So, TJ and I are at a crossroads, it seems; or rather, the ball is in my court. And I'm discovering some truths that I think I'd rather not.
So, first and foremost: the man is in an emotional turmoil of epic proportions. In his own words, he comes with "a pretty big disclaimer." The break-up he went through dealt a really bad blow, and he's wounded. Deeply. Him posting online and subsequently meeting me is his first tip-toe back into the dating pool. Woo-wee, can I pick 'em or what?
He's essentially enshrined himself in armor akin to the great wall of China; he's not fully trusting and not particularly hopeful. And what's more, he has absolutely no plans as far as relationships go... or his life, for that matter. He's literally just living every day, which, according to him, is a new concept. He hadn't really thought that he'd meet anyone, but suddenly here I am, and here we are.
We're not fuck buddies or friends with benefits. But he absolutely cannot be anybody's boyfriend at this point. I think I knew that, but he articulated it just in case. If I want to get off this ride, he said, he wouldn't blame me. He can't tell me where this is going or how long it'll last.
Red flags are blazing and there's a good chunk of my common sense telling me to cut him loose. Why, then, did we talk for nearly 90 minutes? I'm compelled, I think, by his honesty, and his ability to be forthright in such a circumstance. Do I think I can change him? Hmm... I don't think so, no.
I'm on the fence, however, as to whether or not I secretly hope that he wakes up one day and is madly in love with me. Believing that would be foolish, but what then makes me hang around?
Here's the tough truth part: I like him company. I like talking to him. He makes me laugh and I want to kiss him. Those, right now, are my basic truths, and they are things I haven't felt for someone else in a while. They aren't attributes I can't find in other people, but things I haven't found in other people. At least, not recently, and not without a lot of pain. Maybe his inability to allow anyone close in is letting me heal my own wounds. Maybe it teaches me to live in the moment, however uncomfortable, however lush. I don't know the loops ahead, but this feels like incredibly calm waters, if only because I'm not thinking about the end result.
Maybe I just want someone there. Is that wrong? Is that settling? Hip-hop girl power affirmations are running through my head -- 'I can do bad by myself, I can do bad by myself, I can do bad by myself.'
And then there's that one movie, with that one poignant exchange:
#1: "You know that saying, 'I'd rather be with someone for the wrong reasons, than alone for the right?'
#2: "Yes."
#1: "I'd rather be right."
I've always chosen right... always. And where am I? What has it given me? How much comfort have I derived from it? He asked me once, very early on, if I would prefer to be delicious or true; I thought it an odd question, and answered why couldn't I be both?
He's always been true, he told me. He'd love to be delicious, just once, like his one friend who boasts of deflowering a gaggle of sisters (biological) and one sister (religious), while in Calgary for a spell.
I've always been true, too. Never delicious, always true.
Maybe now I'm attempting to tow the line and be both. He finds me delicious and I find his truth the same. It occurs to me that I don't want to fix him -- maybe just make his road out of that emotional hell a little easier, while finding a little clarity about myself.
I'm conflicted on how I should feel about that; one of the few things I learned from last year's carnage, however, was this -- it just is what it is. That's the tack I'm taking; it's not good or bad, it just is what it is.
24 July 2009
15 July 2009
Morning ephiphany time: I'm on my way, in some respect, to being someone I don't like, and I need to stop it now before I look up in 15 years and wonder where it all went wrong.
At least, in terms of relationships.
I pride myself on being self-aware; anyone who knows me knows my history as it relates ot men: I was a late bloomer, despite always having been boy crazy. I only dated one guy (for three weeks) in high school, and didn't date anyone in college. This was never an issue for me, though... that's the odd thing. I was never anything but happy, social and engaged in my life and the lives of my friends. My first major anything with a guy happened in Jamaica when I was 21, and I remember being equal parts overwhelmed, excited and anxiety-ridden. Then shortly after my 22nd birthday, it was like an alarm went off, and the hormones that had been largely dormat tore lose from their invisible tether and ripped through my body like a Cat 5 coming ashore. I'm glad it didn't kill me.
