i find it necessary to be a little selfish. i've been blocked for the last few weeks, and it's a direct result of me losing my focus. without me even realizing it, i had turned into a puppet. this blog used to represent my selfish moments of expression, when i could write about whatever was on my mind without thought caring about what others thought.
somehow i got away from that. the more people who read my blog, the more pressure i began to feel about what i was exposing about myself. it's not your fault, really. i think everybody suffers from this every now and again. however, i know i can't allow it to continue. so in an effort to loosen the bricks forming the block in my mind, i'm stripping my blog to the basics and turning the comments off. i'm not sure how long this will last in terms of time, but it will last as long as necessary for me to find my freedom again.
i have no idea what i'm gonna write from here, but i'm excited about it!
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Friday, October 19, 2007
ending is delayed
i'll post it on monday. wanna make sure it's just right. DON'T CUSS ME OUT. have a great weekend!
Thursday, October 18, 2007
why u wanna go and do that? pt. 2
click here for part one (or just scroll down to the next entry ya lazy bastid...)
four weeks later, i was on my way to fingaz's apartment for the first time for a night of dinner and discussion. as i pulled up and parked, i winced at the less than affluent landscape greeting me when i got out of my car. the scattered bones of broken bottles protruded from the ground, bleeding beer onto the asphalt. a decaying car sat disemboweled and abandoned inbetween the white lines of a parking space a few feet from me like the skeletal remains of a murdered rape victim exposed in a shallow grave. piled next to its final resting place was a piquant mountain of rotting perishables. someone's attempt at a tombstone for the dearly departed dodge neon?
"here lies the remains
of a car whose owner thought leaving
the keys in the ignition while
she ran into the store for some cigarettes
was a good idea..."
even lojack can't guard against that kind of stupidity...but yet again, i digress (sorry chele).
anyway, the area looked like a cemetery for sobriety and security. now, i'm not a snob (for the most part) but i do prefer a guy who lives in a spot that won't have me fearful i'll be killed by a stray bullet shot from the gun of some twelve-year-old seeking initiation into the neighborhood gang. i ducked unconsciously, anticipating the need to protect myself from the invisible projectile headed towards me in the murkiness. the streetlights provided threadbare fluorescence, their silver filaments sticking upon the cloak of night like burnished balls of lint.
the hallway leading to his front door was gaping before me, a gingivitis sufferer yawning beneath an orthodontist's inquiry. the planks beneath my feet were gritty and uneven, two by fours discolored and cracked like rotting teeth. urine stained diapers lay embedded in the spaces between them like plaque. a bulb was suspended from the ceiling above me, an enflamed uvula emitting the off-white glow of infected illumination upon faded red enamel paint falling in flakes from the walls.needless to say, i wasn't impressed.
i folded my upper lip over my nostrils as the stench of sour living stuck to me like flypaper.
gingerly stepping over a rusted bicycle, i made my way to his door, wiping my shoes on the welcome mat extending from his front step like a tongue. i gathered my body into a semblance of confidence before pulling the knocker. fingaz answered about 30 seconds later, standing there in a white wife-beater and a pair of jeans hung low from his hips.
"your hall has halitosis," i said in a weak attempt at cleverness.
"hunh?" he responded in confusion, letting me know i'd failed miserably.
"never mind."
his eyes were roaming over various parts of my body before finally settling upon the slightly ironic twist of my lips.
"dude, you gonna invite me in to dinner or devour me out here?" i asked, both flattered and irritated. his lips formed a small smile as he stepped back, opening the door wider.
"welcome to my abode," he said, bowing as he swept his arm behind him. i stepped across the threshhold and glanced around, quickly quelling my horror. it was definitely a bachelor's pad. i was standing in the living room where his couch took up most of the space. it was up against the wall, a mangy mongrel of matted brown wool, wide padded shoulders, and short pine legs, squatting low like it was about to drop a log. it looked pungent and flea-bitten and rabid.no way in hell i was gonna sit on that couch.
i walked further into the room and almost thanked the lord aloud when i spied a plastic chair next to the mutt, i mean, couch. sitting down, i turned my attention to the rest of the decor, squinting my eyes in covert dismay at the black lacquer glass-topped coffee table sporting faux gold accents, a pimp's lean, and chinese tatoos. moving my gaze to the carpet, i clenched my mouth before it could fall agape. it looked like the head of a lice-infested child with its bald spots exposed between tufts of textile. not.a.good.look. luckily the lighting in the room was purposefully reduced to a weak glow, concealing most of the flaws behind a heavy application of shadow.
the walls were bruised, bare, and stabbed with holes, assaulted with the deadly weapons of metal tacks and picture frames. while it was obvious he didn't give much thought to his furniture, his electronics were another thing altogether. a huge plasma screen television hung from the wall to the right of me and there were speakers perched like crows in every corner of the room. directly to the left of the television was a receiver and multi-disc player, along with a tower of cds and dvds. my gaze fell upon the black box standing upright in the middle of the floor in front of the television, a shrine to hours of mindless activity.
"ps2...of course," i said knowingly. fingaz smirked.
"of course."
there was a scent wafting in the air...you know...the common smell found in all bachelor pads. it's the odor letting you know you're just one vagina in a long line of meaningless fucks...
"it smells like ass in here," i stated as i tilted my head upward and sniffed exaggerately, catching a wiff of cologne, "no...let me take that back...it smells like ass that's been splashed with 'farenheit'."
he played along (although to be fair, i wasn't joking).
"i've got some dirty drawers in my bedroom," he replied dryly, "wanna see?" (hopefully he was joking...)
"i'm sorry. it wasn't meant as an insult," contriteness colored my words, "i'm just sayin...every single guy i know has this same smell in his apartment."
"it comes with the cable," he deadpanned as he stepped around me and headed to the kitchen. a bark of laughter escaped my lips, ending in a hiccup. he turned to me with a brow lifted in inquiry.
"sometimes when i laugh, it ends with a hiccup." i said by way of explanation, shrugging nonchalantly. he nodded as he pulled two glass tumblers from his cabinet.
"you want anything to drink?" he asked, "i've got water, kool-aid, coke, wine, and henny."
"what kind of wine?"
"red."
"what kind of red wine?"
"the kind made from grapes fermented into an alcoholic beverage."
smart ass...
"i'll take a glass of that then."
how come dry wit makes me wet? that's a phenomena i've yet to figure out...
anyway, i was wet and we hadn't even eaten dinner yet. dinner turned out to be pizza ordered from da hut, with strawberries and cream for dessert (and no, that's not code for carnal activities ya nasty bastids). throughout the evening fingaz and i kept volleying barbs back and forth and i was enjoying myself thoroughly. he had a keen mind and as that's one thing guaranteed to make me wanna drop the grannies, i was ripe and ready by the time the midnight hour rolled around. meanwhile, i had to play it cool. eventually we were sitting side by side on the floor, paper plates pushed aside, ps2 controllers resting in our laps, a tumbler of wine in our hands. i was a bit lit and my whoremones were battling against my better judgement.
"it's getting late," i began with the statement certain to get a guy to speed up his action with a quickness, "i should be getting home."
he shook his head and smiled slyly, a devil's look in his eyes.
"it's still early. you don't have to leave now," he followed the script to a tee, adding seductively, "better yet, you don't have to leave at all..."
"nah," i continued with the farce, "i've gotta be somewhere in the morning."
fingaz stared at me intently. then he leaned over and plucked the tumbler from my hand, moving in to kiss me before i could say another word. his lips were...so very soft and warm, like the space beneath a down blanket on a winter morning. he slowly traced my lower lip with his tongue, painting illustrations of passion upon my mouth. i gasped as i opened my mouth eagerly and welcomed his invasion, slanting it beneath his like a droughted flower thirsty for a drop of rain. all of my senses overwhelmed me except for my common sense which had passed out an hour before, somewhere between the fourth and fifth glass of wine. the heat between us was building to an intolerable level as our hands began feverishly feasting on the form of the other. we ended up supine upon the floor, his body cloaking mine as i was pressed into the remnants of the rug. it was then i was briefly snatched out of the moment as the smell of dog shit hit my nostrils.
is that the carpet?!?
i quickly rolled us over until i was on top of him, pouring myself into him until we were a writhing mix of sipping lips, undulating hips, and straining grips. our clothes became cumbersome, muting the flames of our ardor like kindling that smoked but refused to spark. eventually the kiss ended with me slowly nipping his lips, unwilling to break the contact completely. we held each other closely until our breathing evened, then stared into each others eyes as the silence around us magnified the sound of our heartbeats.
it was time...
i rolled off of him until i was in a sitting position, dropping my chin to rest upon my drawn up knees. he stood up and held out his hand. i thought about refusing for all of a millisecond before i placed my hand in his. he pulled me up and led me to his bedroom...
_______________
pt. 3 tomorrow (don't be mad...it's too damn long as it is!)
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
why u wanna go and do that? pt. 1(conclusion tomorrow)
[i finally got around to finishing this story so i've gotta repost the beginning so you can understand the end...]
i couldn't believe it.
this mothafucka was lying to me all up in my grill, just like a scene out of one of those hood flicks where the brotha is standing there telling his girl "it ain't what it looks like" while his dick is standing at attention and glistening in the wind and some chick behind him is frantically pulling up her cum stained g-string panties with that 'this heffa look like she gonna beat the shit outta me' look on her face. it was positively surreal.
"i'm telling you, you dreamt that," he continued, his face straighter than baby girl's bang after a hit with the hot comb. meanwhile, my own expression was a nappy do of tightly coiled features, from the angrily braided brow right down to the cynically doubled-twisted lips sticking out from 'tween twin cheeks puffed with indignation. he was standing there in his boxers, his arms crossing his broad chest, the chest i had just a few hours earlier kissed over every inch with my lips. he looked damn sexy...and guilty as fuck.
"for real dude...i don't EVER dream about shit like that..." i replied, incredulous that he was continuing with this farce. if i had known the brotha was willing to boldface lie like this i wouldn't have fucked him in the first place. wait, i'm lying. i would have fucked him, but i wouldn't have stuck around long enough for him to have an opportunity to boldface lie to me.
it was three in the morning, way too late/early for us to even be having that discussion. certainly it should have been too early for him to straight up lie like that. i mean, the most effective lying takes place between the hours of of 7:30 a.m. and 1 a.m. when people fabricate plausible excuses for not going to work or come up with that effective bullshit line to make the booty call go down without incident. instead he was in that black hole of time when negros say ridiculous shit like "we don't need no condom" or "that's just my momma calling me". you know, when lies that have little chance of convincing a person with half a brain are uttered nonetheless.
i sighed deeply and waited for him to answer me, my mind drifting back to when i'd first met him a month before...
_________________
it was a friday night in july. a warm breeze made its way across my body like a lover's tongue, licking my skin and plastering my clothes to my body. candice and i had been to a club damn near every weekend since june, but we had yet to visit this spot. i stared at the building, noting the disheveled bricks making up the old building we were walking towards. it didn't look like much, but i was excited cuz i'd heard it was the most popular friday night spot in atlanta for us black folk. i could already hear the music from the live band kissing the air around us as we stepped in line and waited for entrance.
"what's the name of this place again?" i'd asked candice.
"'rollers'," she'd responded casually, as she glanced around her at the other people headed in the same direction.
pulling out my i.d., i looked up and into the face of one of the security guys at the door. i stopped mid-motion, caught up in the brown depths of his eyes. well looky here...
i placed my stare at his feet and climbed the mountain of his form with my eyes, finding a foothold on his thick thighs before leaping over the bulge between his legs, landing at the flat terrain of his stomach. i walked the rest of the way up, stopping to appreciate the scenery his broad shoulders provided before crawling up a thick neck. i took a leasurely stroll through the field of his soft lips, admiring the curve of his nose before finally ending at the oasis of his eyes.
now i could have said some really corny shit like "make sure you frisk me real thorough-like" but then i'd have had to supply the cheesy porn music. i can almost hear it...the gutter-grown guitar puffing out smoky notes to hover like rings in the air while the sleazy saxaphone skeets sound onto my eardrums. *shudders*
but i digre...uh, sorry chele...i mean, i've been led astray from the initial topic of discussion.
anywho, so dude was fine and gainfully employed, ergo he had potential. i handed him my i.d., my eyes still climbing his rugged terrain with a slow thoroughness. he frowned as he stared at it.
"just call me nikki," i replied before he could open his mouth and mangle my name. looking up, he smiled at the purposeful purr of my voice. his wireframe glasses sat on his cheeks, an attractive addition to an already damn near flawless facade.
"i'm 'fingaz'" * name has been changed to protect the guilty.
i leaned over slightly and sniffed him covertly. lavender and clove with a hint of cedar...cool...no baby powder, which means he doesn't have his balls coated in that shit.
"no baby powder," i murmured as i inhaled deeply.
"what?" he asked confused.
"uh, nothing," i said quickly, my face a mask of innocence.
candice, who had walked into the spot before me, stepped back through the doors and looked at me with that 'i can't take yo ass nowhere' look on her face.
