“Ey, shawwty!!”

“Hey you!”

“Ey!! I said ‘EY’!”

“BITCH I’M TALKIN’ TO YOU!!”

You’d think that some low-grade imbessile was trying to pick a fight, right?

Wrong.

This is just a snippet of lines black men have used to get my attention.

That’s right. They were flirting. Or in other words, reverting back to their primitive days in which pummeling each other over the head was the way to land their dicks in a chick’s vagina.

I can’t even begin to tell you how often shit like that has gone down. Now don’t get me wrong, there are PLENTY of well-educated black men that know how to hold a conversation and be polite. And while they stick out more than a snaggle-toothed kid’s cowlick, they’re kind of rare when strolling down the street. In other words – they are seen, not heard, and occasionally forgotten because of this.

Nobody ever forgets being cussed out.

I’ve yet to fully figure out what makes such ghetto-rific behavior appealing. I mean, somebody’s fucking them. It’s just not me. And while I’d like to steer clear of certain stereotypes, if the shoe fits… So be it.

Men that display this type of behavior often carry a certain “visual accompaniment.” What I mean to say is that they’ve spent every last dollar sporting the newest Jordans but live at their mama’s house, or have 4.5 kids they aren’t feedin’, or perhaps sport some kind of jewelry in their mouth.

Like my ex-boyfriend.

I know. I know. The horror.

At least he didn’t live at his mama’s house. We’ll just skip the discussion of whether or not he had children.

During Easter I took a little roadtrip to Charlotte, North Carolina. This is the sort of city that has a plethora of men described above. It’s not the only city, but I’ll explain why I’m using it as an example.

A very dear friend of mine was visiting from Germany. He’s a Halfrican like me and came out of the closet a couple years ago to everyone except for his stepfather. Because being black and gay is worse than eating human flesh for breakfast. At least in 95% of the black community.

It goes without saying that we absolutely had to hit up the gay club while our drinking festivities ensued. 

Perhaps I am naive, but my picture of a gay club includes raver music infused with europop infused with top 40 hits, half-naked men, drag queens, smoke machines, glitter and flamboyant fun. 

Not at this place. It was PACKED TO THE GILLS with exactly the type of men that would be standin’ on a street corner howling at me to impress their ignorant ass friends. It’s like somebody threw an entire neighborhood from Southeast DC into this place. It was that crowded and that stereotypical.

And all I could think was, “dammit, Oprah wasn’t kidding when she talked about all those black men on the Down Low*.”

*The “down low” refers to men discreetly having sex with other men while in sexual relationships with women. While I’m sure that a percentage of the men at this club were out and in the open, I am beyond positive that the majority of them were not. As was the entire group of people I went there with. It is a phenomena that bugs the shit out of me. Be who you are and own who you are. 

I know why I’m single.

I can do too much. Or in other words, I’m over qualified.

But I’ll get to that in a moment.

When I look at people all bunned up in a relationship with baby #3 on the way that are 4 years younger than me, there are a few thoughts that run through my head.

1 – Well goddamn who the fuck decided to stick their dick in that thing at least FOUR FUCKING TIMES to make a NEW PERSON?
2 – How in the hell did they land a husband and I’m still single?! It must be the head. She HAS to be giving good head. Because duh.
3 – Aw, I want a husband and a house and 2.5 kids with a dog and a yard with a garden and the picturesque bullshit idea of a family life that we all love to cling to.

Now, that’s not to say picturesque isn’t do-able. It’s just fucking hard to find.

Because I’m human and possess a uterus that will shove out a god-knows-how-fat living THING out of MY VAG (WHY in the hell is it humanly possible to fit a bowling ball sized thing through there anyway?!), I often have good times with The Crazy. Which lends to a whole lot of self-loathing and doubt and crappy crap that does nothing but kill my will to live.

So, sometimes I get all tingly (not in a good way) and upset about being oh-so-single. I’m turning 28 and I’m supposed to be on my way to a white picket fence, dammit!

But I’m certainly not. And when I took a moment to really think about why, it sort of hit me like a brick.

Look. I can speak two languages. I bake from scratch. I’ll spend HOURS cooking because it calms me down and I have this inherent need to feed people. I can garden. I can sew entire outfits, curtains, blankets, pillows and the like. I can fix my own computer and iPod. I can design shit in Photoshop. I know how to weld. If I need to build furniture I can go to Home Depot and go to town. I drive a stick shift. My previous life taught me how to roll THE BEST blunt ever and I have a fucking brain that’s actually worth a damn.

Because I’d like to refrain from boring y’all to tears, I’ll end that list there.

The point is, I have standards for people that I don’t find to be crazy outlandish. As I see it, I don’t need to be in a relationship with someone that comes with an incredibly impressive resume. But I want someone that can go tit for tat with me.

Actually – I NEED someone who can. Because I will mow a motherfucker down for being an ignorant asshole so quick they won’t know what the hell hit them.

I blame my heritage.

And mostly I’m okay with this. There are lonely days and non-lonely days. Sometimes I just want to tear through SexyTimeTown like a hurricane. Every once and again I’d appreciate a hug from the person whose appendages I’d let stick in my vagina. And yes, I’m that old fashioned that I can’t just find some random asshole to do it with.

In summary: I will patiently wait for the Right One. Just like when I’m applying for new jobs. I may be overqualified for certain positions but – hey – that doesn’t mean it can’t work.

All good things come to those who wait.

I think we sometimes like to assume that beauty = amazing. That when you’re pretty and thin and perhaps even wealthy, life is just obviously better than the rest of us peons that hate our jobs, feel fat all the fucking time and are ravaged with skin problems that rival the looks of a pepperoni and onion pizza.