I cashed in my V-card soon after, and commenced to dating like a bandit. Or rather, doing what I thought was dating -- it seems, though I didn't realize it at the time, that I was sorely unprepared for what dating actually meant. I've been playing catch-up ever since, learning how men don't always say what they mean, but a lot of other women don't, either.... figuring out that men like it when a women is straightforward and direct.
But not *that* much.
And while untangling the jumble that is sex, feelings, relationships and love is something that can absolutely be done, it's not a task to be performed lightly or in the absence of finding what one really wants. Sex isn't a substitute, stand-in or might as well, but in certain contexts, it carries far more weight than we might like it to.
In the last nine years, I've had to force my head to catch up with my hormones, and I'm in a good place, which I'm excited about. By the same token, a string of failed relationships - made infinitely worse in retrospect by a handful of extremely hurtful endings - has left me, I realized today, hyper-vigilant. And that's not working for me.
I know what my insecurities are, and do my best to tamp them down when I meet a new man. I've developed the tools to keep them largely in check, and have forced myself to become so self-aware that I'm like some sort of supercomputer, costantly checking and rechecking and rechecking. Am I feeling alright? Why did I say that? How that make me feel? How should I best deal with this? I think I've purposely detached on some level, so I can step away from any given emotion, look at it logically, turn it over in my head, and respond appropriately - appropriately, of course, meaning that I don't look like a raging lunatic at the end, and scare him away.
That's what it's all about - not scaring the potential away. I've scared so many away, by being too much of something: too loud, too opinionated, too smart, too different. I thought I was doing the right thing because I didn't, in the end, change myself... I just changed my approach. I put on kid gloves, I think. And in the end, what did it matter? They all left anyway.
Without meaning to, Tattoo Johnny has shone a light on this - I am an overthinker, yes, but I never quite realized how prevalent it is, how invasive it can be. I don't even realize I'm doing it anymore, and it's only when I bring something up to him that I am able to see it in the full light of day. While it's oftentimes not irrational it is, just about always, completely irrelevant to us.
I think about problems, or how there might be a problem, or how to avoid running into a problem... then tell him, "Hey, this is what occurred to me." Nevermind that it has no bearing in anything he's said or done, and nevermind that thus far in what I dare say is the beginning of a relationship, my Magic Eight-Ball has been able to take a much deserved break. All signs point to yes, and I don't need Hasbro to tell me so. I talk to the man every single day. It feels I've known him far longer than a month, but at the same time, I am always learning something new. He makes me laugh and makes me think. We go from discussing religion to Tastee Freeze in the blink of an eye, and in the last week or two, his openness has been palpable. He has thus far never promised more than he cared to deliver, and has made it clear to me that, if he wants something, he'll say so. If there's a problem, he's confront it. If he wants to say something, he'll tell me.
Yet and still, because things have no progressed as 'normal,' I get paranoid. Things 'occur' to me out of the blue. I find myself turning over things in my head and wondering if I need to pay more attention to them. I think it would be more tiring if it wasn't so automatic. But I need to learn to let it go and quiet those doubts. My hyper-vigilance offers no real redeeming value. Like a lot of women, I think I fault myself for being unable to see problems in my past relationships, and I have this notion that, if I'm 'tricked' again, it'll be my own fault.
But that just isn't the case. People are going to do what people are going to do, and while being naive is certainly not the answer, my knee-jerk overanalysis serves only to exhaust me and perturb him. Undoubtedly.
And since when do I do normal? In most other aspects in my life, I loathe that word, but perhaps it's something I cling to in relationships because I've never really known what it was. Hmmm... food for thought.
I'm going to do my best to breathe a little longer and let those thoughts go. I'm smitten. I believe he is, too. Whatever happens or doesn't happen on the peripheral is of little value. If I want something, I'll tell him. If I need something, I'll ask him.
