel hot and sticky and have crazy hair and am wearing no make-up and I'm probably a good fifteen pounds heavier than I was the last time I saw him. Feminist Marissa says don't worry about any of that while real Marissa just wants to run and cry but...she needs her wine.

He gives me the "you look familiar look" and I give him the "nope, you're thinking of someone else look." It doesn't work because there was this:

Him: What can I get for you.

Me: I'll take a Barefoot Pinot Grigio...the big one.

Him: Ok, I'll be right back.

Me: *fuck* *fuck* *fuck*

He returns.

Him: Here you are...you look really familiar.

Me: Yeah, we, um, we went to a movie together once.

Him: Oh yeah, that's right! How are you?

Me: Just great!

Him: Awesome! It's really good to see you. Ok, that will be $8.37

Me: Ok, here you go.

Him: (Minor terror on his face) Um, it's saying it's declined. Do you want to call your bank or something? 

Me: You know I should call my bank because I know what you're thinking; you're thinking it's an insufficient funds issue but that's not it, I actually got paid today. You see the problem is I was trying to sign up for Weight Watchers earlier but for some weird reason the website kept rejecting my card, no, not because of insufficient funds, today is my pay day after all but for some other random reason that the site refused to disclose to me to the point that it locked up my debit card because I was dumb enough to keep trying and now I guess my card's just not working anywhere so yeah, I probably should call the bank and figure this all out so I can drink wine...and lose weight because yeah, I'm not poor. I'm just fat. 

EXCEPT I DON'T SAY ANY OF THAT. I START TO MUMBLE IT AND THEN JUST THINK "OH, FORGET IT" AND SETTLE ON...

Me: No, it's fine, I'll just pay with cash.

Him: It's all good. These things happen to all of us.

Me: Well, it's just that..

Him: Well, have a good one!

Me: Okay, yeah. You too!

I drive away. 

The next day I get an email from my bank stating they will be sending me a new debit card in the mail due to possible fraudulent activity. It should be here in about fifteen days. In the meantime I'm going to drink this wine and try not to get fatter. 

Cherry Dream

Everything about her was welcoming. Looking at her smelled like Thanksgiving dinner. Touching her tasted like warm apple pie. I graze her breasts timidly, my hands slipped under her shirt, while my own body is bare. Her satin blouse feels like my mother’s. I think they have the same perfume as well. Her long rustic hair curls past her shoulders, settling around her breasts, helping me tickle her nipples. She looks at me with love and concern in her eyes. She loves me and is concerned about me. No one else loves me. No one else cares about me or for me.

The sunlight coming through the window kisses her hair so gently it nearly makes me cry. I want to be that sun. She touches my cheek and smiles. She touches my neck and smiles. I flinch and then calm. Her love is overwhelmingly unexpected but too good not to accept.

Now she is naked. Her freckled cream body presented before my smooth brown skin. I want them to touch but it is difficult to move. Maybe I’d take her to the blue light with me. The blue light is where I’m going when I die. We can’t go now because the blue light is dark and her light is too bright for it. It dawns on me that she won’t be able to come with me when I die.  I can’t worry about it. That thought is too heavy. The sunlight intensifies from a kiss on her hair to nearly engulfing her. I focus on one freckle and it is all I can see, the rest of her body just shining a perfect light. The light that comes through the classroom window after an educational film viewing in elementary school on a crisp fall day or the light that’s there when your mother finally comes to pick you up. It’s fleeting but the most intense. A powerful punch before it says goodbye.

 I try to focus on more than one freckle at a time. The sun softens and allows it. Her light lets me in, lets me view most of her. She rubs her hands up and down my arms and her light begins to spread. I feel its warmth travel behind me, on my back, on my backside. It’s not as bright on my skin, though. That’s not possible. I belong to the blue. I’m happy about that but I’m still enjoying her light, its warmth. She holds my hands; her fingers are thin and sensual. I get strong enough to move closer. I look at her stomach and smile. Her breasts lie in the upper corners of my eyes and steal my attention instantly, pink nipples. My tongue goes to them. One lick and I can’t help but cry. She strokes my hair and I descend to my knees. I rest my face onto her waist, nuzzle my nose and smell the skin on her hip bone. It’s warmer than the rest of her body. I wrap my arms around her, resting myself on the cool of her backside.