"you ready?" she asked impatiently, her voice almost drowned out by the live music blasting through the opening. fingaz was definitely appealing but there were too many fine brothas up in the cut for me to be latching onto the first one at the door.
"yeah," i said as i turned to fingaz and held out my hand for my i.d.
"i'm gonna hold onto this," he said, his voice all dark and smoky like a jazz tavern with deliberately low lighting. it brought to mind miles davis sitting on a stool on a stage bathed in blue light, his lips seducing the notes to 'round about midnight' from the mouth of his trumpet while the burning butt of an unfiltered cigarette dangles precariously from the edges of a plastic ashtray placed next to his right knee. (sometimes my imagination gets too specific with shit...oh well). he tucked my i.d. in his shirt pocket and smiled devilishly. i lifted a brow at that.
"what for?"
"so you can't leave without talking to me."
a slow smile spread across my face as i took on the meaning of what he was saying and tucked it into my mind for comprehension.
"alright then..." i finally said nonchalant-like, although i'm sure my cheesy grin let him know what the deal was. so candice and i stepped into the pool hall and headed toward the stairs to get away from the crushing crowd. i tugged at the mini-skirt i was wearing, conscious of the open face of the steps which would give anyone standing beneath them a clear view to the granny panties i was wearing that night (hey, YOU might not mind the feeling of satin floss cutting into the crack between your sweaty buttcheeks but i ain't the one for that shit. i've got a big ass with a big crack. it was hot and the panties were cotton. 'nuff said.)
anyway, so candice and i are now upstairs chillin and checking out the brothas. meanwhile, my mind was on the cat holding my i.d. in his front pocket. i started cataloguing his features in my mind...about 6'2 give or take an inch, 220 to 230 lbs all in the right places, broad shoulders, nice tight ass, sculpted legs slightly bowed, full lips brushed with a mustache, high cheekbones, seductive brown eyes, a smoothly bald head, and skin dark and rich like a chocolate truffle. sheeyit!
"er, i'm going back outside," i said as i turned to candice. she smirked, a knowing look in her eyes, but said nothing. i sauntered down the stairs and through the front door, pulling out my cell phone as i did so. i used the patented 'call someone and play like you didn't really walk out there just to talk to that cat' move. i strut about ten yards away from fingaz (ever mindful of the fact his gaze was no doubt focused on my ass) and flipped my phone open, scanning the list to see who i could call.
the person i would usually call when using this particular maneuver was in the pool hall, so i had to go to tried and true number two - my brother. i quick dialed him as i turned and made a covert glance in fingaz's direction. he was staring at me. i dropped my gaze to the sidewalk and pressed the phone to my ear. of course swad would pick this night not to answer his damn phone. i hung up before it went to voicemail and started scrolling down the list of folk in my phone book. by this time fingaz had walked over and was standing next to me. i saw his dark shadow break up the concrete grey of the sidewalk and lifted my head to look at him. the devilish grin had returned.
"you know you came out here to talk to me so you can end that call now."
oh...it's like that?
i shook my head, rolling my eyes as i flipped my phone closed...
i couldn't believe it.
this mothafucka was lying to me all up in my grill, just like a scene out of one of those hood flicks where the brotha is standing there telling his girl "it ain't what it looks like" while his dick is standing at attention and glistening in the wind and some chick behind him is frantically pulling up her cum stained g-string panties with that 'this heffa look like she gonna beat the shit outta me' look on her face. it was positively surreal.
"i'm telling you, you dreamt that," he continued, his face straighter than baby girl's bang after a hit with the hot comb. meanwhile, my own expression was a nappy do of tightly coiled features, from the angrily braided brow right down to the cynically doubled-twisted lips sticking out from 'tween twin cheeks puffed with indignation. he was standing there in his boxers, his arms crossing his broad chest, the chest i had just a few hours earlier kissed over every inch with my lips. he looked damn sexy...and guilty as fuck.
"for real dude...i don't EVER dream about shit like that..." i replied, incredulous that he was continuing with this farce. if i had known the brotha was willing to boldface lie like this i wouldn't have fucked him in the first place. wait, i'm lying. i would have fucked him, but i wouldn't have stuck around long enough for him to have an opportunity to boldface lie to me.
it was three in the morning, way too late/early for us to even be having that discussion. certainly it should have been too early for him to straight up lie like that. i mean, the most effective lying takes place between the hours of of 7:30 a.m. and 1 a.m. when people fabricate plausible excuses for not going to work or come up with that effective bullshit line to make the booty call go down without incident. instead he was in that black hole of time when negros say ridiculous shit like "we don't need no condom" or "that's just my momma calling me". you know, when lies that have little chance of convincing a person with half a brain are uttered nonetheless.
i sighed deeply and waited for him to answer me, my mind drifting back to when i'd first met him a month before...
_________________
it was a friday night in july. a warm breeze made its way across my body like a lover's tongue, licking my skin and plastering my clothes to my body. candice and i had been to a club damn near every weekend since june, but we had yet to visit this spot. i stared at the building, noting the disheveled bricks making up the old building we were walking towards. it didn't look like much, but i was excited cuz i'd heard it was the most popular friday night spot in atlanta for us black folk. i could already hear the music from the live band kissing the air around us as we stepped in line and waited for entrance.
"what's the name of this place again?" i'd asked candice.
"'rollers'," she'd responded casually, as she glanced around her at the other people headed in the same direction.
pulling out my i.d., i looked up and into the face of one of the security guys at the door. i stopped mid-motion, caught up in the brown depths of his eyes. well looky here...
i placed my stare at his feet and climbed the mountain of his form with my eyes, finding a foothold on his thick thighs before leaping over the bulge between his legs, landing at the flat terrain of his stomach. i walked the rest of the way up, stopping to appreciate the scenery his broad shoulders provided before crawling up a thick neck. i took a leasurely stroll through the field of his soft lips, admiring the curve of his nose before finally ending at the oasis of his eyes.
now i could have said some really corny shit like "make sure you frisk me real thorough-like" but then i'd have had to supply the cheesy porn music. i can almost hear it...the gutter-grown guitar puffing out smoky notes to hover like rings in the air while the sleazy saxaphone skeets sound onto my eardrums. *shudders*
but i digre...uh, sorry chele...i mean, i've been led astray from the initial topic of discussion.
anywho, so dude was fine and gainfully employed, ergo he had potential. i handed him my i.d., my eyes still climbing his rugged terrain with a slow thoroughness. he frowned as he stared at it.
"just call me nikki," i replied before he could open his mouth and mangle my name. looking up, he smiled at the purposeful purr of my voice. his wireframe glasses sat on his cheeks, an attractive addition to an already damn near flawless facade.
"i'm 'fingaz'" * name has been changed to protect the guilty.
i leaned over slightly and sniffed him covertly. lavender and clove with a hint of cedar...cool...no baby powder, which means he doesn't have his balls coated in that shit.
"no baby powder," i murmured as i inhaled deeply.
"what?" he asked confused.
"uh, nothing," i said quickly, my face a mask of innocence.
candice, who had walked into the spot before me, stepped back through the doors and looked at me with that 'i can't take yo ass nowhere' look on her face.
"you ready?" she asked impatiently, her voice almost drowned out by the live music blasting through the opening. fingaz was definitely appealing but there were too many fine brothas up in the cut for me to be latching onto the first one at the door.
"yeah," i said as i turned to fingaz and held out my hand for my i.d.
"i'm gonna hold onto this," he said, his voice all dark and smoky like a jazz tavern with deliberately low lighting. it brought to mind miles davis sitting on a stool on a stage bathed in blue light, his lips seducing the notes to 'round about midnight' from the mouth of his trumpet while the burning butt of an unfiltered cigarette dangles precariously from the edges of a plastic ashtray placed next to his right knee. (sometimes my imagination gets too specific with shit...oh well). he tucked my i.d. in his shirt pocket and smiled devilishly. i lifted a brow at that.
"what for?"
"so you can't leave without talking to me."
a slow smile spread across my face as i took on the meaning of what he was saying and tucked it into my mind for comprehension.
"alright then..." i finally said nonchalant-like, although i'm sure my cheesy grin let him know what the deal was. so candice and i stepped into the pool hall and headed toward the stairs to get away from the crushing crowd. i tugged at the mini-skirt i was wearing, conscious of the open face of the steps which would give anyone standing beneath them a clear view to the granny panties i was wearing that night (hey, YOU might not mind the feeling of satin floss cutting into the crack between your sweaty buttcheeks but i ain't the one for that shit. i've got a big ass with a big crack. it was hot and the panties were cotton. 'nuff said.)
anyway, so candice and i are now upstairs chillin and checking out the brothas. meanwhile, my mind was on the cat holding my i.d. in his front pocket. i started cataloguing his features in my mind...about 6'2 give or take an inch, 220 to 230 lbs all in the right places, broad shoulders, nice tight ass, sculpted legs slightly bowed, full lips brushed with a mustache, high cheekbones, seductive brown eyes, a smoothly bald head, and skin dark and rich like a chocolate truffle. sheeyit!
"er, i'm going back outside," i said as i turned to candice. she smirked, a knowing look in her eyes, but said nothing. i sauntered down the stairs and through the front door, pulling out my cell phone as i did so. i used the patented 'call someone and play like you didn't really walk out there just to talk to that cat' move. i strut about ten yards away from fingaz (ever mindful of the fact his gaze was no doubt focused on my ass) and flipped my phone open, scanning the list to see who i could call.
the person i would usually call when using this particular maneuver was in the pool hall, so i had to go to tried and true number two - my brother. i quick dialed him as i turned and made a covert glance in fingaz's direction. he was staring at me. i dropped my gaze to the sidewalk and pressed the phone to my ear. of course swad would pick this night not to answer his damn phone. i hung up before it went to voicemail and started scrolling down the list of folk in my phone book. by this time fingaz had walked over and was standing next to me. i saw his dark shadow break up the concrete grey of the sidewalk and lifted my head to look at him. the devilish grin had returned.
"you know you came out here to talk to me so you can end that call now."
oh...it's like that?
i shook my head, rolling my eyes as i flipped my phone closed...
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
repost - ten signs you're addicted to your battery-powered friend
[reposting is really helping me to get myself back into blogging rhythm so here's another one.]
there was a time when i simply couldn't get enough of my dildo. i masturbated twice a day everyday and was aiight with it cuz i was single and had no prospective dick on the horizon. eventually though, i had to take a step back and check my behavior. turns out i was addicted to the damn dildo.
so in an attempt to help out sistas everywhere who might find themselves in a similar situation, i've devised a list of symptoms for the 'dildo addict'. hopefully you don't see yourself in any of these things as i did. if you do, i'll pray for your salvation. LOL
1. you've named your dildo.
now this isn't to say that you shouldn't name it. it's only a problem when you take longer than five minutes to name it, like you actually put more effort into naming it than you would in naming your firstborn. i came up with the name 'stroker ace' after ten minutes of trying to find a name that was both witty and apt. i wanted the name to sound melodious when i screamed it at the height of my orgasm, which brings me to the second symptom of 'dildo addiction'...
2. you call out its name at any time during your masturbation session.
uh, it's an inanimate object. it's the equivalent of yelling out 'sofa' after finding bliss within its cushions or exclaiming 'car' after it saved you a couple of bucks on gas. if you can't get a response from it, then you don't need to be yelling out its name. when i did it the first time, i had to giggle at myself for doing such a ridiculous thing. after i did it again, i had to wonder if i should be institutionalized.
3. you dream about it at night.
i'm not just talking about dreaming about it laying on your nightstand. i mean having sex dreams about it and waking up with bedsheets drenched in your cum. i mean dreaming of marrying it and having little mini dildos to be sold off later at an adult toy store and actually mourning the loss of your 'children' as they're being sold into sex slavery. if you've dreamed of being impregnated by your dildo, it's definitely time to put that sucka on the shelf for a while.
4. you have to fantasize about it in order to get horny enough to orgasm...during sex with an actual human being.
sure it's the perfect lover in alot of respects. i mean, except for the low whirring noise of the vibrating mechanism, it's relatively silent. it won't be giving you grief a week later when you haven't called it, won't be blowing up your cell phone with stupid inquries about where you are and who you're with. it won't cheat on you and it doesn't mind being under your complete control. all that said, it's still only a penis shaped instrument made of rubber. it's rather limited in what it can do, and there are times when you don't want to have to use your arm to get off. that's where live dick comes in. of course there are risks. live dick could be carrying an std, but that's what condoms are for. live dick could be attached to a cat who will end up bugging the living shit out of you about when you two can get together again. live dick might even be small dick, which comes with its own set of problems. either way, live dick can stroke you deeply and thoroughly and hit you at angles your dildo just can't. oh, and live dick is attached to a body you can hold close and lips you can kiss to your hearts content. those attributes make it the naturally superior choice between the two. if you can't see that, put the dildo down. NOW.