Do unto others.
At least, in terms of relationships.
I pride myself on being self-aware; anyone who knows me knows my history as it relates ot men: I was a late bloomer, despite always having been boy crazy. I only dated one guy (for three weeks) in high school, and didn't date anyone in college. This was never an issue for me, though... that's the odd thing. I was never anything but happy, social and engaged in my life and the lives of my friends. My first major anything with a guy happened in Jamaica when I was 21, and I remember being equal parts overwhelmed, excited and anxiety-ridden. Then shortly after my 22nd birthday, it was like an alarm went off, and the hormones that had been largely dormat tore lose from their invisible tether and ripped through my body like a Cat 5 coming ashore. I'm glad it didn't kill me.
I cashed in my V-card soon after, and commenced to dating like a bandit. Or rather, doing what I thought was dating -- it seems, though I didn't realize it at the time, that I was sorely unprepared for what dating actually meant. I've been playing catch-up ever since, learning how men don't always say what they mean, but a lot of other women don't, either.... figuring out that men like it when a women is straightforward and direct.
But not *that* much.
And while untangling the jumble that is sex, feelings, relationships and love is something that can absolutely be done, it's not a task to be performed lightly or in the absence of finding what one really wants. Sex isn't a substitute, stand-in or might as well, but in certain contexts, it carries far more weight than we might like it to.
In the last nine years, I've had to force my head to catch up with my hormones, and I'm in a good place, which I'm excited about. By the same token, a string of failed relationships - made infinitely worse in retrospect by a handful of extremely hurtful endings - has left me, I realized today, hyper-vigilant. And that's not working for me.
I know what my insecurities are, and do my best to tamp them down when I meet a new man. I've developed the tools to keep them largely in check, and have forced myself to become so self-aware that I'm like some sort of supercomputer, costantly checking and rechecking and rechecking. Am I feeling alright? Why did I say that? How that make me feel? How should I best deal with this? I think I've purposely detached on some level, so I can step away from any given emotion, look at it logically, turn it over in my head, and respond appropriately - appropriately, of course, meaning that I don't look like a raging lunatic at the end, and scare him away.
That's what it's all about - not scaring the potential away. I've scared so many away, by being too much of something: too loud, too opinionated, too smart, too different. I thought I was doing the right thing because I didn't, in the end, change myself... I just changed my approach. I put on kid gloves, I think. And in the end, what did it matter? They all left anyway.
Without meaning to, Tattoo Johnny has shone a light on this - I am an overthinker, yes, but I never quite realized how prevalent it is, how invasive it can be. I don't even realize I'm doing it anymore, and it's only when I bring something up to him that I am able to see it in the full light of day. While it's oftentimes not irrational it is, just about always, completely irrelevant to us.
I think about problems, or how there might be a problem, or how to avoid running into a problem... then tell him, "Hey, this is what occurred to me." Nevermind that it has no bearing in anything he's said or done, and nevermind that thus far in what I dare say is the beginning of a relationship, my Magic Eight-Ball has been able to take a much deserved break. All signs point to yes, and I don't need Hasbro to tell me so. I talk to the man every single day. It feels I've known him far longer than a month, but at the same time, I am always learning something new. He makes me laugh and makes me think. We go from discussing religion to Tastee Freeze in the blink of an eye, and in the last week or two, his openness has been palpable. He has thus far never promised more than he cared to deliver, and has made it clear to me that, if he wants something, he'll say so. If there's a problem, he's confront it. If he wants to say something, he'll tell me.
Yet and still, because things have no progressed as 'normal,' I get paranoid. Things 'occur' to me out of the blue. I find myself turning over things in my head and wondering if I need to pay more attention to them. I think it would be more tiring if it wasn't so automatic. But I need to learn to let it go and quiet those doubts. My hyper-vigilance offers no real redeeming value. Like a lot of women, I think I fault myself for being unable to see problems in my past relationships, and I have this notion that, if I'm 'tricked' again, it'll be my own fault.