The winds between her legs begin to blow. They are surprisingly blue, light blue, but still, we are more alike than I thought. She strokes my hair and I am comforted. My ear travels to her belly and I hear the rush. It is coming. I look up to her, a tear diving down my cheek. She whispers, “Go on.” Her legs spread and the winds pick up. There is a single drop and she gasps. I can’t let any more escape; I have to catch it. I place my widely parted lips, plump and ready on her opening and close my eyes, for only a moment. Her light is too beautiful to resist. There is a slight vibration and the blood pours into my mouth, down my throat. I gulp as swiftly as I can, anxious not to miss any. Two streams escape from the corners of my mouth, mixing with my tears. I hate it but still; it’s a small price to pay for the glistening red river feeding my soul: smooth and creamy, salty and fresh. I drink and she loves me. She loves me and cares for me. 

Dear Future Husband: Let's Just Keep It Open

Like the rest of the world, I've seen Lemonade about five times now, okay maybe seven. And like the rest of the world, I agree it's hands down, another big ass slice of flawless, divine, unicorn magic provided by the queen. Beyonce is seriously the most hyped up celebrity that is STILL underrated. Her perfection is unquestionable and unfathomable. She's everything I didn't know I needed. Ugh, Jay-Z, you're stupid. Okay, I'm digressing kind of...but for real, Beyonce really had me thinking, "Damn, I can't believe Prince is gone...but Beyonce. I have Beyonce." That's an awful fucking thought and yet...that's how I felt. 

So, watching Lemonade and it only took about three minutes into the hour-long special for my heart to break. For a couple that is so "private" about their relationship, Beyonce sure does drop some provocatively personal lyrics. If you haven't seen Lemonade...stop reading this and do so now. The pain felt by so many women is so painfully but beautifully woven into every lyric. She gets as bold as taking off a ring and throwing it, stating "you gon' lose your wife" and we've all heard about the Rachel Roy/Becky With The Good Hair controversy. Ok, if you haven't, in Lemonade Beyonce tells her theoretical man to go get "Becky with the good hair" i.e. some perceived mistress then some woman (a designer) named Rachel Roy tweeted about having good hair and not caring after Lemonade dropped.... fucccccccing ballsy. Anyway, the video album is dripping in blatant "hints" that Jay-Z cheats, cheated, was probably cheating while the video was being shot, and it's just heart-wrenching. 

I've been there. I've been cheated on but frankly, the cheating didn't affect me like I thought it would. I assumed my ex had cheated on me in the past and one night I was just like, "Can we talk about your infidelity?" then we did. It was hard, excruciating but... I was somehow fine pretty quickly after. My ex has done some SERIOUS damage to my heart, more than I thought possible for someone like me: I'm insanely open and forgiving and resilient...alas... those you really love can easily destroy you. This pain was caused not by cheating though, but by other lies he told, betrayals he executed without batting an eyelash. And those are the things that hurt. Those are the things that crush a woman's spirit. It's not the sex with another person. It's the gross disrespect, the spit in the face, the lies, the betrayal, the complete disregard for a life together built. And clearly it doesn't just apply to women, men know this pain all too well. 

Maybe it's fear speaking but I'd rather have an open relationship than ever be in a situation where a man can embarrass me this much and crush my spirit. But then again, like I said, this was done to me and it wasn't even because of cheating sooooo yeah, love is always dangerous, always.

But. I don't think I can handle signing up for a monogamous relationship and having to deal with such an egregious breach of contract or even the possibility of it. Since it's the lies that hurt more than the physical acts, I truly believe I'd have no problem in a relationship where sex was your own business and not for me to control (as long as we're all being safe here). 

Now I must add that an open relationship (for me) isn't just some silly defense mechanism that I'd use trying not to get hurt but in turn is a really bad fucking idea. When I think about a man I'm dating, when I think about him with another woman...that mess turns me all the way on! I know people will always ALWAYS be attracted to multiple people at once; we're just not "supposed to" act on said attraction. I honestly don't see the big deal. If you can love me and commit to building a life with me and honor me based on OUR standards, not society's, I really have no problem with you boning that hot waitress we're both always staring at. Sounds crazy to some but for me I think it's sexy as hell and I believe in acknowledging my partner's sexuality, not caging and confining it. There are always rules, rules in a relationship are just pragmatic, tangible signs of respect. They're great and necessary. I just don't think monogamy has to be one of those rules, not for me anyway.

I can handle you hooking up with other women. I really can. As a matter of fact, I want you to come home and tell me allllllllll the delicious details. What I can NOT handle is disrespect. I can not handle lying to my face. I can not handle the facade I run into like a brick wall you've built to cover up your shame. I can not handle the barrels of lemons men hand women on a daily basis forcing them to conjure up some sort of "make it work" lemonade.