5. you fiend for it when you're away so you keep it in your bag at all times.
i was so nose open over 'stroker ace', i was forced to carry it everywhere with me cuz it seemed like my clit was forever calling out for it. i almost had to slap the bitch silly when she whined to me about how lonely she was and how she just wanted it to stroke her for a second, until she didn't feel lonely anymore. her voice was in my ears, pleading for me to bring stroker to work with me. i ultimately relented, but i wasn't happy about it. one time i actually had to leave a meeting because the pull was so strong. i grabbed stroker and headed for my car, where i had at it for about five minutes. mind you, i was amazingly relaxed afterwards, but i'm sure somebody smelled the scent of sex on my skirt...
6. you treat it like a human being.
when 'it' turns into 'he', that's the beginning of the end. when you envision introducing 'him' to your friends and then watching them grow green with envy after viewing 'his' obvious perfection, then you're close to the end. when you start contemplating ways of inviting 'him' over to your parents' house to meet mom and pops, the end is right before you. anything else like buying 'him' clothes, telling 'him' you'll pay his bills, and/or cooking 'him' what you perceive to be his favorite dish means you've jumped off the deep end. let's not even BEGIN to address what's wrong with you if you start TALKING to 'him'. your sanity has left you and you are now officially a crazy mothafucka.
7. your clit has overdosed on its presence.
overdosed as in 'it hurts to close your legs cuz you been shaking the shit out of your clit'. there is such a thing as too much exposure. if your dildo sees more of your clit than your boyfriend would (if you had one), then it's time for an intervention. i remember times when my clit hurt so bad i considered having the damn thing removed. then there was the time when i had to fake an orgasm with a fuck buddy because my clit was so sensitive, every time he stroked it felt like my clit was being scratched with sandpaper. you do not want this to happen to you. if you feel your clit becoming overly raw from your constant dildo action, stop yourself before you do permanent damage.
8. you try to give it oral sex.
there is no joy in sucking a penis-shaped piece of rubber. there just ain't. there is no pre-cum to lick off of the sensitive head. there are no veins pumping with life to trace with your tongue. there is no heat to feel on your lips or in your mouth. there is no responsive stick jumping and throbbing as you engulf it down to the base. there is no scrotum to take in your mouth before humming. there is no warm cum to swallow. all you've got is a cold, vibrating piece of rubber. if you find that appealing, you might as well just stick a shoe in your mouth.
if you've experienced any of the aforementioned symptoms, it's time for you to drop that dildo and seek counseling. in the meanwhile, stay away from cucumbers, zuchini, thick writing utensils like jumbo sharpies, tv remote control pads, staplers, sixteen or twenty ounce bottles, or any other elongated item that might give you the uncontrollable urge to stick it up your twat.
cuz i'm telling you, staples hurt like FUCK when you're pulling them from your pussy lips. at least, uh...that's what i've heard...
there was a time when i simply couldn't get enough of my dildo. i masturbated twice a day everyday and was aiight with it cuz i was single and had no prospective dick on the horizon. eventually though, i had to take a step back and check my behavior. turns out i was addicted to the damn dildo.
so in an attempt to help out sistas everywhere who might find themselves in a similar situation, i've devised a list of symptoms for the 'dildo addict'. hopefully you don't see yourself in any of these things as i did. if you do, i'll pray for your salvation. LOL
1. you've named your dildo.
now this isn't to say that you shouldn't name it. it's only a problem when you take longer than five minutes to name it, like you actually put more effort into naming it than you would in naming your firstborn. i came up with the name 'stroker ace' after ten minutes of trying to find a name that was both witty and apt. i wanted the name to sound melodious when i screamed it at the height of my orgasm, which brings me to the second symptom of 'dildo addiction'...
2. you call out its name at any time during your masturbation session.
uh, it's an inanimate object. it's the equivalent of yelling out 'sofa' after finding bliss within its cushions or exclaiming 'car' after it saved you a couple of bucks on gas. if you can't get a response from it, then you don't need to be yelling out its name. when i did it the first time, i had to giggle at myself for doing such a ridiculous thing. after i did it again, i had to wonder if i should be institutionalized.
3. you dream about it at night.
i'm not just talking about dreaming about it laying on your nightstand. i mean having sex dreams about it and waking up with bedsheets drenched in your cum. i mean dreaming of marrying it and having little mini dildos to be sold off later at an adult toy store and actually mourning the loss of your 'children' as they're being sold into sex slavery. if you've dreamed of being impregnated by your dildo, it's definitely time to put that sucka on the shelf for a while.
4. you have to fantasize about it in order to get horny enough to orgasm...during sex with an actual human being.
sure it's the perfect lover in alot of respects. i mean, except for the low whirring noise of the vibrating mechanism, it's relatively silent. it won't be giving you grief a week later when you haven't called it, won't be blowing up your cell phone with stupid inquries about where you are and who you're with. it won't cheat on you and it doesn't mind being under your complete control. all that said, it's still only a penis shaped instrument made of rubber. it's rather limited in what it can do, and there are times when you don't want to have to use your arm to get off. that's where live dick comes in. of course there are risks. live dick could be carrying an std, but that's what condoms are for. live dick could be attached to a cat who will end up bugging the living shit out of you about when you two can get together again. live dick might even be small dick, which comes with its own set of problems. either way, live dick can stroke you deeply and thoroughly and hit you at angles your dildo just can't. oh, and live dick is attached to a body you can hold close and lips you can kiss to your hearts content. those attributes make it the naturally superior choice between the two. if you can't see that, put the dildo down. NOW.
5. you fiend for it when you're away so you keep it in your bag at all times.
i was so nose open over 'stroker ace', i was forced to carry it everywhere with me cuz it seemed like my clit was forever calling out for it. i almost had to slap the bitch silly when she whined to me about how lonely she was and how she just wanted it to stroke her for a second, until she didn't feel lonely anymore. her voice was in my ears, pleading for me to bring stroker to work with me. i ultimately relented, but i wasn't happy about it. one time i actually had to leave a meeting because the pull was so strong. i grabbed stroker and headed for my car, where i had at it for about five minutes. mind you, i was amazingly relaxed afterwards, but i'm sure somebody smelled the scent of sex on my skirt...
6. you treat it like a human being.
when 'it' turns into 'he', that's the beginning of the end. when you envision introducing 'him' to your friends and then watching them grow green with envy after viewing 'his' obvious perfection, then you're close to the end. when you start contemplating ways of inviting 'him' over to your parents' house to meet mom and pops, the end is right before you. anything else like buying 'him' clothes, telling 'him' you'll pay his bills, and/or cooking 'him' what you perceive to be his favorite dish means you've jumped off the deep end. let's not even BEGIN to address what's wrong with you if you start TALKING to 'him'. your sanity has left you and you are now officially a crazy mothafucka.
7. your clit has overdosed on its presence.
overdosed as in 'it hurts to close your legs cuz you been shaking the shit out of your clit'. there is such a thing as too much exposure. if your dildo sees more of your clit than your boyfriend would (if you had one), then it's time for an intervention. i remember times when my clit hurt so bad i considered having the damn thing removed. then there was the time when i had to fake an orgasm with a fuck buddy because my clit was so sensitive, every time he stroked it felt like my clit was being scratched with sandpaper. you do not want this to happen to you. if you feel your clit becoming overly raw from your constant dildo action, stop yourself before you do permanent damage.
8. you try to give it oral sex.
there is no joy in sucking a penis-shaped piece of rubber. there just ain't. there is no pre-cum to lick off of the sensitive head. there are no veins pumping with life to trace with your tongue. there is no heat to feel on your lips or in your mouth. there is no responsive stick jumping and throbbing as you engulf it down to the base. there is no scrotum to take in your mouth before humming. there is no warm cum to swallow. all you've got is a cold, vibrating piece of rubber. if you find that appealing, you might as well just stick a shoe in your mouth.
if you've experienced any of the aforementioned symptoms, it's time for you to drop that dildo and seek counseling. in the meanwhile, stay away from cucumbers, zuchini, thick writing utensils like jumbo sharpies, tv remote control pads, staplers, sixteen or twenty ounce bottles, or any other elongated item that might give you the uncontrollable urge to stick it up your twat.
cuz i'm telling you, staples hurt like FUCK when you're pulling them from your pussy lips. at least, uh...that's what i've heard...
Friday, October 05, 2007
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
a letter of apology
dear v
i've been meaning to write this letter for the longest time, only i've been too afraid because i know i have much to atone for. this is a letter of apology for all of the times i could have done right by you and didn't.
i think we started off on the wrong foot. the first time i met you was when that guy pointed you out to me and being so young, i had no idea who you were. i didn't know he wasn't supposed to touch you. i just did what i was told. it wasn't until afterwards when i told my brother the guy had put his hands on you that i realized i should have done a better job of protecting you. that experience left me feeling as if perhaps i shouldn't associate with you at all. you became dirty to me and i did everything i could to put thoughts of you out of my mind. i figured if i stopped thinking about you, you'd just disappear, but that was impossible. i mean, i had to use the bathroom so i was wiping you dry at least three times a day.
the next time i became aware of your presence, i was in a rather awkward position, remember? i had just finished perusing through some of my uncle's magazines when all of a sudden you came at me with demands i was ill-equipt to handle. i wasn't sure what you expected of me and ultimately became frustrated as you became more and more insistent. finally i took matters into my own hands, clumsily attempting to quiet you as i sat sprawled out on the bathroom floor of my grandmother's apartment. i didn't even know if my efforts would amount to anything but luckily, whatever it was i did seemed to calm you, even if was only a momentary reprieve. from that point on, our relationship changed. where once upon a time i was numbed to your existence, i suddenly couldn't move without being made aware of you.
my teenage years were littered with furtive minutes of fingers feverishly fondling the patched peach fuzz on your face, my attempts at getting a grip on your urges ultimately leaving both of us dissatisfied. my friends told me i couldn't handle you on my own, that i needed someone else to assist me in assuaging you. meanwhile, i still had bad memories of that guy and his hands and how he assaulted you and i just couldn't do it. little did i know i would again be unable to protect your interests.
in my defense, all i can say is i had no idea fred would behave as he did. i really thought he was a decent cat. looking back, i see the signs that should have clued me into his true nature, but i was only nineteen at the time and up until then had been relatively sheltered from the ills of the world. when i first met him, he had such a beautiful smile and i remember thinking to myself nobody with such a beautiful smile could be a bad person. that night he abused you, i never saw it coming. one minute we were watching television, the next minute we were arguing and he was tearing into you, bashing your face in with his 'night club' until all that was left was a landscape of raped innocence. i remember how you wept blood that night, your tears smeared all over his bedsheets, your lips swollen and cracked from the lashes of his brutal strokes. i touched you with my eyes closed, afraid i wouldn't recognize the feel of you. i cried for the loss of your pristine visage and then closed my legs, hoping to compress the distressing disfigurement into something whole again...only you weren't coal i could squeeze into a diamond 'tween my thighs.
over the succeeding years you were an open wound i carelessly bandaged with inadequate strips of casual copulation, unaware i would never find a salve of absolution within that kind of intimacy. you were there through it all...the crabs that that clung to your hair like lice, forcing me to shave you down to the skin...the foreign phalli choking you with their reckless invasions before belatedly retreating, the remains of their skeeted seed staining your terrain with shame...
you were always there, even when i wasn't. during those episodes, i could erase myself until you were all that was left, all they could see. i forced you to engage in scene with barely familiar partners, ad-libbing a bogus depiction of passion while they flubbed their lines of token pokes. i made you converse in faux contractions even when their actions left you bereft of satisfaction.
i'm not even sure when i stopped that kind of behavior. i guess it just became easier for me to go back to the tried and true method of handling your needs on my own. by this time i was older, so i was educated about various toys i could use to help you get what you wanted without all the bothersome stuff that came with actual physical intimacy. i thought you'd be fine with that considering all of the things that had happened before, but it's obvious you are no longer tolerant of this limited form of coupling. sometimes i hate writing about what i yearn for because i know you're just sitting there waiting for me to acknowledge what you've known all along...
our happiness is intertwined.
there, i admit it. i can no longer pretend you are not a porthole to my soul. i can no longer deny that when i allow for indifferent invasion of your domain i am also allowing for that same army to conquer my spirit. there really is no such thing as casual sex where i'm concerned. those past seminal experiences have heightened the importance of intimacy for me. i can joke about previous encounters and re-live those moments where i danced between laughter and tears with my bedmates, but i know i can no longer separate the act from the reaction. i can no longer just let a man thrust himself within me and trust i'll be aiight with no afterglow.
i deserve that afterglow. both of us do. i will settle for nothing less.
i will cherish you because i know in doing so, i also cherish myself. i ask that you be patient during this time because it means i'll have to continue the solo act of addressing your needs. i can't even promise you it'll be worth the wait because i'm still human, still learning how to trust, still discovering what it is i truly want. however, what i DO promise is that i will never again willingly allow anyone to disrespect you.
thank you for sticking with me through the highs and lows. i love you like a petulant sister.
nikki
p.s. my patience wants me to let you know she's wearing thin. evidently you've become insatiable as of late. i told her you just doing you, but the chick just won't let up. i think she still blames me for her dwarf-like stature. damn...sounds like another letter is in order, huh?
i've been meaning to write this letter for the longest time, only i've been too afraid because i know i have much to atone for. this is a letter of apology for all of the times i could have done right by you and didn't.