But that just isn't the case. People are going to do what people are going to do, and while being naive is certainly not the answer, my knee-jerk overanalysis serves only to exhaust me and perturb him. Undoubtedly.
And since when do I do normal? In most other aspects in my life, I loathe that word, but perhaps it's something I cling to in relationships because I've never really known what it was. Hmmm... food for thought.
I'm going to do my best to breathe a little longer and let those thoughts go. I'm smitten. I believe he is, too. Whatever happens or doesn't happen on the peripheral is of little value. If I want something, I'll tell him. If I need something, I'll ask him.
Do unto others.
09 July 2009
Some TV is good TV
Setting: Liz and Jenna in a bar, hooched up and trying to score.
Random Guy to Liz: Is this seat taken?
Liz: Umm, so what, you're really going to make me move my coat? There are like four empty seats dude, be cool.
Random Guy: Ummm... (walks away)
Jenna: Liz, that guy totally wanted to buy you a drink!
Liz: He did? I already have a drink -- do you think he'd buy me mozzarella sticks?
And that is why I love 30 Rock.
Random Guy to Liz: Is this seat taken?
Liz: Umm, so what, you're really going to make me move my coat? There are like four empty seats dude, be cool.
Random Guy: Ummm... (walks away)
Jenna: Liz, that guy totally wanted to buy you a drink!
Liz: He did? I already have a drink -- do you think he'd buy me mozzarella sticks?
And that is why I love 30 Rock.
06 July 2009
You can't go home again...
...But you can visit a super awesome place that encompasses you, builds your spirit up and leaves you feeling refreshed. And you can see a great friend and pay homage to his nuptials - and your position as his number one - by getting a somewhat hasty-decided, yet no less bad ass back piece. And you can upload it to your blog.
This is The Groom:
And this is me:
I'm so incredibly happy that he's found such am amazing girl, and I was overwhelmingly proud that he chose me to be there. This was the first tattoo I've gotten since summer 2006, and, as they all do, it hurt. Not nearly as badly as his and the interior arm, but trust -- it hurt. There are some hideous photos of me squirming and contorting my face. It's amazing to me how addictive getting ink can be.
But today, en route to hang with Trail Mix (that boy is a little like crack), it sort of occurred to me that, while a lot of people might be tattooed in the most basic sense, a much smaller segment of the population is on the moderate to heavy side of the scale. I'd say those phrases are wholly subjective - this would be my sixth piece. Is that 'moderate' or still mild? I don't know; still, it's not butterfly on the shoulder or rose vine on my ankle. And this in no way derails my plans for the quarter sleeve. So... perhaps, at the risk of sounding ridiculous, this is my thing.
It's intrinsic to who I am, and the way in which I can push the proverbial envelope. For a long time now, I'm secretly lamented that I wasn't more athletic and/or adventurous. I had the chance to join Houston Roller Derby back when it was first forming, but I declined before I feared getting hurt (and I don't possess the mental capacity to bounce back). Some friends in Ohio went ziplining in order to cap off a fantastic wedding weekend, and while my schedule ultimately didn't permit it, my initial response was to balk (and check the weight limit of those damned harnesses). The idea of pushing myself physically is highly appealing, and I am always - but not necessarily outwardly - jealous of people who do that. But I always shy away in the end.
Up to this point I've thought of my ink as simply something I find beautiful and personally meaningful. But maybe it's more than that...? Maybe this is my way of pushing the envelope, and seeing how far I can take my body? Maybe there's someone out there looking at me and thinking, "Wow... I would love to do that, but I don't think I ever could."
Maybe.