The pain in Beyonce's words is so raw and real it stops you in your tracks. I absolutely dread ever having to feel that way. I know it's always a possibility when you love someone. People hurt people, there's no way around that. But the pain that comes from sexual misconduct due to socially construed rules...I'll pass. Dear future husband, let's just keep it open. 

From the Blaxploitation Files: Me and Foxy Brown

So it's our first date. He takes me to a movie. Who doesn't take me to a movie these days, right? We met in sociology class and really connected on this deeper level, you know? It was groovy. I was hoping we could have some dinner or maybe go to the museum or something but... he takes me to a movie. I'm getting pretty damn sick of all these dates and all these movies with people beating the hell outta each other. We went to go see Foxy Brown. My sister said it was righteous so, why not. I've finished my paper so I have nothing else to do. Besides, the brotha is fine!

So I'm ready to go, I got my new cardigan sweater on and the hippest bell bottoms I could find. You know, sophisticated but funky! When he saw the way i was dressed I guess he thought it was a little too sophisticated. He took one look at my sweater and said, "Baby, don't you know we're going to see Foxy Brown!?! You gotta show a little sumthin. sumthin!" I almost smacked him upside the head and shut the door but I'm a lady so I politely said, "Look here, Baby, I am a lady and I dress like one. AND I know I look good!" He responded with an, "Excuuuuuse me, Miss Thang!" We get to the movies and this brotha is on thin ice, okay! I make him buy me two large popcorns, two boxes of candy and a large soda that I did NOT plan on sharing, thank you very much!

I followed him in the theater and the lights went down. I don't know how long it was into the movie before I saw Pam Grier's breasts for the first time. She revealed these two beautiful, brown mountains of flesh and the entire male audience cheered. Some women cheered, some laughed at their dates, some hit their dates, and some closed their eyes. I was stuck in my chair, completely mesmerized. Every time they showed her tits I couldn't help but think about my own! I felt like the entire audience was staring right through my blouse and fondling me with their eyes even though they were all facing the other direction, looking at Foxy. As the movie went on I swear to you I felt my breasts grow into these larger than life mounds that began to cover my face, began to cover my date's face and oh how he loved it! He started fondling my breasts, sucking on my breasts after he would suck the straw in his soda. It was unbelievable! I was appalled by everyone starting at my boobs and this "you know what" sucking on them! I was so appalled because I started to like it!

I popped out of my trance. I looked around and all was normal in the theater. The audience was cheering because some white woman just received her white boyfriend's dick in a pickle jar. I looked down at my chest. I didn't want to, but, I did. My boobs were back to their normal B-cup. I looked at my date who was staring at me like I had 10 heads. He asked if I was alright and I just said, "Of course, why do you ask?" He said i as all sweaty and breathing really hard. I looked at him, carefully, and my heart began to race. I kissed him slowly and I could almost feel my boobs growing again! I told him I was ready to go home, if you know what I mean. When he asked me if I was sure I said, "Don't let the cardigan fool you. I am an erotic beast!" He took my hand and we left.

I don't know what it is about Foxy Brown but that movie introduced me to a more confident, sexual side of myself. It also introduced me to my husband. Every year on our anniversary we watch Foxy Brown before we go to bed.

15 Reasons to Never Look For Love

1. Most obviously...you won't find it.

2. Insecurities you thought you were over will reemerge: Those stretch marks you forgot you even had will start to appear in your dreams. They must be the reason for the chronic rejection, right?

3. You'll start blogging.

4. Your blogs will be bitter AF.

5. You'll watch romantic dramas on TBS and convince yourself that this shit could ACTUALLY take place.

6. You'll spend all of your money on wine. All of it.

7. You'll start wondering if your borderline-abusive ex maybe wasn't that bad. 

8. You'll realize that the lesson taught to you at an early age really is true: A lot of guys, like a lot, will completely disappear once you have sex with them. Obviously, you KNEW this but never cared because you were free, white and 21 and didn't need shit from anyone, especially commitment. But now that you're an old, black slave looking for someone to really love you, you realize, "oh, shit," maybe I do have to preserve the cookies because dudes be ruthless in these streets and preservation can be hard, especially when you really like that guy...that will undoubtedly disappear. 

9. You will suddenly hate hanging out with your friends because they won't fuck you, pay half of your bills and make you feel safe. You'll want to smack every friend that has a vagina just because their vaginas aren't the shlong you're yearning for. 