I’ve been on extreme ends of the weight spectrum. I was going to post some pictures of me looking skeletal until I decided that a) I’m too fucking lazy and b) you’ll just have to believe me.

Look. I’m meaty. I have meaty legs and a meaty ass and some meaty cleavage. It’s just the way that I’m built. When I got down to a size 2 you could see my ribcage and it was fucking gross. But when I was actually IN the moment, I felt great because at least I wasn’t as fat as I had been.

Except the problem became that I trusted even less people than when I was bigger.

My thoughts were always something like, “He’s just talking to me because I’m skinny.”

Nevermind that the real reason was from the confidence I was exuding. Oh no. It was totally the assless, skin-and-bones look I was sporting.

So, naturally when I posted that picture of Rihanna the other day I wasn’t surprised by those saying how much they wanted their [insert body part] to look like Rihanna’s [insert body part].

Heh. That sounded dirrty.

Anyway. As I sat there reading the responses I initially nodded my head in agreement because GODDAMN she’s fine. But for the first time in a while my immediate thought thereafter was, “Wait a minute. Sure she’s pretty, but I kind of enjoy the jiggles I have. And frankly? So have all those people I’ve been with. And most importantly, I need to be happy about me. I mean, I’m glad for the chick but I can’t muster up any actual jealousy. Because if I really want what she has, then I know how to get it, eliminating any need for jealousy as it is.”

This of course got me to thinking about when I longed to be super skinny, actually got there, and STILL hated my life (please note the aforementioned trust issues).

Which leads me to my initial point. I wonder why we like to think that skinny people lead more fulfilling lives? And why we waste so much time being envious or jealous? It’s fucking exhausting. I bet we’d utilize our time more efficiently by staring off in to space for 25 hours of the day.

Moreover, beauty is not a precursor to happiness. Which is abundantly clear when we take a moment to remember that Rihanna (for example) got beat. the fuck. up by her boyfriend and then went BACK to him.

I won’t make any jabs at her mental state for doing so. I’ve witnessed domestic abuse first hand and frankly, I’m not her. I have my opinions but being openly judgmental about a situation like that isn’t my style. (I know! Who knew I could show some fucking restraint?!)

I will say this though: I’d rather be thicker and happier than skinny and still fucked up in the head. Beauty, whatever that may mean to you, does not equate to sunshine and rainbows.

I would like to introduce you to Tiger and Lily:

You can probably see why there was no way in hell I was not getting these two. Out of a litter of 7, I had picked them out pretty much immediately. By the time I had called, four of them were already adopted. And somehow, I was still lucky.

This is Tiger

Her face makes my heart melt into a puddle of goo.

This is Lily:

Her face makes me melt into a puddle of goo too.

They’re still a little skittish but given the craziness that is this household, I am not particularly surprised. I love them to bits. Especially when they come running after they realize I’m home. Or when they meow to get body rubs. Or when Lily blinks her right eye really slowly while Tiger does the same with her left.

And because they do stuff like this:

Right now, they’re konked out on my bed.

Things have been bumpy since their arrival (as in – one too many accidents). I’m aware that some things take time, but the person I rent from has expressed her displeasure LOUD AND CLEAR.

I won’t even bother getting into that because I’d rather just show you a video. About 25 seconds in, Tiger goes apeshit and it amuses the hell out of me. And yes, the country radio station is playing in the background. You’re welcome.

I realize this was an incredibly word intensive post, but sometimes it just be like that. Also, my English rawks.

Sidenote: If any of you cat owners have tips on the potty issue, I’m all ears. I’m doing what was recommended by the rescue agency, but more is always better. At least in this case.

We all have lists. Lists of things we need to do. Lists of things we want. Lists of things we need. And most importantly, lists of things we hate.

Or if you’re more eloquant than me, switch out “hate” with “loathe.”

Whichever.

Today my list of Fuck You’s goes out to the following:

#1: Beyonce Knowles

Look. I’ve already said this but it deserves repeating, Beyonce sucks monkey toes. The thing that ticks me off the worst  is that I can’t. stop. liking. her. fucking. music.

First it was all that crap she did with Destiny’s Child. Then it was Crazy In Love, Me, Myself and I, Irreplaceable, Get Me Bodied, Upgrade U, and Single Ladies. And have y’all heard Halo yet? Because that shit is constantly stuck in my head.

I would like to trip the shit out of her for having music that is so goddamn infectious I can’t NOT like it. 

Bitch.

#2: Miss California

Basically, Carrie What’s-Her-Face is just a dumb cunt. And it’s not even the bullshit about the gay marriage (although that does bug the piss out of me). What really twists my tits is that she used the church as her reason for her opinion but finds it all right to a) strut around on stage in a bikini – because Christians love that – a lot; b) take nekkid photos and then act like it was the fucking photographer’s fault that her tits were hangin’ out – because Christians REALLY love that; c) re-read reasons a & b.

#3: Allergies

I think that’s pretty self explanatory.

#4: Growing Up

I’m a Toys-R-Us kid for goodness sakes! I don’t want to grow up. I’m tired of the bills, responsibilities, work and general expectations that come with age. My relatives keep hounding me about having my OWN kids.

Please stab me in the eye socket now.

#5: Tupperware Lids

My tupperware lids like to disappear as much as my socks do.  It’s just really damn obnoxious and I don’t care to waste time in the mornings hunting for missing lids. End of story.

#6: Rihanna (aka Robin)

I had every intention of posting the nude pix instead of that more tasteful one above. But then I thought some of y’all maybe would get in trouble. Considering that we all do this blogging stuff while on the clock and all. 

To clarify, I don’t actually hate Rihanna. On the contrary – I’d like to stick my face between her thighs and maybe come up for air just enough to not pass the fuck out. And basically that’s my only beef with her. The pictures of her butt-ass-naked d0 not help.