This is The Groom:
And this is me:
I'm so incredibly happy that he's found such am amazing girl, and I was overwhelmingly proud that he chose me to be there. This was the first tattoo I've gotten since summer 2006, and, as they all do, it hurt. Not nearly as badly as his and the interior arm, but trust -- it hurt. There are some hideous photos of me squirming and contorting my face. It's amazing to me how addictive getting ink can be.
But today, en route to hang with Trail Mix (that boy is a little like crack), it sort of occurred to me that, while a lot of people might be tattooed in the most basic sense, a much smaller segment of the population is on the moderate to heavy side of the scale. I'd say those phrases are wholly subjective - this would be my sixth piece. Is that 'moderate' or still mild? I don't know; still, it's not butterfly on the shoulder or rose vine on my ankle. And this in no way derails my plans for the quarter sleeve. So... perhaps, at the risk of sounding ridiculous, this is my thing.
It's intrinsic to who I am, and the way in which I can push the proverbial envelope. For a long time now, I'm secretly lamented that I wasn't more athletic and/or adventurous. I had the chance to join Houston Roller Derby back when it was first forming, but I declined before I feared getting hurt (and I don't possess the mental capacity to bounce back). Some friends in Ohio went ziplining in order to cap off a fantastic wedding weekend, and while my schedule ultimately didn't permit it, my initial response was to balk (and check the weight limit of those damned harnesses). The idea of pushing myself physically is highly appealing, and I am always - but not necessarily outwardly - jealous of people who do that. But I always shy away in the end.
Up to this point I've thought of my ink as simply something I find beautiful and personally meaningful. But maybe it's more than that...? Maybe this is my way of pushing the envelope, and seeing how far I can take my body? Maybe there's someone out there looking at me and thinking, "Wow... I would love to do that, but I don't think I ever could."
Maybe.
02 July 2009
This is ridiculous
My flight to Ohio for the Raw Shiddle Wedding Extravaganza leaves in 5 five hours; that means I have to be at the airport in four hours... so I should be awake in three. Holy lord.
So I'm waking at 3a and leaving at 4a. And Tattoo Johnny -- who I guess I'm tentatively dating now? -- is taking me. He just offered it up after dinner tonight, and I thought it was super sweet. It could just be that yeah, he rarely sleeps and will be up undoubtedly... still, even if I was the sort to be up at that hour, I for damn sure would want to be in my house, not carting people around.
So, I'm taking it as a good sign. His house mate knows my name, too -- also a good sign. And he calls our outings 'dates.' Bonus, seeing as how 90% of men want to call it 'hanging out.'
I'm rambling a bit... time for bed.
So I'm waking at 3a and leaving at 4a. And Tattoo Johnny -- who I guess I'm tentatively dating now? -- is taking me. He just offered it up after dinner tonight, and I thought it was super sweet. It could just be that yeah, he rarely sleeps and will be up undoubtedly... still, even if I was the sort to be up at that hour, I for damn sure would want to be in my house, not carting people around.
So, I'm taking it as a good sign. His house mate knows my name, too -- also a good sign. And he calls our outings 'dates.' Bonus, seeing as how 90% of men want to call it 'hanging out.'
I'm rambling a bit... time for bed.
23 June 2009
Do you hear yourself?
So, as everyone, their dog, their auntie and their barber know, I do online dating. Scratch that: I do online dating to death. It's not even funny how many ads I've saved, posted, replied to and passed around to a gaggle of friends for review. I'm like the fat girl who says, "But I've tried every diet out there and I'm still fat!"
I've done the respectable ones:
Match - check.
Yahoo! - check.
eHarmony - check.
I've done the niche ones:
Datingcurves - check.
Black & White Singles - check.
Houston Connect - check.
At this point, I'm down to the free shiz because I refuse to pay for rejection; that isn't meant to sound bitter, it's just good fiscal policy. Between the free sites, social networking, friends, family, work colleagues and my own desire to spend as little time as possible watching my mother's new puppy cop a squat on her $300 rug, I get out. You can't tell me I don't, so the idea of paying for the potential to meet...what? Five more guys, perhaps?... it just isn't worth it.