10. Because in the middle of writing those bitter AF blogs referenced in number 4, ol' boy will text you, "Hey Stranger" like fucking clockwork. 

11. Because the one you want to text you won't... not before, during or after you complete your bitter AF blog. 

12.  You'll start to convince yourself that maybe you can settle for casual sex only to end up crying in a strangers bed at 3 in the afternoon...twice.

13. You'll start to convince yourself that maybe you can settle for that one guy that really really likes you...who cares if he's old, bald and delusional about his true sexuality. Minor details, right? After all, you're probably just rejecting the man that loves you simply because he loves you since you thrive off of the rejection of assholes, right? Yeah, it's you. Don't be a douche. Just marry the old gay man. You'll end up happy, watch.

14. You'll start to fantasize about being 35 and married and laughing about the times you were so worried about never finding love and how silly you were...then realize you're 36...and still fucking single.

15. You'll realize after talking to your married friends that most marriages are passionless and based in a not wanting to be alone...and you'll want to do it anyway.

Don't do it. Just don't do it. It can't be helped but try to help it anyway. Embrace your stretch marks and ice cream obsession and the fact that you can fart in peace in your own home because when you let go of the hope and embrace being single, you know what will happen??? NOTHING. No, this is not where I say love will find you but at least you won't have to share your bed with anyone! 

End rant.

Smooches. 

That One Time When I Was Sad as Hell...

Here's an old blog post from a blog I used to write with a friend because I STILL struggle with things to say (that I actually want to get into in terms of non-fiction) sooooo here's a little copy/paste action for ya. Disclaimer: Things are getting better these days. Don't cry for me Argentina. 

I struggle with non-fiction writing which is exactly why I'm a blogger. What? Right. It makes no sense but neither does life so just eat the cake Anna Mae and don't worry about it. Every week I ask friends sooooooo what do you think I should write about? And they say, "It must be Sunday night." Sigh. This is where I proceed to write about how I ask them for topic suggestions and they give me dozens to which I respond from the following pool of phrases:

No.
Hell no.
That's dumb.
I refuse to write about that.
If I read one more article about that I'm gonna finally jump so I'm definitely not gonna write about it. 
Yeah! I'll do that! ...well, no. Give me another suggestion.
And then sometimes they just get the blank stare.

I then planned to proceed by labelling myself a, " high maintenance friend" listing clear signs of such exhausting acquaintances. But the truth is my dear dear readers, I'm gonna be honest with you, both of you, I'm really not that much of a high maintenance friend and that's not what's on my heart anyway.

I've been going through a bit of a rough time. I hate to talk about it because it leaves me so vulnerable but it's hard for me to write about favorite sex positions or my top five worst dates when I'm going throuuuuugh it. I have a terrible poker face and am way too open for my own good. I can't help it yet always regret it. This may be a theme in my life.

Anywho... I guess my question for the day would be what exactly do you do when you have a problem that no one can fix, not even yourself and when people give you advice you simply envision punching them in the jaw. Its the only thing that makes you feel even slightly better.

Now, I got some advice from my two besties today that actually helped me a lot. The first told me..."don't react to temporary things as if they're permanent"  and the second told me to meditate and if I didn't it would be my loss. My besties tend to play good cop/bad cop without knowing it. They don't even know each other. But one will hold my hand while the other slaps my face. I love them. Anyway.

If you don't have awesome besties like me, hell even if you do, sometimes you just struggle with situations that seem impossible. You want help, you want things to change but then when someone tries to help you, it's not that you don't want the help, its just that you almost don't feel physically capable of accepting and applying the help.

When my friend initially told me to meditate my initial (internal) reaction was omg stfu I can't meditate! Its not gonna help. I'm too sad. I'm just gonna sit there and cry! I was defensive, irrational and emotional.

This post might be about depression.

Not to be so elusive, my big struggle in life is being a single mom. I am totes and legitimately not cut out for this job, although I do it well. I can't write about being a single mom because I think it just opens opportunity for generalized social commentary and lots of judgement from lots of different angles and the humanistic aspect is completely lost.

What the hell is this woman talking about?

I don't know but it was hard for me to come up with an arbitrary yet focused topic for the day. I guess I just needed to be honest with myself and give a little shout out to those of us who can feel utterly hopeless at times. Its not forever but when it is here...its a doozy, let me tell ya.

