I would like to begin, with an apology.
I apologize, in advance, for this post.
Given the fact that this blog is young yet, I am not foolish enough to state, plaintively, things that it will never address; things that it will never cover. I am fully aware of the potential, and indeed, likelihood, of writing dry spells.
For instance, I would love to say that I will never comment on celebrity comings and goings—those people are already famous. Fuck them. I’m a hater.
But I might.
I would love to say that I will never discuss my own personal politics. In my view, if opinions are like assholes (as the saying goes), political opinions are the dingleberryest of them all.
But I might.
But I will say this.
And mean it.
And own it.
I am going to address something, briefly, today, and it will NEVER be seen or read about on this space, again.
And I am coming from a place motivated by my disappointment in the recent postings of one of my favorite bloggers—my premiere internet crush.
So here goes—like it or lump it—
(I hardly give a damn as it will never be seen or heard from me on this space again either way.)
STOP FUCKING TALKING ABOUT THIS BLACK WOMAN DATING CRISIS.
SHUT-THE-FUCK-UP about it.
There is NOT a dating crisis. There is NOT a marriage crisis.
The reality of the situation is far, far worse than either of those two concepts can ever comprehend.
The true situation is way more fucked up.
There is, in fact, a PERSPECTIVE crisis. Got it?
Of like, EPIC proportions.
There is a nationwide, motherfucking pandemic surrounding the malnourishment, starvation, and disease infestation of our collective perspective.
Black women—you can get a man, okay?
You can get a man. You can get a black one. You can get a black one that is educated, and employed and good to you. You can even get one that’s none of those things if you so choose.
Know what else you can get? A white man. You can get one that is educated, and employed, and good to you. You can even get one that’s none of those things if you so choose.
Know what you can also get? And I must profess, this one is nearest and dearest to my heart—
You can get passionately, thoroughly, deliberately, and wantonly fucked to Kingdom Come (literally) while you are trying to make up your mind between the two.
Anybody who tells you that you can’t—and I will definitively say this irrespective of how it comes off—ANYONE who tells you that you cannot—any statistical data, any blogger, any pastor, any radio personality, even your own mother—
ANYONE who tells you otherwise—
Is a mother-fucking-lie.
NOT a “liar.”
I took it there.
Good, southern, and black fo’ dat ass.
Anyone who tells you that you can’t have these things is a mother.fucking.lie.
Don’t believe me?
Let me tell you how I know.
On my BEST day—
Are you listening, bitches?
On my BEST day—
Like, the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, all the lights on the roadways are green—
I am a strong
On my BEST day.
I am short, black. No real hair to speak of. Sassy in the mouth, wide in the ass. And I have two little raggedy ass dogs that I take wherever I go.
Yet, I have miraculously convinced some of the best men I’ve ever known to fall in love with me; to want to be with me. I’ve even taken a few of them up on their offers and loved them back.
Janky ass ole me.
(I mean, I could get it. Don’t get me wrong. I’d definitely get it. But ain’t nobody gonna break through traffic trying to give it to me.)
And believe me—believe me when I tell you, as I come from a place of truth and reflection, and not modesty (as I have no talent for it), the ONLY thing special about me at all; the only thing that sets me apart from the ravenous, wedding hungry, WE-Channel watching devotees in this city is my constant state of being un-pressed.
I could give a damn about matrimony or andbabymakes3.
There is no shame in having an ideal; of having an expectation of a life, or a dream.
But the reality is, that if you simply chill for a moment, and breathe—if you stop searching for something in nothing—
If you ignore your friends in their seemingly blissfully happy marriages and relationships and simply focus on this isolated moment in time that you have to be free; to be unencumbered by children, a man, or obligations greater than yourself—you will realize how truly lucky you are.
Love is a many splendored thing, yes. But is also a laborious thing.
That man and that relationship that you will work so hard to get, will necessitate double the effort to maintain and keep.
I worry that there is this movement afoot to convince us that we need to be married and that we need to rush and that the chances of us getting married are slim so we better buckle down and hustle. I don’t know who sparked it off, but I tell you who is not perpetuating it: married people.
Because they know the shit that everyone else isn’t saying. Marriage, and indeed, serious relationships, are a marathon, not a sprint.
They are absolutely and unequivocally a marathon.
And know what?
Don’t you want to walk for a bit?
There’s no shame in a brisk walk.
I, personally, enjoy walking with two or three people.
Sometimes even at the same time.
(Okay that last part was probably a joke).
The point is, there are plenty of men out there.
And there’s not just one good man out there for you. There are ten or twelve within a two mile radius of where you’re standing this very second. Maybe you can’t see them (two miles is actually quite a bit of fucking space), but they’re there.
And they will be there, whether you’re 25, or 35, or 45.
You have an infinite amount of time to boo up and settle down. Trust me.
Put Steve Harvey on mute, tell the statisticians to go fuck themselves, give your mother an endearing frontal lobe kiss and then walk away.
And then come out and meet me for some DRANKS, bitches!!
We’re fittin’ to get fuuuuuuuuuuucked up and make some HORRIBLE decisions like only a bunch of hard-living 7s can.
8s and up can come too.