i think we started off on the wrong foot. the first time i met you was when that guy pointed you out to me and being so young, i had no idea who you were. i didn't know he wasn't supposed to touch you. i just did what i was told. it wasn't until afterwards when i told my brother the guy had put his hands on you that i realized i should have done a better job of protecting you. that experience left me feeling as if perhaps i shouldn't associate with you at all. you became dirty to me and i did everything i could to put thoughts of you out of my mind. i figured if i stopped thinking about you, you'd just disappear, but that was impossible. i mean, i had to use the bathroom so i was wiping you dry at least three times a day.
the next time i became aware of your presence, i was in a rather awkward position, remember? i had just finished perusing through some of my uncle's magazines when all of a sudden you came at me with demands i was ill-equipt to handle. i wasn't sure what you expected of me and ultimately became frustrated as you became more and more insistent. finally i took matters into my own hands, clumsily attempting to quiet you as i sat sprawled out on the bathroom floor of my grandmother's apartment. i didn't even know if my efforts would amount to anything but luckily, whatever it was i did seemed to calm you, even if was only a momentary reprieve. from that point on, our relationship changed. where once upon a time i was numbed to your existence, i suddenly couldn't move without being made aware of you.
my teenage years were littered with furtive minutes of fingers feverishly fondling the patched peach fuzz on your face, my attempts at getting a grip on your urges ultimately leaving both of us dissatisfied. my friends told me i couldn't handle you on my own, that i needed someone else to assist me in assuaging you. meanwhile, i still had bad memories of that guy and his hands and how he assaulted you and i just couldn't do it. little did i know i would again be unable to protect your interests.
in my defense, all i can say is i had no idea fred would behave as he did. i really thought he was a decent cat. looking back, i see the signs that should have clued me into his true nature, but i was only nineteen at the time and up until then had been relatively sheltered from the ills of the world. when i first met him, he had such a beautiful smile and i remember thinking to myself nobody with such a beautiful smile could be a bad person. that night he abused you, i never saw it coming. one minute we were watching television, the next minute we were arguing and he was tearing into you, bashing your face in with his 'night club' until all that was left was a landscape of raped innocence. i remember how you wept blood that night, your tears smeared all over his bedsheets, your lips swollen and cracked from the lashes of his brutal strokes. i touched you with my eyes closed, afraid i wouldn't recognize the feel of you. i cried for the loss of your pristine visage and then closed my legs, hoping to compress the distressing disfigurement into something whole again...only you weren't coal i could squeeze into a diamond 'tween my thighs.
over the succeeding years you were an open wound i carelessly bandaged with inadequate strips of casual copulation, unaware i would never find a salve of absolution within that kind of intimacy. you were there through it all...the crabs that that clung to your hair like lice, forcing me to shave you down to the skin...the foreign phalli choking you with their reckless invasions before belatedly retreating, the remains of their skeeted seed staining your terrain with shame...
you were always there, even when i wasn't. during those episodes, i could erase myself until you were all that was left, all they could see. i forced you to engage in scene with barely familiar partners, ad-libbing a bogus depiction of passion while they flubbed their lines of token pokes. i made you converse in faux contractions even when their actions left you bereft of satisfaction.
i'm not even sure when i stopped that kind of behavior. i guess it just became easier for me to go back to the tried and true method of handling your needs on my own. by this time i was older, so i was educated about various toys i could use to help you get what you wanted without all the bothersome stuff that came with actual physical intimacy. i thought you'd be fine with that considering all of the things that had happened before, but it's obvious you are no longer tolerant of this limited form of coupling. sometimes i hate writing about what i yearn for because i know you're just sitting there waiting for me to acknowledge what you've known all along...
our happiness is intertwined.
there, i admit it. i can no longer pretend you are not a porthole to my soul. i can no longer deny that when i allow for indifferent invasion of your domain i am also allowing for that same army to conquer my spirit. there really is no such thing as casual sex where i'm concerned. those past seminal experiences have heightened the importance of intimacy for me. i can joke about previous encounters and re-live those moments where i danced between laughter and tears with my bedmates, but i know i can no longer separate the act from the reaction. i can no longer just let a man thrust himself within me and trust i'll be aiight with no afterglow.
i deserve that afterglow. both of us do. i will settle for nothing less.
i will cherish you because i know in doing so, i also cherish myself. i ask that you be patient during this time because it means i'll have to continue the solo act of addressing your needs. i can't even promise you it'll be worth the wait because i'm still human, still learning how to trust, still discovering what it is i truly want. however, what i DO promise is that i will never again willingly allow anyone to disrespect you.
thank you for sticking with me through the highs and lows. i love you like a petulant sister.
nikki
p.s. my patience wants me to let you know she's wearing thin. evidently you've become insatiable as of late. i told her you just doing you, but the chick just won't let up. i think she still blames me for her dwarf-like stature. damn...sounds like another letter is in order, huh?
Monday, October 01, 2007
dating/sex myths debunked
myths are supposed to make the dating scene easier. i should be able to just look at a guy and based upon what i see, become instantly privy to intimate details regarding his dating/sexual habits. romantic comedies like coming to america should give me a realistic view of romance as it applies to my life. i should be able to walk out of my door and bump into a mullet-wearing african prince who came to america for the express purpose of marrying me and making me his princess.but it just don't go down like that.
i don't know how many times i've been unpleasantly surprised to discover the myth i've accepted as truth is indeed a cruel falsehood. therefore, i have taken it upon myself to provide this public announcement entry hoping it will guide you around the pitfalls that come with believing dating/sex myths.
1. all black men have big penises.
if you've been reading my blog for a while you've already read about my encounter with the mini penis. well, he's a black dude. now it's a strong possibility the guy was born with partial nephritis, as his penis was unnaturally small in proportion to his 6'1, 210 lb body. however, in all likelihood he's just like millions of other black males out there. he just ain't packing the part. meanwhile, it's extra important for us women to be mindful of this particular untruth as there are brothas out taking advantage of our ignorance. they're getting dates and promises for sex based on the myth alone. they're gaining access to quality coochie and too many of us women are forced to not only put up with the puny pinky-like appendages, but we end up pissed off and writing entries about it, putting all our biz out in the streets.
2. all white men have small penises.this is simply untrue. i've seen enough porn to verify this one (along with my own personal experiences, hehehe). plus, you can't tell me ger.ard butl.er has a small penis. no really, even if his is microscopic, don't tell me. he's too damn fine not to have a big penis.
3. black women don't suck dick.
i'm so sick of dudes telling me black women don't suck dick. we DO. if a black woman told you she doesn't suck dick it's probably cuz she doesn't wanna suck YOUR dick. she's probably smelling your balls through your tighty whiteys and fighting off nausea. have you even bothered to check down there to make sure your penile area is up to sniff? maybe she has seen your penis and finds it unattractive? you might have an ingrown hair or some other liquid secreting bump on or around your penis and who wants something smelly and/or ugly and/or bleeding in their mouths? certainly not me. if you want us to suck your dick, scrub the entire area, keep the hair groomed, and make the penis as pretty as possible. getting it circumsized if it hasn't been already isn't too much to ask. if you think it won't make a difference, consider this...jewish men are always smiling and it ain't just cuz they get to take offa work every other week for religious holidays.
then again, she might just be telling you that so you won't be expecting much. that way the act will be seen as a gift and better appreciated. remember how you play stupid at work so folk won't give you banal shit to do? same strategy here...
4. if he treats his momma like a queen, he'll treat you like a queen.
that ain't true cuz there can only be one queen, which means you're gonna be the peasant. if that dude has his momma on a pedestal, it guarantees you won't EVER be able to cook as good as his momma, clean as good as his momma, or take care of him as good as his momma cuz he probably living with his momma.
while she's getting all the royal treatment like spa packages and dinners to expensive restaurants, you're left with a wooden stick with balls on the end and a coupon to ste.ak and sha.ke. fuck THAT. what you want is a guy who only treats his momma 'aiight'. he doesn't call her a bitch or smack her in the mouf, but he thinks she can be bitchy sometimes and he probably thought about smacking her once or twice but had the self control to prevent himself from doing so. he buys her stuff for her birthday but he spends more money on a prostitute. in other words, he's comfortable with the idea of lavishing attention and money on a female while also understanding that the woman who gives him sex is way more important than the woman who gave him life.5. we all look the same with the lights off.
that's some bullshit. ugly ain't ultraviolet. you sit in the dark long enough and your eyes are gonna adjust. you'll be able to make out ugly cuz it glows. if you wanna know for sure where your own looks fall on the scale, turn off the lights. if you notice a phosphorous glow to your features, don't fret cuz knowing's half the battle. meanwhile, don't come looking for me cuz my looks are pitch black (and no, that is not a cloak i'm wearing, damnit.)
6. if he has a big penis, he's a good lover.
this is the kind of shit you might hear from a dude with a big dick:
"do you know how many women out there would kill to be stroked by this huge penis? hell, you needs to be glad i'm showing you attention at all."
"i don't do missionary, baby. either you on top or you out the door."
"what? you said something about stroking it a certain way to hit something called a 'g' spot? shit, i've got a big dick! i've hit spots representing the entire alphabet at least 20 times already without having to make one friggin move."
"DAMN girl! you told me you wanted me to get all up in dem guts, then when i do you curling up on the bed like a punk and complaining about how much the shit hurts. oh HELL nah..now you getting blood all on my sheets!"
"huh? you want me to eat your pussy? for real? look chick, i don't eat pussy. i've got a big dick. that's all i need. if you want someone to eat you out, call a dude with a little dick to do it."
only thing is...
7. if he has a small dick, he knows how to (or will willingly) eat the coochie.
is a lie too.
cuz if he has a small dick and he finds himself in the presence of naked vagina, he ain't wasting his time eating it when he knows this is probably the last time he's gonna see it this close for a while. thing is, women aren't stupid. if we're with a guy who can eat it out and he's got a small penis, that dude's gonna be eating it out ALL THE TIME. he might NEVER get a chance to stroke it. and seeing as dudes aren't stupid (most of the time anyway), they will withhold skills for the sake of achieving their own agendas. remember that strategy you use at work to avoid doing extra shit? works for them too...
8. if he's driving a luxury car, he's making money and that means nice stuff for you.
no, what that could mean is that he's barely making ends meet cuz he's paying a hellacious car note and insurance bill which in turn means alot of ramen noodle casseroles and nights where he says "let's just stay home and watch movies", which in turn is code for "i don't have enough money to cover gas, let alone movie tickets, and with your greedy ass i'll end up paying twenty bucks at the concession stand so we staying at the crib."
better yet, it could mean he saved up his money so he could rent that luxury vehicle for the weekend with the express purpose of finding gullible chicks like you who are easily enamored by leather seats and woodgrain dashboards. if his car or truck is notably absent from his driveway or apartment parking lot the following weekend, don't act surprised cuz you've been warned.
9. just because the male bought the female a dinner that cost over $200 per person doesn't mean she has to sleep with him.
oh yes the hell it does. you know good and damn well if the tables were turned the female would be looking at the dude like "i just paid two hundred bucks on your meal, buddy. you betta get naked, get down on your knees, and eat this coochie and you betta not stop until i tell you to or your tongue falls off, one or the other."
so if he put out loot for the grub, best to just get naked, lay back, turn off the lights, and hope he don't glow in the dark...unless you need the light to help you locate his miniscule penis.
10. you can tell when he's gay.
many times you can tell, but just as many times you can't. short of finding him with a dick up his butt or in his mouth, you're pretty much left to either asking him straight up if he's gay or checking the phone book on his mobile. if he's got an inordinant amount of male numbers in his phone, i.e. a ratio of like four guys for every one girl, then you're probably dealing with a guy who bats from both sides of the plate and he's probably only in your dugout for appearances sake. now there are some guys who are are heterosexual and actually have alot of frat brothers or athletic teammates, which is why this myth isn't completely true. meanwhile, if a single dude has like fifty males in his phonebook and only three or four females, i'm deducing he's gay until i ask him outright (and best believe, i'm gonna ask).
11. sonny from 'a bronx tale': "Alright, listen to me. You pull up right where she lives, right? Before you get outta the car, you lock both doors. Then, get outta the car, you walk over to her. You bring her over to the car. Dig out the key, put it in the lock and open the door for her. Then you let her get in. Then you close the door. Then you walk around the back of the car and look through the rear window. If she doesn't reach over and lift up that button so that you can get in: dump her."cologero: "Just like that?"
sonny: Listen to me, kid. If she doesn't reach over and lift up that button so that you can get in, that means she's a selfish broad and all you're seeing is the tip of the iceberg. You dump her and you dump her fast.
addendum from me: cuz best believe, once she realizes you still driving a car with manual locks, she's dropping your ass like the people's elbow, dude. come on...you can find an affordable car with automatic locks! and don't get it twisted...i'm SHALLOW, not SELFISH. those are two TOTALLY different things right there...