But I'm ranting. Point is, I replied the other week to a cat on Craig's List, who stated a clear preference for curvy girls. I don't know what it is, really, about this last year, but I've become far more cognizant of my weight, for better or worse. After breaking up with Andy (jorts and a ponytail -- sigh, why, Lord, why?) and struggling to find a new job, I packed on probably 10-15 lbs., and I wasn't happy. And I could take the route so many others choose to and blame it on myriad things, but the plain and simple truth is this: I got sad, then self-destructive, apathetic and then lazy.
One of those isn't good, and all of them together is toxic.
Since then, however, I've been more attuned to -- ugh, and kill me for using this phrase -- men who slug their ads with 'BBW.' Would I ever use that phrase? Of course not; it's ridiculous, and whoever created it needs a swift kick in his or her BBW. It's ascinine, mildly offensive (though I can't quite put my finger on how) and serves only to further distance one person from the other. Like we as a country need more labels? It's fucking stupid.
Again, however, I'm digressing. While I hate it, I fully get that some dudes don't like heavier women, and that's quite alright with me. Everyone isn't attracted to everyone - why is that offensive? Women act like men would be doing us a favor to look on the inside and ignore physical attraction; I don't know about anyone else, but I'd prefer to be with a dude who actually wants to spend his time getting it on, not discussing poetry at the coffee shop. Anyone crying foul because someone isn't attracted to them needs a dose of self-esteem. Is this culture biased against bigger people? Probably so -- we're also biased against shorter people, taller people, lighter people, darker people, foreign-born and the uneducated. It's called life, jerk. Man up.
But back to the story -- I replied to this guy on CL who said he was down with the curve. So yay, right? He replies saying I'm funny (of course I am), blah, blah, blah. As the correspondence continues, I'm growing annoyed with each email from him, mostly because they are one-liners. He throws in something about a dead grandmother and I've pretty much had it. Two days go by and he asks if I have photos -- I'm in a rut and do shiz for the story value (as many people well know), so I said sure. I send one and ask if he's got one to share. And nothing.
I assume what is most plausible in situations like these -- he was astonished and disappointed that I'm black. Funny thing, being black. A whole bunch of people say they're cool with dating whomever, but when it gets down to brass tacks, it's not so much the case. And again, I'm fine with that -- go right ahead and deprieve yourself of an entire group of people based on what Disney has told you is the only way to proceed. I have always held the attention of white men over black men (blog on that later) so dating interracially has never even been a conscious decision. It just was.
Growing up in north Austin kind of does that. It's not a thing, it just is. I'm far more concerned about whether or not you're a fool than if you're white or black.
White guys, however, seem oftentimes scared by the prospect of actually engaging what is normally considered a neat little thing to do while spring break. You hook up with black girls... but date them? That's just wacky and weird, man! What if she wants to cook for you? What if, you know, she has her period? What's that like with a black girl? what if she takes her earrings off? Ohhh nooooooessss, we're too different!
Morons.
So I send him my photo, and I don't hear back from him until today... about 10 days later. And ignoring the fact that he sends yet another tired one-liner, his question was completely ascinine: "Do you like white guys?"
This amuses me for a variety of different reasons, not least of which is this: do you think I have a choice? White guys are *everywhere*, man. Even if I had a bias, do you actually think I could live a life in this state - in this city! - without daily contact? There are a lot of types you might have wiggle room with, in terms of friendly dealings, but guess what, hoss -- white men are not them. (and yes, I just called him hoss.) I need them to buy a car and rent an apartment from, just like they need me to safely gain suburban street cred. In case you didn't know, I'm one of those safe kinds of black girls; I can look the part but won't actually get you shot, and I'm as much perplexed by the concept of a ride-or-die chick as you are.