Soooooo. Ever get that feeling of hopelessness?  Like no one can help you, not even yourself? Like advice is nothing more than a dagger to the side? It's not but, does it ever feel that way? Like the person is undermining the severity of your situation with what sounds like canned, shallow cliches even if its not. Am I the best blogger ever??? Known for her focused precision??? Write a random comment or your favorite joke and we'll be besties for life.

A Knock at the Door

She knocked on the door with a quiet yet fervent panic. If Ryan had been in the bedroom instead of the living room, he probably would have missed her. 

He sat up, hoping the unexpected visitor would realize this was not the apartment they were looking for and go away. It'd been two days since he'd left the apartment. In his state, he had no strength to even open the door. But it came again, the rapid while subdued knocking. 

Ryan groaned as he rolled off of the couch and shuffled to the old door's peep hole. There was a woman standing there. Her hair was messy and her cheek was marked a bright red. She looked up and down the hallway before knocking again. 

Without any further investigation, Ryan knew she was in trouble. He reached for the doorknob but paused. Did he want to invite trouble into his home? He turned and looked at the small, cluttered and downright dirty apartment behind him. He caught his reflection in a small, cloudy mirror that hung alone on the opposite side of the room. His five o'clock shadow was reaching damn near nine thirty. The hair on his head matched the frantic state of whomever this was at his door. He was a mess, a mess with nothing to lose. 

He swung the door open but she was gone. Taking a hesitant step out, he looked to his right and spotted her, hand raised to his next door neighbor's door. Mr. Jenkins was a crotchety old man, never liked to be disturbed. 

"You alright?" Ryan asked her. 

She was startled but took no time to hesitate. As quickly as possible, she moved away from Mr. Jenkins' door and made her way inside of Ryan's apartment. He moved quickly to the side to make room for her in his space. 

"Are you alright?" he asked again.

"Please, close the door," Jessica whispered. 

Ryan obliged. 

"Please, lock it."

He obliged again, without hesitation.

Jessica uncrossed her trembling arms and moved towards the peep hole, practically pushing Ryan out of the way. Her eye searching the hallway frantically as far as it could reach. She didn't see him. He hadn't found her. 

Jessica's heartbeat slowed just a tad. It was close to steady but not quite there. 

"Thank you," she whispered in a quiet fright. She couldn't look at Ryan. She was scared and ashamed. All she could say was, "Thank you."

"Is someone after you?" Ryan asked. "Should I call the police?"

"Please, no police. The police won't help me."

"What do you mean? Why not?"

"He's one of them."

Ryan's eyes widened. He searched his apartment for answers and found nothing. 

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here. I just..I just ran. I'll go. I'm sorry."

Jessica made a move for the door but Ryan stopped her, holding her hand in his own. She pulled away instantly.

He eyed her face.

"Did he do that to you?"

Jessica lowered her head in shame. 

"Did he?"

She nodded.

"Come, move away from the door."

"He's going to come looking for me."

"I'll keep you safe. Don't worry about him," Ryan assured with unrecognizable confidence. 

"You can't protect me. I shouldn't have come here. What am I doing? I have to go apologize."

"Stop it," Ryan said with a strength that startled not only Jessica.

"You can't leave now," he continued, "We both know what will happen if you do."

She shuddered at the thought. 

"Please, come sit."

Barely able to lift her eyes to meet his strong gaze, Jessica took a seat on the couch. 

"Would you like something to eat or drink?"

"No, thank you."

"It's really no trouble. I was going to make soup."

"Alright, soup then."

As instantly as the first knock that night, there was another, only this one wasn't a quiet panic but a forceful rage. Loud and belligerent, it did not cease. 

Jessica jumped up from the couch, panicked tears rushing down her face. Before she could crumble, Ryan was by her side. He put one hand around her waist, leaned in close and whispered securely in her ear, "I've got you."

His touch made her feel petrified and protected all at once. 

"Go into the bedroom," he whispered again.

Without a word, she went.

Ryan moved towards the door, heart suddenly racing, as Jessica moved out of sight.

The knocking grew in volume. Ryan opened the door, just wanting the noise to stop. 

"Where is she?" he asked straight away, clearly drunk and disheveled. 

"I'm sorry?" Ryan asked, fixating his best poker face across his deceitful facade. 

"My wife, is she here? I thought I saw her come this way."

"Sorry, man. It's only me here, don't get many visitors."

The man stared at Ryan. Ryan stared back, unwavering in the face while the pace of his heart tripled, matching the pace of the heartbeat he could almost hear coming from his occupied bedroom. 