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
repost - the double standard of entering and exiting
[while i gather my thoughts for my next confessional, i figured i'd post an oldie. i'm sure most of you have read it, but there may be a new reader or two who hasn't. anyway, this is also something to remind me of the candor i wanna re-capture when i write, as i've noticed how effective i've been at censuring myself lately. here's hoping i knock myself out of such foolish behavior. anyway, that's my problem, not yours...]
i had just farted. and it wasn't the kind of fart where you go "whew! that didn't smell too bad..." no...it was the kind of fart that make you say out loud to yourself "DAYUM, that shit STINKS!", which is normally not all that bad when you're by yourself.
i was on the elevator at the time. luckily, i was also by myself, which was why i thought it was aiight to let it out, cuz my stomach started cramping and i really couldn't hold it in much longer. after scrunching up my face in distaste at the straight up rankness that had just been emitted from my ass, i backed up to the wall, hoping to escape the smell. then i forgot...farts follow. that smell followed me straight to the corner of the elevator.
and then the elevator stopped and the doors opened.
and he was standing there.
malik!
oh.my.god.
malik had just recently been hired and was working in the mailroom. the mailroom at my job is also known as the only place where a black man can find employment here and there was no denying the straight up, bonafide beauty of the black man standing in front of me at the entrance of the elevator.
the same elevator where i had just a minute ago let loose the kind of fart that smelled like something had crawled up into my ass and died.
i cringed inwardly as i watched him step into the elevator.
"wassup," he said, his eyebrow lifted in query as he watched me plant my ass firmly against the wall. i nodded with fake confidence, too embarrassed to say anything else, cuz i knew in a second he was gonna smell the fart of all farts.
turning to hit the button to the floor he was getting off on, i heard him take in a deep breath. i was facing his back when the moment came.
the moment when the air from the dead animal in my ass made it past his nostrils to burn the lining in his stomach.
i saw his shoulders stiffen and his frame become ramrod straight. i pressed my ass even more closely to the wall, as if the damage hadn't already been done. damn you asshole! this is all your fault!
now i've had various body parts fail me in the past during crucial moments. dry vagina during sex, blurry eyes while driving, hands that drop expensive vases on the floor, forgetting which floor i lived on...these things i was used to. but my anus had always been the one part of my anatomy that had never let me down. until now.
in the past, my "a-orafice" had come through for me like a champ, like the time when i ate a four omlette breakfast with a glass of prune juice (my grandma, y'all) and then had to make it through a four hour funeral with no bathroom in sight. that day, she was like fort knox! she was bolted down between buns of steel and she didn't let SHIT out.
then there were the numerous times when i had to fart while i was giving presentations. for some reason, whenever i'm about to do a public speaking engagement, gas just suddenly forms in my ass and i have to fart. i know it has to do with my nerves, but damn...how da hell does that happen???
anyway, so as i said, my "a-orafice" had my back when it counted, but not on this day. on this day, i was standing behind the finest brotha in the building, realizing he hadn't taken a breath since he first got on the elevator, knowing that whatever play i thought i was gonna get from him had vanished into thin air, the fart having killed it.
that was the longest minute of my life. we both held to our places in silence. he never turned towards me and i never pulled my ass from the wall as i stood in back of him. when the doors finally opened onto his floor, he practically jumped out of the elevator. he didn't even say goodbye.
but as the doors closed, i could hear him gasping as he tried to catch some air after holding his breath for the entire elevator ride.
i frantically started flapping my arms around, hoping to disperse the heinous smell still sitting in the air like a dirty ass on a clean couch. by the time i reached my floor, my arms were killing me.
the next time i saw malik was three weeks later at a department function. he saw me coming and discreetly turned to walk in the opposite direction.
i learned a lesson there. guys have no problem sticking a dick in your ass, but they have little tolerance for anything coming out of it.
i had just farted. and it wasn't the kind of fart where you go "whew! that didn't smell too bad..." no...it was the kind of fart that make you say out loud to yourself "DAYUM, that shit STINKS!", which is normally not all that bad when you're by yourself.
i was on the elevator at the time. luckily, i was also by myself, which was why i thought it was aiight to let it out, cuz my stomach started cramping and i really couldn't hold it in much longer. after scrunching up my face in distaste at the straight up rankness that had just been emitted from my ass, i backed up to the wall, hoping to escape the smell. then i forgot...farts follow. that smell followed me straight to the corner of the elevator.
and then the elevator stopped and the doors opened.
and he was standing there.
malik!
oh.my.god.
malik had just recently been hired and was working in the mailroom. the mailroom at my job is also known as the only place where a black man can find employment here and there was no denying the straight up, bonafide beauty of the black man standing in front of me at the entrance of the elevator.
the same elevator where i had just a minute ago let loose the kind of fart that smelled like something had crawled up into my ass and died.
i cringed inwardly as i watched him step into the elevator.
"wassup," he said, his eyebrow lifted in query as he watched me plant my ass firmly against the wall. i nodded with fake confidence, too embarrassed to say anything else, cuz i knew in a second he was gonna smell the fart of all farts.
turning to hit the button to the floor he was getting off on, i heard him take in a deep breath. i was facing his back when the moment came.
the moment when the air from the dead animal in my ass made it past his nostrils to burn the lining in his stomach.
i saw his shoulders stiffen and his frame become ramrod straight. i pressed my ass even more closely to the wall, as if the damage hadn't already been done. damn you asshole! this is all your fault!
now i've had various body parts fail me in the past during crucial moments. dry vagina during sex, blurry eyes while driving, hands that drop expensive vases on the floor, forgetting which floor i lived on...these things i was used to. but my anus had always been the one part of my anatomy that had never let me down. until now.
in the past, my "a-orafice" had come through for me like a champ, like the time when i ate a four omlette breakfast with a glass of prune juice (my grandma, y'all) and then had to make it through a four hour funeral with no bathroom in sight. that day, she was like fort knox! she was bolted down between buns of steel and she didn't let SHIT out.
then there were the numerous times when i had to fart while i was giving presentations. for some reason, whenever i'm about to do a public speaking engagement, gas just suddenly forms in my ass and i have to fart. i know it has to do with my nerves, but damn...how da hell does that happen???
anyway, so as i said, my "a-orafice" had my back when it counted, but not on this day. on this day, i was standing behind the finest brotha in the building, realizing he hadn't taken a breath since he first got on the elevator, knowing that whatever play i thought i was gonna get from him had vanished into thin air, the fart having killed it.
that was the longest minute of my life. we both held to our places in silence. he never turned towards me and i never pulled my ass from the wall as i stood in back of him. when the doors finally opened onto his floor, he practically jumped out of the elevator. he didn't even say goodbye.
but as the doors closed, i could hear him gasping as he tried to catch some air after holding his breath for the entire elevator ride.
i frantically started flapping my arms around, hoping to disperse the heinous smell still sitting in the air like a dirty ass on a clean couch. by the time i reached my floor, my arms were killing me.
the next time i saw malik was three weeks later at a department function. he saw me coming and discreetly turned to walk in the opposite direction.
i learned a lesson there. guys have no problem sticking a dick in your ass, but they have little tolerance for anything coming out of it.
Monday, September 24, 2007
just curious...
how come i have to go to high-income white neighborhoods in order to get some decent produce? what, poor and/or black folk don't eat vegetables? what's worse is that the prices are the same. i pay ten dollars for ten pounds of pears in the high-income area just like in the hood, only i don't have to sift through 100 pears for ten minutes to find four pears worth eating.
damn, can a sista get a friggin apple that doesn't look like it was given 30 lashes for talkin sass to de massa? is it too much to ask for a cucumber that's not soft enough to fart when squeezed? can someone hook a sista up with lettuce that ain't so brown it looks like it's got more melanin in it than i've got?
how come the only time racism generates marches is when it occurs in small southern towns? where is al sha.rpton when i need someone to march in protest of the fact that i'm the token negro working at a major university in a metropolitan city who's gonna hit the glass ceiling in about a year? where da hell is jesse when i need someone to rhyme about the unfair treatment i get at the gig on the daily?
"i'm not here to cause a commotion
i'm here cuz nikki deserves a promotion
stop 'humpin around' and 'don't be cruel'
or i'll bring mister 't' here to pity da fool!"
where in da hell are these guys during my job interviews when the interviewer is looking at my neatly coifed locs, dreading the fact i sought out a job at his company while glancing at any cracks in my resume in search of the perfect excuse to justify not considering me for the position? shit, i'm tired of that whole "redneck in the pick up truck is the racist" bullshit. turn that radar on and you'll find more than a few among the college-educated, northern born and residing, never slept with a relative, hil.ary cli.nton supporting, 'evolved' folk living outside of the south. i'll give it to the ones residing south of tha mason-dixon...at least you see the noose coming. much better than having the shit hiding behind 'politically-correct' banter...
...or residing in the hearts of the folk who think they're not racist cuz they've never called a black person 'ni.gger' even as they've tossed a resume into the wastebasket cuz the name on it was 'iesha jackson'.
...or existing in the minds of the folk who breathe the sigh of relief cuz they've got a token brohem (probably the lone black teamate from the high school basketball squad) stashed in the closet to whip out on those occasions when simply saying they've got a black friend won't clear them after saying something stupid like "my folk didn't own slaves so i didn't benefit from slavery."
how many times i gotta be that token brohem who gets invited to dinner parties thinking i'm gonna enjoy myself only to find out i'm the showpiece for the 'friend', the 'ask jeeveka' white folk come to for answers to perplexing questions like...
"why aren't more black people upset about michael vick killing dogs?" [dude, young black men are being killed on the daily over bullshit and i'm supposed to get weepy over some dogs? when the death of a dog begins to mean the end of the black community, get back at me and THAT'S when i'll be more upset about it.] or
"how do black people feel about barak obama" [he's a black dude running for president. shit, i fear for his life!] or
"why do black women seem so upset about stuff?" [probably cuz folk keep asking stupid questions like this one]
why is it the only time i've ever seen a white man defer to a black man in terms of his knowledge of something is when i saw it on 'remember the titans'? how come i never saw any of the white doctors on 'er' defer to pratt about anything that didn't involve gang violence and black patients?
how come in the midst of all that shouting in jena, nobody bothered to come up with the funds to get the kid out of jail on bail?
why is it david bowie can send ten grand to the jena legal defense fund but masta 'nigga' 'p'lease can't send a red cent when no doubt at least one of those six has either bought his cds or supported his music and they probably don't even know what a david bowie is?
why did i get an email telling me to wear black to support the jena six and nobody bothered to include the address of the defense committee so i could send money instead?
Jena 6 Defense Committee
P. O. Box 2798
Jena, LA 71342
what is a march gonna do for those kids other than generate a bunch of t-shirts and signs and hoarse, pissed off black folk? it damn sure ain't gonna change shit in jena cuz when the marchers bounce, those kids and the racist folk who reside there will still be there.
when did this harmless list of questions turn into a rant?
damn, can a sista get a friggin apple that doesn't look like it was given 30 lashes for talkin sass to de massa? is it too much to ask for a cucumber that's not soft enough to fart when squeezed? can someone hook a sista up with lettuce that ain't so brown it looks like it's got more melanin in it than i've got?
how come the only time racism generates marches is when it occurs in small southern towns? where is al sha.rpton when i need someone to march in protest of the fact that i'm the token negro working at a major university in a metropolitan city who's gonna hit the glass ceiling in about a year? where da hell is jesse when i need someone to rhyme about the unfair treatment i get at the gig on the daily?
"i'm not here to cause a commotion
i'm here cuz nikki deserves a promotion
stop 'humpin around' and 'don't be cruel'
or i'll bring mister 't' here to pity da fool!"
where in da hell are these guys during my job interviews when the interviewer is looking at my neatly coifed locs, dreading the fact i sought out a job at his company while glancing at any cracks in my resume in search of the perfect excuse to justify not considering me for the position? shit, i'm tired of that whole "redneck in the pick up truck is the racist" bullshit. turn that radar on and you'll find more than a few among the college-educated, northern born and residing, never slept with a relative, hil.ary cli.nton supporting, 'evolved' folk living outside of the south. i'll give it to the ones residing south of tha mason-dixon...at least you see the noose coming. much better than having the shit hiding behind 'politically-correct' banter...
...or residing in the hearts of the folk who think they're not racist cuz they've never called a black person 'ni.gger' even as they've tossed a resume into the wastebasket cuz the name on it was 'iesha jackson'.
...or existing in the minds of the folk who breathe the sigh of relief cuz they've got a token brohem (probably the lone black teamate from the high school basketball squad) stashed in the closet to whip out on those occasions when simply saying they've got a black friend won't clear them after saying something stupid like "my folk didn't own slaves so i didn't benefit from slavery."
how many times i gotta be that token brohem who gets invited to dinner parties thinking i'm gonna enjoy myself only to find out i'm the showpiece for the 'friend', the 'ask jeeveka' white folk come to for answers to perplexing questions like...
"why aren't more black people upset about michael vick killing dogs?" [dude, young black men are being killed on the daily over bullshit and i'm supposed to get weepy over some dogs? when the death of a dog begins to mean the end of the black community, get back at me and THAT'S when i'll be more upset about it.] or
"how do black people feel about barak obama" [he's a black dude running for president. shit, i fear for his life!] or
"why do black women seem so upset about stuff?" [probably cuz folk keep asking stupid questions like this one]
why is it the only time i've ever seen a white man defer to a black man in terms of his knowledge of something is when i saw it on 'remember the titans'? how come i never saw any of the white doctors on 'er' defer to pratt about anything that didn't involve gang violence and black patients?
how come in the midst of all that shouting in jena, nobody bothered to come up with the funds to get the kid out of jail on bail?
why is it david bowie can send ten grand to the jena legal defense fund but masta 'nigga' 'p'lease can't send a red cent when no doubt at least one of those six has either bought his cds or supported his music and they probably don't even know what a david bowie is?
why did i get an email telling me to wear black to support the jena six and nobody bothered to include the address of the defense committee so i could send money instead?
Jena 6 Defense Committee
P. O. Box 2798
Jena, LA 71342
what is a march gonna do for those kids other than generate a bunch of t-shirts and signs and hoarse, pissed off black folk? it damn sure ain't gonna change shit in jena cuz when the marchers bounce, those kids and the racist folk who reside there will still be there.
when did this harmless list of questions turn into a rant?
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
a lesson for the early bird
"Stop pushing me!" whined sperm one (s1), as his body was slammed up against the cervix wall.
"i'm not pushing you! you're getting in my fucking way!" growled sperm two (s2).
"You're really not being fair about this..."
"fair? this ain't no stroll through the park, dude. we're all competing for the chance to hit up an egg. hasn't anyone talked to you about this yet?"
"I'm perfectly aware of the task at hand," s1 responded frostily, "Meanwhile, must you shove me like this? It's not as if the eggs are going anywhere!"
"do you not see all of the other brethren around us? dude...this is a fucking RACE. get in the game!" s2 yelled impatiently, "better yet, just step aside, cuz it's obvious you don't have what it takes to fertilize an egg anyway..."
"insulting me is totally uncalled for," s1 replied indignantly.
"do i really look like i care?"
"you should! i'm pretty sure the creator would NOT appreciate your unsportsmanlike attitude."
"look...i'm trying to be nice about this because you're one of my folk, but really...you're working my last nerve."
"ahem...I'm also pretty sure we do not have nerves..."
"it was a figure of speech!" s2 exclaimed with exasperation, "i swear, you are soooooo not fertilizing that egg. you're a fucking moron."
"your vocabulary is absolutely stellar. i've no doubt if you were to fertilize the egg the ensuing child would be equally as stellar at things such as assault and battery of the english language, the family pets, and an inordinant amount of unsuspecting females," s1 said sarcastically, "Meanwhile, if you bothered to look around you, you'd realize we're both in first place."
s2 angrily turned his attention towards s1.
"the only reason you're still around is cuz you're hanging onto my coattails, punk."
"we don't have..."
"shut UP. SHIT!" s2 exclaimed before focusing his efforts on his task.
they swam frantically up the uterus until they got to the fallopian tube.
"there they are!" s2 exclaimed excitedly, sensing the cluster of eggs ahead of him, "now step aside punk and let a real sperm handle this!"
s2 then deliberately crashed into s1, propelling him into the wall of the tube as he scrambled ahead towards the first egg in his path.
"YOU BASTARD!" s1 screamed in his wake.
"aren't we all!" s2 yelled back, snickering as he raced forward, sure he was about to penetrate that egg at any second.
"you best slow ya roll playa," came the words, evidently from the egg. shocked, s2 came to a screeching halt right as he was about to poke her.
"you TALK?" s2 said, his surprise tripping the words, "nobody told me you eggs could talk!"
"this coming from the sperm who speaks despite the fact he has no mouth," egg replied dryly.
s2 thought about that a moment. how did he talk? he attempted to scratch his head in confusion, then realized he had no hands. he remained silent as his embarrassment grew. thirty seconds later he still hadn't figured out what to say. egg's patience broke.
"let's just say we find a way to communicate to each other and leave it at that, k?" gritted egg, annoyed at s2's obvious lack of intelligence.
s2 gave a sheepish laugh, then bristled. what the fuck was he embarrassed about? he didn't come here to make small talk. he came here to get up in dem guts.
"just so you know, i heard that."
s2 stiffened.
"heard what?" he asked innocently.
"'get up in dem guts?'" she quoted before adding disdainfully, "you can't be serious."
"you read minds too?!?"
"technically, you don't have a mind."
"oh shit, not you too..." s2 groaned.
"i'm saying," continued egg matter-of-factly, " you can't expect to just run up into a sista without some form of courting."
s2 was speechless. what the fuck? did this chick...
"not chick," egg interrupted his thought, "EGG, dude. EGG."
does this EGG really expect me to woo her?
"yes," she replied to his thought, "i expect you to woo me."
s2 was incredulous.
"what kind of wooing could you possibly expect from a sperm?!?" s2 asked exasperately, "ain't no candy or flowers or jewelry anywhere up in here!"
there was a thoughtful pause before egg finally responded.
"how about some poetry?"
s2 felt as though he was living someone else's nightmare. surely i'm not here in front of an egg being thwarted from my life's mission because the chi..uh, EGG wants me to quote her some poetry? really, this is too much.
he glanced around her, noticing the other eggs sitting there ready for the poking.
man, fuck THIS. i can get with one of the other...
"none of us eggs is gonna give it up without at least a little bit of poetry, dude." egg said in response to his unspoken intent. the other eggs moved in agreement.
"you've GOT to be JOKING."
"no, i'm not," egg said stubbornly, "so if you want to get up in THESE guts you best represent."
s2 knew when he was beat. he sighed heavily as he glanced dejectedly at the other eggs. SHIT.
"whatever, dude. just hop to it," said egg, "and be quick about it cuz your brethren will be here any second."
s2 suddenly sensed the other sperm speeding through the uterus. desperately, he tried to come up with something, ANYTHING that would pass as a poem.
"roses are red," he sputtered frantically.
"oh HELL nah," egg said.
"GOTDAMNIT!," s2 bellowed angrily.
"try again," egg responded, unmoved by his frustration.
s2 began to quiver nervously. think! THINK!
AHA!
"there once was a man from..."
"for real?" egg interrupted again, disbelief lacing her words, "that's all you got?!?"
"HOLD ON DAMNIT!"
s2 could sense the other sperm entering the mouth of the fallopian tube. he took a deep breath...
"say baby...can i be your slave?"
"is your name darius?" asked egg derisively, "cuz if it ain't, that shit right there ain't original."
that was IT. s2 had had ENOUGH.
"look here chick, egg, or whatever the fuck you call yourself! i really don't need your permission to do what i gotta do, so either you let me have at it or i'm gonna just take it and ask questions late..."
"OUCH!" exclaimed egg in surprise, "THAT HURTS!"
that's when s2 noticed a tail slithering into egg from behind. s1 had snuck in the back door when nobody was paying attention.
"thank you ever so much for the diversion," came muffled words from inside the egg.
"SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT!" s2 raged.
s2 heard s1's snicker as the transformation began. before the process was complete, s1's final words echoed mockingly...
"stellar vocabulary as always. unfortunately, you should have known when to speak and when to shut up, because the wordy sperm only gets 'shit' in return, idiot."
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
blogger's den, week 1
week one of fantasy football in blogger's den made for many close match ups, a few blow-outs, and one ralley from behind in the fading minutes.
cleveland steamers (king or 'ddot') was thoroughly trounced by yours truly. he talked much smack all week long which ultimately prompted me to shoot him a quick email in the wake of my aformentioned victory:
i am sorry for your loss...
i knew your pride pretty well. we used to work together on stuff. although i knew it'd been suffering from morbid obesity for a while and death was immiment, i had no idea it's existence would be taken away from us so violently, nor could i have imagined it would be at the hands of an entire squad of fantasy league football players. i remember advising it to recognize the dangers of extending itself too far but you know how reckless your pride could be. despite it's moments of bloated behavior and impulsive nature, i appreciated your pride for what it was and am sad it is no more.
it will truly be missed.
my sincerest condolences
nikki
sweet, sweet revenge...
el deguello was just as impressive in his first victory, aided in part by peyton manning's performance on thursday vs. the saints. truthz tried to rally at the end but couldn't overcome the fact she picked adam vineteri in the first round of the draft (yeah girl, i'm gonna be harping on that move for the rest of the season).
atl hitmen (my buddy herb) pulled out a win against the boo boo roughriders (my cousin lamount). lamount (known to you long-time readers as 'little man'), needs to work on his trash-talking skill, paying particular attention to his spelling and grammar. i don't know what they're teaching him in school but the boy is 14 and should know how to spell 'sorry'.
black socrates and funkytown phoenix were going back and forth with the lead all weekend and went down to the wire as both guys had a few guys in both games last night. in the end though, funkytown's cornerback adrian wilson proved to be the difference maker as his eight point performance put him over the top for good.
morris brown (dex) ended up losing to a guy who didn't even bother to set up his defense (the bullies) and frankly, i'm appalled.. and perhaps even a bit ashamed.
lock and load made a flurry of last second pick ups and drops prior to his showdown with morgan state bears . unfortunately, his efforts proved futile as the bears, despite piss poor play from starting quarterback phil rivers (-.25 points), found a way to squeak out the victory. that has to burn just a little bit...
and finally, in what involved the most trash-talking between opponents, bad attitude eeked out a victory against my darkhorse pick for league champion, aquababie. i gotta give my girl aqua props cuz this is her first year and she's already picking up players like a pro.
standings after the first week. please note i'm in first place (as is the natural order of things).
Monday, August 20, 2007
monday-musings
finally made it back after an extended stay in "i-don't-feel-like-writing-a-GAWT-damn-thing-ville". now i've taken up residence in "aww-SHIT-i-gotta-read-ALL-these-fucking-blogs-land"
i hope you folk have been doing aiight out there. hopefully when i get to your spots i'll only be reading about good shit like love and babies and ice cream and puppies.
how come everybody thinks just cuz i live in atlanta that i have insight into the michael vick situation? look, i ain't in that brotha's head. i have no idea why he would do the shit he did if he did it. i don't know if he's innocent or guilty. i don't know if he's gonna do jail time. i don't know if he'll be back in the nfl. i DO know that i'm tired of hearing about it.
fantasy football is again on. i've got eleven slots filled and need one more player to even things out, so if you're down, hit me up.
my dad and i argue over the stupidest shit....
dad - "what are you doing here? aren't you gonna go get the ice?"
me - "yeah, just let me get my money."
dad - "i thought you were already at the store. you could have been there and back by now."
me - "i was outside with 'swad. mom just told me two minutes ago that i needed to get the ice."
dad - "well get on with it then and stop looking pissed."
me - "well, i'm no longer that teenager who was all eager to run errands for you folk just so she could get a chance to drive the car."
dad (to the hostage audience of my aunt and her husband) - "see, this is what we were just talking about, ain't it?" (to me) - "that's the damn problem."
me - "that ain't a problem for me. that's a problem for YOU."
dad jumps up, cuz at this point he's pissed.
me - "what are you doing?"
dad - "see, you're gonna need me before i need you."
me - "what are you taking about? are you going to get the ice? i told you i'd go get the ice."
dad stomps towards the door in a huff.
dad - "just wait. you're gonna need me one day!"
me (to his retreating back) - "so basically what you're telling me is that if i need you one day, you're gonna deny helping me...over a bag of ice."
mom, 'swad, aunt and uncle laugh.
dad grumbles, then slams the door on his exit.
yeah...good times...
hopefully i'll never need his kidney or something, otherwise this bag of ice will come back to haunt me.
so i'm at this club on friday enjoying my solitary dancing when all of a sudden i feel a thumb thump up against my ass. i turn, and this little guy is standing there.
him - "wanna dance?"
me - "i already am."
him - "wanna dance with me?"
me - "are you gonna try to stick your finger up my ass again?"
him - "that wasn't my finger."
me - "oh? then no."
it was obvious from thump there was no future there...
what do you do when your cousin's man is checking you out? well in my case, i basically tried to make him think poorly of me so he'd stop looking at me on the sly. initially it was difficult because i'm rather perfect, but i had a fool-proof plan. all i had to do was question his manhood and the brotha was looking at me like he wanted to kill me. i am generally allergic to dimming my own shine, but my cousin has been through alot. last thing she needs is her man pushing up on her cousin.
why are people getting excited about pre-season success? i mean really, most of the guys in those games will be bagging groceries by september. the dallas cowboys have been undefeated in the preseason for the last three seasons but haven't won a post-season game since '96. in other words, call me when the real season starts.
for real though...had these four college kids been white, i'd have heard about this shit on the national news. as it is, i hear about it from someone online...go figure.
i hope you folk have been doing aiight out there. hopefully when i get to your spots i'll only be reading about good shit like love and babies and ice cream and puppies.
how come everybody thinks just cuz i live in atlanta that i have insight into the michael vick situation? look, i ain't in that brotha's head. i have no idea why he would do the shit he did if he did it. i don't know if he's innocent or guilty. i don't know if he's gonna do jail time. i don't know if he'll be back in the nfl. i DO know that i'm tired of hearing about it.
fantasy football is again on. i've got eleven slots filled and need one more player to even things out, so if you're down, hit me up.