The man stared for one moment more before speaking. 

"Thanks anyway," he said, suspiciously. 

"No problem," Ryan replied, shortly.

He closed the door, his hand remaining on the knob. 

Ryan held his breath. 

Jessica held hers.

Ryan peaked out the peep hole to an empty hallway. 

Slowly, he locked the door, put the deadbolt in place and backed away. 

He moved to his bedroom where he found her seated on the corner of his bed. 

He sat beside her, careful not to startle her. She wept. 

Ryan put his hand around Jessica's shoulders. 

Again, she felt oddly petrified and simultaneously protected. 

"You're safe," he said. "You're safe now."

Dating Chronicles: Maybe It's Me...

Nothing wrong with a little self-reflection. I have stories for days about some of my dating horror stories but I'm not ashamed to say some of the horror comes from me. I'm human! Sue me! Just kidding, don't sue me. I don't have time or money. 

1. The time I started crying on a first date because it was going so well. He didn't seem to mind...maybe he somehow found it endearing? Either way, I don't recommend tears on dates. This situation eventually resulted in ME rejecting HIM. I have no idea how. 

2. Making a friendly bet on what most people would say is the first day of the week and then getting really fucking upset when everyone kept saying Monday when CLEARLY it's Sunday... general "know-it-all" pretentiousness....not a good look. 

3. Being TOO open TOO soon: going passionately on and on about my political, ethical, religious, social views, then sprinkling on some exciting stories about my eccentric, mildly mental ill, gay son and then daring my date to say boo about...any of this. 

4. Not shaving to make sure nothing happens...later wishing I had shaved. 

5. Coming across cocky or ridiculously insecure with no in between. 

6. Talking too much. 

7. Yawning too much. 

8. Being too fat.

9. Not dressing well.

10. Overthinking my weight, dress, number of yawns. 

11. Asking questions he's already told me the answer to in texts... i.e. not keeping up with the roster. 

12. Not giving him a chance. 

13. Giving too many chances. 

14. Hoping.

15. Giving up hope. 

16. Starting stories with, "My therapist told me the funniest thing..."

17. Falling... literally and symbolically...usually very painful. 

So, I don't know...maybe it's me. The fight goes on!!!!!

A Dream

The leaves fell to my face and disintegrated before me. That’s how I knew it was a dream. No matter how much he tried to assure me that he was real, I knew it wasn’t real. I looked deep in his eyes and told myself to remember, knowing it wouldn’t last forever.

I was in my high school. There was an escalator and the bottom and top floors were filled with thousands of people, almost like a stadium. The first sign it was a dream. I went to a large high school but not that large, no schools are that large.

There was a drink in my hand and I couldn’t seem to hold onto the ice tea or lemonade or water or whatever it was and proceed up the escalator at the same time. I had no balance. Awkwardly, I held the cup and tried to sip from the plastic straw while gripping the ascending escalator railing with both hands. I crouched over the side, cup and railing in hands and tried to stand up straight and balance myself. I couldn’t. The top was approaching. I saw two boys that I did actually go to high school with descending casually next to me.They were beautiful, even more beautiful in this world.

I reached the top, nervously. How would I get off of this difficult ride? I stumbled, as I surely knew I would. Stumbling was a common occurrence in my dreams, usually in heels. There were no heels this time but a lack of balance all the same.

My body dropped slowly to the ground as the escalator spit me out onto the top floor of the school. Still gripping that damn cup that I just couldn’t seem to let go of, I let my body fall.

Then, he was there. I had a feeling he would be, simply because this was a highly embarrassing moment. That’s always when they appear, isn’t it?

Suddenly, my high school was no longer my high school. It was my college and the top floor of the high school was now one of the grassy fields filled with trees that covered my college campus. We were outside.

He took my hand and helped me up with a smile. I hated how beautiful his smile was. It was his smile that let me know it was a dream. I hated that beauty because I knew it would flee, when I least expected it.

“What are you doing here?” I asked him as we walked through the field.

“I knew you’d be here so I came,” he responded shyly, uncomfortable revealing that truth.

It was hard to believe him. Things that made me blush were always hard to believe.

We walked more and the sensation hit me even stronger. I was fully aware that this was a dream. How strongly you usually don’t know your dreams are fiction is how factually I knew that this would all disappear, that he would disappear. Instead of being sad I instantly told myself to just enjoy it while it lasts.

He knew what I was thinking. I didn’t have to tell him.

“You’re not dreaming. I’m real,” he said, smiling that beautiful, artificial smile, trying his best to reassure me.

His blonde hair was long and scruffy. It settled around his ears and framed his tan face nicely. He looked a bit dirty in his red shirt with white writing that advertised whatever company he worked for. The sleeves were cut off and I could tell he was working hard in the hot sun somewhere before coming to see me. His jeans and boots harbored some specks of color; maybe he was a painter.

In his left hand he held his motorcycle helmet but I didn’t see his bike.

Taking my advice I wrapped both of my arms around his right arm and nestled my face right below his shoulder. The sun glistened on his skin. I inhaled his scent and told myself to remember. Again he heard my thoughts and told me not to worry.

The despair in knowing the dream was a dream became too much weight for me to carry. Letting go of his arm, I dropped to the grassy ground, the sadness shrouding my body with me unable to stop it.

His simulated smile grew into a chuckle as he joined me on the ground, humoring what he perceived to be my dramatic folly.

My face was inches from the ground; the sadness was too heavy and almost pushed my entire head through the grass and dirt. It was too heavy. He stroked my hair and rescued me. I told myself to remember as my head gained some strength. I turned over and lied on my back. The heaviness was easier to bear that way.

He lied down on his back beside me and held my hand. I tried not to cry, tried to focus, tried to remember, store the thoughts for later memories while I was awake.

“What are we doing?” he asked, indulging in the silly fun of this “dream” adventure.

“We’re in the sky now. We’re lying in the sky and looking down on the ground, except, it’s not ground but water. We’re staring at the sea.”

The smiling face turned away from mine and looked up with me as I rolled to my side in order to see what he saw. The waves rippled slowly as a stranded man in a lifeboat washed past our line of sight. This is how I knew for sure that we were indeed in the sky, looking down at the sea. The waves kept passing and I wondered if he could see them, wondered if the sights were the same for him even though it was my dream alone.

“Okay,” he said.

He squeezed my hand and stroked my skin with his thumb.

I told myself to remember as I watched the waves roll by.

Again he read my thoughts and told me not to worry.

I told myself to remember. 

This N*gga

I am the mother of two black boys. I am the mother that watches the news and clutches her stomach and prays and prays and prays to a god she no longer believes in. I am the mother who tirelessly strides to love them, protect them and push them as I see my great grandmother's vision in their eyes. When it comes to my babies, there is so much I could say. But I'm sorry y'all...I just can't today.

There is a distraction. And I don't mean whatever bullshit internet fad that's displayed to distract us as a people. Oh no. It's me. I am distracted. I am distracted by this god damn beautiful nigga. This man has me so wide open, y'all, I might need someone to come up here and catch me if I fall.

I am the woman who sits at the spoken word and endures the misogynistic bullshit wrapped with a poetic bow, nicely packaged bullshit that grown women actually clap for. I could talk about the black men telling me I'm a slut or a queen with no in between. There's no right to be ordinary within the black sanctuary. Thank you black man for instructing me to stay in my lane and so thoroughly defining precisely what that lane is. Talking about the hos with the fake fat asses putting us in the very boxes you criticize us for not liberating ourselves from. Go ahead. Judge the fuck out of her while you fucked the shit out of her just the other night...and the night before. The crowd claps as I make that face and think, "Man, fuck this nigga".

I am the woman who doesn't use the N word. Whether it's an "er" or an "a" I'm just not down with that shit. Nigga, if you knew where that shit came from, which I'm sure you do, you would think twice before you decapitated that ER and replaced it with that A to make it suddenly okay.

So many topics to touch, burdens to lay down, gripes to go around but none of them come to mind because all I can think about, all I can spit about is this goddamn nigga.

He sees me.

He sees me beyond my hips and my thighs , beyond my full lips and pretty brown eyes.

The pain that I hide, the insecurities in my stride. No matter how much I suppress, to him I'm transparent and he offers me rest. 

He sees me and loves me and pushes me and catches me. 

He makes me forget about him and him and him and her because for me there is only him.

Forever there is only him. Him and I. 

The only problem with this nigga? I haven't met him yet. 

Red Hot: An Ode (In Pictures)

Reeeeeedddddddd!

I'd trust you with my taxes...and my vagina. 

Rough me up...red style.

You know those redheaded, bearded hipsters that everyone hates? I want to sit on their faces. 

Michael...my heart is yours.

He could get tough with my mud.

I'd go to his show. 