my dad and i argue over the stupidest shit....
dad - "what are you doing here? aren't you gonna go get the ice?"
me - "yeah, just let me get my money."
dad - "i thought you were already at the store. you could have been there and back by now."
me - "i was outside with 'swad. mom just told me two minutes ago that i needed to get the ice."
dad - "well get on with it then and stop looking pissed."
me - "well, i'm no longer that teenager who was all eager to run errands for you folk just so she could get a chance to drive the car."
dad (to the hostage audience of my aunt and her husband) - "see, this is what we were just talking about, ain't it?" (to me) - "that's the damn problem."
me - "that ain't a problem for me. that's a problem for YOU."
dad jumps up, cuz at this point he's pissed.
me - "what are you doing?"
dad - "see, you're gonna need me before i need you."
me - "what are you taking about? are you going to get the ice? i told you i'd go get the ice."
dad stomps towards the door in a huff.
dad - "just wait. you're gonna need me one day!"
me (to his retreating back) - "so basically what you're telling me is that if i need you one day, you're gonna deny helping me...over a bag of ice."
mom, 'swad, aunt and uncle laugh.
dad grumbles, then slams the door on his exit.
yeah...good times...
hopefully i'll never need his kidney or something, otherwise this bag of ice will come back to haunt me.
so i'm at this club on friday enjoying my solitary dancing when all of a sudden i feel a thumb thump up against my ass. i turn, and this little guy is standing there.
him - "wanna dance?"
me - "i already am."
him - "wanna dance with me?"
me - "are you gonna try to stick your finger up my ass again?"
him - "that wasn't my finger."
me - "oh? then no."
it was obvious from thump there was no future there...
what do you do when your cousin's man is checking you out? well in my case, i basically tried to make him think poorly of me so he'd stop looking at me on the sly. initially it was difficult because i'm rather perfect, but i had a fool-proof plan. all i had to do was question his manhood and the brotha was looking at me like he wanted to kill me. i am generally allergic to dimming my own shine, but my cousin has been through alot. last thing she needs is her man pushing up on her cousin.
why are people getting excited about pre-season success? i mean really, most of the guys in those games will be bagging groceries by september. the dallas cowboys have been undefeated in the preseason for the last three seasons but haven't won a post-season game since '96. in other words, call me when the real season starts.
for real though...had these four college kids been white, i'd have heard about this shit on the national news. as it is, i hear about it from someone online...go figure.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Monday, July 09, 2007
what makes a tragedy?
for three years, three months, and give or take three or four days there has been two of us trying to make this shit here worth one more minute of existing within it.
but i'm tired of existing. it ain't worth it just to 'be' no mo.
..........i want to...........
cuz simply being ain't synonymous with
being free, and
simply being don't guarantee i'm
being me, and
simply being means me only
seeing my dreams
instead of
being my dreams
and somewhere during the construction of 'we', i've misplaced the blueprints to 'me'.
used to be
being with you was a rush...lust thrusting blushes into us, brushing up against breaths left panting in erectness, a deluge of flames flooding our bodies until we were burning from pore to floor. our urgently uttered 'mores' ignited higher fires that culminated with carnal combustion before we crumbled exhaustedly into a heap of smoldering embers, broken 'damns' crumbling from our lips in breathless hushes, the debris of our bodies left floating in the afterglow.
now it
trickles like a fickle dick faking ejaculation just to end the copulation with a dry, disgruntled cunt.
used to be
talking to you was a feast i was eager to partake of. i savored your consonants simmered in smoky syllables, nibbling on your succulent murmurs marinated in sincerity until they were so tender they melted right off of your lips. then we'd finish the meal by feeding each other honey-dipped endearments, sipping after-dinner whispers until we were drunk with fascination.
now it's
gnawing on gristled exchanges passing for palpable rations.
what's worse is that maybe what used to be never was.
maybe i've manipulated the remains of these memories like a scientist trying to re-write history, dating the origins of the fossils to a place and time of passion when they were really found in complacency. perhaps the bones we now pick with each other are so brittle because we created this from mind-made materials, determined to mold it into what we wanted it to be instead of letting it evolve into what it was supposed to be.
was it me who embellished our moments together with seconds made of paste?
was it me who encrusted our kisses with explosives?
was it me who sewed significant sentiment into our caresses?
was it me who beaded our breaths with need?
was it me who doctored our desire with devotion?
was this really not a divine design but instead fabrications threaded together in my own mind?
i can speculate about our past until blue hues flush my face of saner make-up. it won't change the fact that in the midst of this break down, the clear message is we should break up.
cuz whether or not our past was fashioned from magic, the fact is, i mourn the time lost more than i more the loss of 'us'.
and that's what's truly tragic.
but i'm tired of existing. it ain't worth it just to 'be' no mo.
..........i want to...........
cuz simply being ain't synonymous with
being free, and
simply being don't guarantee i'm
being me, and
simply being means me only
seeing my dreams
instead of
being my dreams
and somewhere during the construction of 'we', i've misplaced the blueprints to 'me'.
used to be
being with you was a rush...lust thrusting blushes into us, brushing up against breaths left panting in erectness, a deluge of flames flooding our bodies until we were burning from pore to floor. our urgently uttered 'mores' ignited higher fires that culminated with carnal combustion before we crumbled exhaustedly into a heap of smoldering embers, broken 'damns' crumbling from our lips in breathless hushes, the debris of our bodies left floating in the afterglow.
now it
trickles like a fickle dick faking ejaculation just to end the copulation with a dry, disgruntled cunt.
used to be
talking to you was a feast i was eager to partake of. i savored your consonants simmered in smoky syllables, nibbling on your succulent murmurs marinated in sincerity until they were so tender they melted right off of your lips. then we'd finish the meal by feeding each other honey-dipped endearments, sipping after-dinner whispers until we were drunk with fascination.
now it's
gnawing on gristled exchanges passing for palpable rations.
what's worse is that maybe what used to be never was.
maybe i've manipulated the remains of these memories like a scientist trying to re-write history, dating the origins of the fossils to a place and time of passion when they were really found in complacency. perhaps the bones we now pick with each other are so brittle because we created this from mind-made materials, determined to mold it into what we wanted it to be instead of letting it evolve into what it was supposed to be.
was it me who embellished our moments together with seconds made of paste?
was it me who encrusted our kisses with explosives?
was it me who sewed significant sentiment into our caresses?
was it me who beaded our breaths with need?
was it me who doctored our desire with devotion?
was this really not a divine design but instead fabrications threaded together in my own mind?
i can speculate about our past until blue hues flush my face of saner make-up. it won't change the fact that in the midst of this break down, the clear message is we should break up.
cuz whether or not our past was fashioned from magic, the fact is, i mourn the time lost more than i more the loss of 'us'.
and that's what's truly tragic.
Monday, July 02, 2007
when an idle mind goes too far...
it started off harmless enough, really.
i was laying on the couch in the living room, a bowl of cereal cradled in one hand, a spoon full of soggy fruity pebbles fisted in the other hand while making it's way slowly towards my mouth. on the television was one of my favorite movies of all time, cars.
so what if i'd just seen the movie a week ago. so what if i've seen it perhaps 20 times. that's what happens when you've got the h-bo channels. how many times have YOU seen excalibur?!? yeah, i thought so...
i'm quite familiar with all of the characters, from the hot shot ligh.tning mcq.ueen to the sarcastic town attorney sally porsche to the rusted tow truck 'mater...i could go on and on but i'm already writing too much on this topic as it is.
anyway, i'm sitting there, slurping on fruity pebbles (cuz you know the damn things get soggy as soon as they hit the damn milk), watching cars and enjoying myself. next thing you know my mind starts wandering into adultville where rational questions are asked despite the fact that i'm watching a cartoon.
questions like:
1. where are the sexual organs? i sat there for ten minutes trying to figure this out. the only protruding part i can think of is the antenna and if that's the sex organ, the female cars are being left woefully dissatisfied. it would seem quite obvious (at least to me) that the muffler is the anal cavity, but where is the um, other cavity? i have no idea. maybe they only perform anal sex, which brings me to the next question...
2. how do they reproduce? there are no humans on this planet, so i'm really clueless. there was a vague reference to a 'manufacturer'. is that their god? if so, that still doesn't explain how they reproduce. i mean, if they've only got anuses, they couldn't possibly give birth, could they? i can't imagine someone giving birth out of her ass. perhaps the baby cars just magically appear on the garage doorstep of some couple, deposited by the car stork. maybe the cars manually produce themselves, like humans and the cloning thing.
3. why are there so many men and so few women? 'lightning' ends up in rad.iat.or spri.ngs, a town consisting of eight male cars and only three female cars, one of them too old to get her biz on. this would lead me to believe either the two females are exhausted because of the sexual demands placed upon them or the guys are getting busy amongst themselves. i detected a closer than platonic relationship between the hippie van and the army jeep. it wouldn't be too much of a stretch for the hippie van to get the army jeep high and then just turn the dude out. also, anyone can see the fire engine is gay cuz he likes flowers. hetero guys don't like flowers unless it's given to a female in exchange for forgiving him for some dumb shit he just tried to get away with.
4. where were lightning's parents? this is supposed to be the greatest day of his life, and they're nowhere to be found?!? see, this kinda supports my theory that perhaps there is a car lab somewhere where cars create other cars and just send them on their way. this would also mean there is NO sex taking place, as the only reason folk have sex is to create babies. and if this is the case...
5. why are these cars so damn happy?!? hippy car done put something in the gas cuz ain't no way they could be that happy without sex, even the anal kind *shudders*
6. why the black chick always gotta own some kind of eatery? come on, we know the car that owned the gasoline station was black. if she had a neck, she'd have been rolling it everytime she spoke. they made her just sassy enough, made her chrome grill just voluptuous enough, so that black folk knew we were represented. well thank you di.sn.ey. now you can go back and correct ta.rzan cuz you know he is black, too.
7. why didn't they put the black chick car with the italian car? we all know italian cars LOVE black cars (although i won't complain about her being hooked up with the latino. gotta love those lowriders...)
8. how come the imported asian cars are depicted as obnoxious and mean-spirited? then again, ninja cars wouldn't have worked with this storyline, so i guess asian folk should be glad the stereotype for them has expanded to include something other than that of buffoon, exotic sexual whore, zen master or martial arts expert.
9. why does 'mater have buck teeth? don't you get that from sucking on your fingers? 'mater didn't have fingers. did he get the buck teeth from sucking on too many antennaes? was he really the town whore?!?
10. why couldn't lightning have won the race THEN gone back and gotten 'the king'?!? what, did that make him more honorable than the average car? hell nah. he did that for sally cuz he wanted to impress her. then again, why would he want to do that? they don't have sex, so what else is a chick car good for? they've already got 'mater to polish off the antennaes.
i am sure i'm not the only one who has ever wondered these same things while watching this movie. i encourage you to provide your answers to these burning questions so that we all may be able to sleep better at night.
i was laying on the couch in the living room, a bowl of cereal cradled in one hand, a spoon full of soggy fruity pebbles fisted in the other hand while making it's way slowly towards my mouth. on the television was one of my favorite movies of all time, cars.
so what if i'd just seen the movie a week ago. so what if i've seen it perhaps 20 times. that's what happens when you've got the h-bo channels. how many times have YOU seen excalibur?!? yeah, i thought so...
i'm quite familiar with all of the characters, from the hot shot ligh.tning mcq.ueen to the sarcastic town attorney sally porsche to the rusted tow truck 'mater...i could go on and on but i'm already writing too much on this topic as it is.
anyway, i'm sitting there, slurping on fruity pebbles (cuz you know the damn things get soggy as soon as they hit the damn milk), watching cars and enjoying myself. next thing you know my mind starts wandering into adultville where rational questions are asked despite the fact that i'm watching a cartoon.
questions like:
1. where are the sexual organs? i sat there for ten minutes trying to figure this out. the only protruding part i can think of is the antenna and if that's the sex organ, the female cars are being left woefully dissatisfied. it would seem quite obvious (at least to me) that the muffler is the anal cavity, but where is the um, other cavity? i have no idea. maybe they only perform anal sex, which brings me to the next question...
2. how do they reproduce? there are no humans on this planet, so i'm really clueless. there was a vague reference to a 'manufacturer'. is that their god? if so, that still doesn't explain how they reproduce. i mean, if they've only got anuses, they couldn't possibly give birth, could they? i can't imagine someone giving birth out of her ass. perhaps the baby cars just magically appear on the garage doorstep of some couple, deposited by the car stork. maybe the cars manually produce themselves, like humans and the cloning thing.
3. why are there so many men and so few women? 'lightning' ends up in rad.iat.or spri.ngs, a town consisting of eight male cars and only three female cars, one of them too old to get her biz on. this would lead me to believe either the two females are exhausted because of the sexual demands placed upon them or the guys are getting busy amongst themselves. i detected a closer than platonic relationship between the hippie van and the army jeep. it wouldn't be too much of a stretch for the hippie van to get the army jeep high and then just turn the dude out. also, anyone can see the fire engine is gay cuz he likes flowers. hetero guys don't like flowers unless it's given to a female in exchange for forgiving him for some dumb shit he just tried to get away with.
4. where were lightning's parents? this is supposed to be the greatest day of his life, and they're nowhere to be found?!? see, this kinda supports my theory that perhaps there is a car lab somewhere where cars create other cars and just send them on their way. this would also mean there is NO sex taking place, as the only reason folk have sex is to create babies. and if this is the case...
5. why are these cars so damn happy?!? hippy car done put something in the gas cuz ain't no way they could be that happy without sex, even the anal kind *shudders*
6. why the black chick always gotta own some kind of eatery? come on, we know the car that owned the gasoline station was black. if she had a neck, she'd have been rolling it everytime she spoke. they made her just sassy enough, made her chrome grill just voluptuous enough, so that black folk knew we were represented. well thank you di.sn.ey. now you can go back and correct ta.rzan cuz you know he is black, too.
7. why didn't they put the black chick car with the italian car? we all know italian cars LOVE black cars (although i won't complain about her being hooked up with the latino. gotta love those lowriders...)
8. how come the imported asian cars are depicted as obnoxious and mean-spirited? then again, ninja cars wouldn't have worked with this storyline, so i guess asian folk should be glad the stereotype for them has expanded to include something other than that of buffoon, exotic sexual whore, zen master or martial arts expert.
9. why does 'mater have buck teeth? don't you get that from sucking on your fingers? 'mater didn't have fingers. did he get the buck teeth from sucking on too many antennaes? was he really the town whore?!?
10. why couldn't lightning have won the race THEN gone back and gotten 'the king'?!? what, did that make him more honorable than the average car? hell nah. he did that for sally cuz he wanted to impress her. then again, why would he want to do that? they don't have sex, so what else is a chick car good for? they've already got 'mater to polish off the antennaes.
i am sure i'm not the only one who has ever wondered these same things while watching this movie. i encourage you to provide your answers to these burning questions so that we all may be able to sleep better at night.
Monday, June 18, 2007
the makings of a fucked up day
i woke up this morning panicking cuz i can't find my driver's license. i've looked everywhere...can't find it.
i need it cuz i'm going to a conference tomorrow and i'm renting a car. can't get on the plane or rent the car without my driver's license.
can't get a replacement license cuz the offices are closed today.
sat down on the couch and my water bottle spilled and put a big assed water stain on my ass.
too late to change clothes.
got in the car, turned the key in the ignition, and the engine light comes on.
and stays on.
looked in the car for the license. it ain't there. for once my car is fucking clean, so of course it ain't there.
got on the expressway and almost get hit by a greyhound bus.
got off of the expressway and get stuck behind a marta bus.
pull into the driveway at work and notice a really good looking black dude standing outside damn near right in front of my parking space.
so of course i've got the water stain on my ass and a crunchy look on my face and i've gotta walk right in front of this dude to get into the fucking building.
this dude ain't never been around when i'm looking cute. now he wanna be around when i'm both looking and feeling jacked.
come into the office...someone stuck a pile of 200 copies of some program brochure that has to be folded for the conference.
hand-folded.
by fucking HAND, people.
by MY fucking hand, people.
got a pile of work on my desk that has to be done before i leave, none of which is nearly as important as me finding my fucking license.
trying to leave here early cuz i still gotta get a pedicure and do my hair cuz of course the place where i was supposed to get my hair done on saturday never bothered to call me back to give me directions to the fucking place (that's another story...i mean why you gotta call me back with directions anyway?!?)
got serious gas issues. i think it's because i'm panicking, but it just won't stop, and it's the silent killer kind that don't just dissipate.
no, these farts CELEBRATE entry into the world by hanging in the air, waiting for someone to pass them a drink so they can party all day.
i left my office so that i could take this gathering of gas from my ass to another location.
had to come back cuz fifteen minutes later i was still farting.
can't open a window so i'm stuck at the fart party.
just found out the hotel i'm staying in doesn't have internet access of any kind. what the fuck is this? they got me staying in a cave?!?
now i'm taking a chance that if i check in one day earlier, the people at the resort where the conference (not the cave mentioned above) is taking place won't kick me out. yeah, right.
got this email from a co-worker this morning, sent last friday:
"my whereabouts for the next 2.5 weeks!
...and it won't be here!!
I'll be in New Zealand until 1 July and will be back in the office on 5 July. I will check email occasionally, but will have no cell phone service.
See you on the 5th.
anne"
because evidently she mistakened me for someone who gives a shit where she's gonna be for the next 2.5 weeks. why would i ever wanna know where she gonna be?
anne, have i ever given you the impression i was curious about where you went when you weren't here? HELL no.
as long as you ain't here, i could care less where you at. you could take a vacation up your momma's ass and i wouldn't care so long as you didn't come back with photos of the trip. i have no interest in viewing images of the inside of your momma's anus.
another co-worker just informed me i gotta get to the airport three hours ahead of time because evidently the lines are so long they're leading out of the terminal.
so basically this means i'll be in line twice as long as i'll be on the damn plane (flight is 1.5 hours long).
what is 'y' class? does this stand for 'why the fuck did i book a flight on an airline that would dare place me in between some chick who equivocates sitting next to me with us being bff and an obnoxious child the mother refuses to discipline with anything more harsh than a 'stern talking to' which is comprised of her basically spending the entire flight begging the bad ass devil's spawn to "sit down please and stop smacking the nice black lady"'?!?
is nikki gonna have to choke a kid? if he/she smacks me, i will be that stereotypical angry black bitch all folk fear and choke the SHIT out of that kid and then smack the mom in the mouf for not keeping her kid in check.
shit...still farting. this is gonna be a problem...
still can't find my driver's license. this is ALREADY a problem.
this day can only get better, right?
i need it cuz i'm going to a conference tomorrow and i'm renting a car. can't get on the plane or rent the car without my driver's license.
can't get a replacement license cuz the offices are closed today.
sat down on the couch and my water bottle spilled and put a big assed water stain on my ass.
too late to change clothes.
got in the car, turned the key in the ignition, and the engine light comes on.
and stays on.
looked in the car for the license. it ain't there. for once my car is fucking clean, so of course it ain't there.
got on the expressway and almost get hit by a greyhound bus.
got off of the expressway and get stuck behind a marta bus.
pull into the driveway at work and notice a really good looking black dude standing outside damn near right in front of my parking space.
so of course i've got the water stain on my ass and a crunchy look on my face and i've gotta walk right in front of this dude to get into the fucking building.
this dude ain't never been around when i'm looking cute. now he wanna be around when i'm both looking and feeling jacked.
come into the office...someone stuck a pile of 200 copies of some program brochure that has to be folded for the conference.
hand-folded.
by fucking HAND, people.
by MY fucking hand, people.
got a pile of work on my desk that has to be done before i leave, none of which is nearly as important as me finding my fucking license.
trying to leave here early cuz i still gotta get a pedicure and do my hair cuz of course the place where i was supposed to get my hair done on saturday never bothered to call me back to give me directions to the fucking place (that's another story...i mean why you gotta call me back with directions anyway?!?)
got serious gas issues. i think it's because i'm panicking, but it just won't stop, and it's the silent killer kind that don't just dissipate.
no, these farts CELEBRATE entry into the world by hanging in the air, waiting for someone to pass them a drink so they can party all day.
i left my office so that i could take this gathering of gas from my ass to another location.
had to come back cuz fifteen minutes later i was still farting.
can't open a window so i'm stuck at the fart party.
just found out the hotel i'm staying in doesn't have internet access of any kind. what the fuck is this? they got me staying in a cave?!?
now i'm taking a chance that if i check in one day earlier, the people at the resort where the conference (not the cave mentioned above) is taking place won't kick me out. yeah, right.
got this email from a co-worker this morning, sent last friday:
"my whereabouts for the next 2.5 weeks!
...and it won't be here!!
I'll be in New Zealand until 1 July and will be back in the office on 5 July. I will check email occasionally, but will have no cell phone service.
See you on the 5th.
anne"
because evidently she mistakened me for someone who gives a shit where she's gonna be for the next 2.5 weeks. why would i ever wanna know where she gonna be?
anne, have i ever given you the impression i was curious about where you went when you weren't here? HELL no.
as long as you ain't here, i could care less where you at. you could take a vacation up your momma's ass and i wouldn't care so long as you didn't come back with photos of the trip. i have no interest in viewing images of the inside of your momma's anus.
another co-worker just informed me i gotta get to the airport three hours ahead of time because evidently the lines are so long they're leading out of the terminal.
so basically this means i'll be in line twice as long as i'll be on the damn plane (flight is 1.5 hours long).
what is 'y' class? does this stand for 'why the fuck did i book a flight on an airline that would dare place me in between some chick who equivocates sitting next to me with us being bff and an obnoxious child the mother refuses to discipline with anything more harsh than a 'stern talking to' which is comprised of her basically spending the entire flight begging the bad ass devil's spawn to "sit down please and stop smacking the nice black lady"'?!?
is nikki gonna have to choke a kid? if he/she smacks me, i will be that stereotypical angry black bitch all folk fear and choke the SHIT out of that kid and then smack the mom in the mouf for not keeping her kid in check.
shit...still farting. this is gonna be a problem...
still can't find my driver's license. this is ALREADY a problem.
this day can only get better, right?
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
three is all of me
television ain't telling nothing but the truth.
i mean, all black women are sarcastic and angry chicks with an adversion for people seeing their va-jay-jay's during labor. you know, the chicks who despite being surrounded by oversexed beautiful people, are somehow the only folk in the entire ensemble who don't want or need sex cuz they're married (as though marriage has stopped other folk from screwing around).
i mean, all black women are sarcastic and angry chicks with an adversion for people seeing their va-jay-jay's during labor. you know, the chicks who despite being surrounded by oversexed beautiful people, are somehow the only folk in the entire ensemble who don't want or need sex cuz they're married (as though marriage has stopped other folk from screwing around).
or they're successful, then unsuccessful, then straight up unstable chicks, who despite having money and a hot body and good friends around them are so preoccupied with the task of finding a man to save them from their unfulfilling lives that they end up drunk on the side of the road after having crashed their sports car...
or they're among the chicks whose occupation is to stand around looking sweaty and sexy or draped over some guy with her ass in the air, wearing shorts so tight the video director keeps yeast infection medication on the set next to the prop bottle of cristal. the perks include giving blowjobs to rap artists who already wear a permanent tattoo of saliva stains on their balls, standing around in three inch heels wearing nothing but a bathing suit while the men around them rap about fucking hos like them, and telling documentary filmmakers how they see this as merely a stepping stone to better things like working on shows where they get to play the love-starved black chick who can't get her shit together or the average sidekick black chick who gets to watch while everyone else get the ass and attention while she gets the sarcastic one-liners. better yet, she can become a celebrated authoress who ends up on oprah. come on, tell me that ain't the bomb gig...
or they're among the chicks whose occupation is to stand around looking sweaty and sexy or draped over some guy with her ass in the air, wearing shorts so tight the video director keeps yeast infection medication on the set next to the prop bottle of cristal. the perks include giving blowjobs to rap artists who already wear a permanent tattoo of saliva stains on their balls, standing around in three inch heels wearing nothing but a bathing suit while the men around them rap about fucking hos like them, and telling documentary filmmakers how they see this as merely a stepping stone to better things like working on shows where they get to play the love-starved black chick who can't get her shit together or the average sidekick black chick who gets to watch while everyone else get the ass and attention while she gets the sarcastic one-liners. better yet, she can become a celebrated authoress who ends up on oprah. come on, tell me that ain't the bomb gig...
and you're right! all black men are doctors or cops and they all date women who aren't black. but can you really blame them when their choices are the crazy chick who'd probably end up stalking them, the asexual angry chick who would slap his hand away if he attempted to touch the va jay-jay, or the skanky chick with dried cum stains encrusted in the corners of her mouth and enough yeast between her legs to be an oven at a wonderbread factory? shit, i'd be dating the asian chick too.
that's aiight though, cuz every now and again the black chick will end up with a cute white guy, so long as she's so light-skinned and european-featured she looks like a white chick with a tan. oh, and she has to have an accent and she can't be from america.
really, we need to be thanking television for it's sensitive and accurate portrayal of black women in our limited facets instead of getting pissed off and saying stupid shit like "black women are woefully underrepresented on television overall and damn near non-existent in series that don't require us to break into song or crack a fucking joke." or "out of the 28 new shows in the fall lineup, only THREE shows have a black woman as a part of the regular cast."
cuz as you can see, all we really need is three.
that's aiight though, cuz every now and again the black chick will end up with a cute white guy, so long as she's so light-skinned and european-featured she looks like a white chick with a tan. oh, and she has to have an accent and she can't be from america.
really, we need to be thanking television for it's sensitive and accurate portrayal of black women in our limited facets instead of getting pissed off and saying stupid shit like "black women are woefully underrepresented on television overall and damn near non-existent in series that don't require us to break into song or crack a fucking joke." or "out of the 28 new shows in the fall lineup, only THREE shows have a black woman as a part of the regular cast."
cuz as you can see, all we really need is three.
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