I'd meet his parents. 

Read me a book, please.

Praise Jesus.

Our Love Child, all grown up... :) Mommy loves you!

Dating Chronicles: Online Dating/Slow Death

Picture it. Sicily. 1926. I’m a young woman crying into my meat sauce because I’m unhappy with my father’s choice of husband for me but what can I do? I just keep stirring. And crying.

Except no. I’ve just always wanted to ‘Pull a Sophia’. If you don’t know which Sophia I’m referring to...I’m SO sorry for you.

I was nowhere near alive in 1926 and my father would never arrange a marriage for me. I don’t know his exact feelings on the topic but I’d guess he (like me) has completely given up on me finding love. Oh, gosh I hope he’s not still hopeful. Are my parents still hopeful? Do they think I’m going to find someone? Are they praying for me to find a husband????? Oh, gosh, oh, gosh, I hope not. I’d feel so bad for the inevitable disappointment.

Anyway, back to the point. I don’t live in the age of arranged marriages (not in my country/region/culture/family anyway). I live in the dreaded era of ONLINE DATING! Cue horror music!

If I wrote a blog post for each experience…well, let’s just say, “Ain’t nobody got time for that”.

So here’s a painful list I’ve compiled painfully about my painful dating life.

1. The Chastity Belt: His profile says he’s looking for a woman to hold the key to his chastity belt. I instantly fall in love with the witty humor. We exchange a few messages and I suggest we meet for drinks. He says, “Before we do, you should check my profile again.” I furrow my brow in confusion but oblige and check out his profile. Next to his request for a chastity belt key holder he writes in parentheses: This is not a joke. I’m really looking for someone to hold the key. I need someone to fully control me. He then proceeds to send me pictures of these chastity belts (which are nothing like what I’d expect). They were more like ball clamps that look powerful enough to castrate the strongest of dicks. Drinks were not had.

2. The 1st of About 12: We met online. Exchanged numbers and witty banter. We plan a date. I text: Excited to see you. He texts back: Excited to see YOU *wink wink wink wink* He doesn’t show. HE DOESN’T FUCKING SHOW. Has the balls to apologize and the audacity to try and reschedule. I’m disgusted so I … reschedule. He doesn’t show again.

3. The Closet: We met online. He was the first white guy to ever really hit on me. My initial reaction was, “Who is this white boy tryna talk to me?” We exchanged messages, wasn’t long until I realized, “Oh, shit, he’s perfect.” That was startling. We exchanged numbers, texts, phone calls, went on dates…it was time for it to go down. I snuck him into my house when my kid was asleep. We ended up making out in my closet. My kid caught us. Fucked things up pretty bad with that one. Perfect man pretty much ghosted me since then and my son gives me wicked side eye. I’ve been hooked on white guys ever since and I just can’t shake it!!!! It’s awful. Next week I should blog about red heads. They deserve their own blog! My kid has since forgiven me, btw. There was a lot of bribery involved but...whatever works! No more boys in the closet. 

4. The Other Closet: We met online. He fell for me QUICK. We spent a LOT of time together. First date was perfect. Second date…I started crying it was going so well which is crazy but he appreciated it. We spent MORE time together. I started to pick up on things…gay things. Basically, he was gay, like, super fucking in the closet trying to date and cover it up (in fucking 2013) gay. I tried to back out gracefully. I didn’t want to say, “You share a bed with your ‘roommate’ and I’m not that progressive yet to be okay with whatever the fuck is going on here.” I gave the usual “it’s me, not you” routine but he wasn’t having it. His “love” was strong. *eye roll* I had to just come out and say it, “Dude, I think you’re gay!” His response, “I swear, why does everyone say that!?!”

5. Repeat Number 2

6. The Black Academic/Poet/Panther: We met online. Lots of messages, lots of witty banter. LOTS of big words being thrown to and fro. (Is that how you say that? To and fro?) Idk. Anyway. I’m thinking oooooooweeeee this is exciting! Returning to my beautiful Black roots. I miss Black…hands. I casually mention how I’ve been dating mostly white guys lately. Instant rejection. He can’t “get down with a sista that would be with a white dude.”

7. The Short and Sweet: yo, sup, hey, dick pic, hi, what’s good, sup, hey, hi, yo, dick pic, sup

8. The Republican: This actually led to the best sex of my life…then I found out he was engaged. That’s a thing that happens.

9. Repeat Number 7

10. Repeat Number 8 (except a married Democrat).

 God, it’s wonderful.