Ride or die, for reals? So let me get this straight: I ride with you, hold you stash, get shot up and go to jail? For YOU? Umm, yeah. I'll be on the bus, brah. For real.
Anyway, I replied and schooled him a bit, which undoubtedly left him butthurt and clueless. Perhaps one day he'll figure it out, but I think I'm really past the point of wanting to teach him... or anyone, for that matter. If you don't get it, I'm not the broad to ask. Not anymore. If you can't see me for me then why in hell should I bother updating your prescription?
I've done the respectable ones:
Match - check.
Yahoo! - check.
eHarmony - check.
I've done the niche ones:
Datingcurves - check.
Black & White Singles - check.
Houston Connect - check.
At this point, I'm down to the free shiz because I refuse to pay for rejection; that isn't meant to sound bitter, it's just good fiscal policy. Between the free sites, social networking, friends, family, work colleagues and my own desire to spend as little time as possible watching my mother's new puppy cop a squat on her $300 rug, I get out. You can't tell me I don't, so the idea of paying for the potential to meet...what? Five more guys, perhaps?... it just isn't worth it.
But I'm ranting. Point is, I replied the other week to a cat on Craig's List, who stated a clear preference for curvy girls. I don't know what it is, really, about this last year, but I've become far more cognizant of my weight, for better or worse. After breaking up with Andy (jorts and a ponytail -- sigh, why, Lord, why?) and struggling to find a new job, I packed on probably 10-15 lbs., and I wasn't happy. And I could take the route so many others choose to and blame it on myriad things, but the plain and simple truth is this: I got sad, then self-destructive, apathetic and then lazy.
One of those isn't good, and all of them together is toxic.
Since then, however, I've been more attuned to -- ugh, and kill me for using this phrase -- men who slug their ads with 'BBW.' Would I ever use that phrase? Of course not; it's ridiculous, and whoever created it needs a swift kick in his or her BBW. It's ascinine, mildly offensive (though I can't quite put my finger on how) and serves only to further distance one person from the other. Like we as a country need more labels? It's fucking stupid.
Again, however, I'm digressing. While I hate it, I fully get that some dudes don't like heavier women, and that's quite alright with me. Everyone isn't attracted to everyone - why is that offensive? Women act like men would be doing us a favor to look on the inside and ignore physical attraction; I don't know about anyone else, but I'd prefer to be with a dude who actually wants to spend his time getting it on, not discussing poetry at the coffee shop. Anyone crying foul because someone isn't attracted to them needs a dose of self-esteem. Is this culture biased against bigger people? Probably so -- we're also biased against shorter people, taller people, lighter people, darker people, foreign-born and the uneducated. It's called life, jerk. Man up.
But back to the story -- I replied to this guy on CL who said he was down with the curve. So yay, right? He replies saying I'm funny (of course I am), blah, blah, blah. As the correspondence continues, I'm growing annoyed with each email from him, mostly because they are one-liners. He throws in something about a dead grandmother and I've pretty much had it. Two days go by and he asks if I have photos -- I'm in a rut and do shiz for the story value (as many people well know), so I said sure. I send one and ask if he's got one to share. And nothing.
I assume what is most plausible in situations like these -- he was astonished and disappointed that I'm black. Funny thing, being black. A whole bunch of people say they're cool with dating whomever, but when it gets down to brass tacks, it's not so much the case. And again, I'm fine with that -- go right ahead and deprieve yourself of an entire group of people based on what Disney has told you is the only way to proceed. I have always held the attention of white men over black men (blog on that later) so dating interracially has never even been a conscious decision. It just was.
Growing up in north Austin kind of does that. It's not a thing, it just is. I'm far more concerned about whether or not you're a fool than if you're white or black.
White guys, however, seem oftentimes scared by the prospect of actually engaging what is normally considered a neat little thing to do while spring break. You hook up with black girls... but date them? That's just wacky and weird, man! What if she wants to cook for you? What if, you know, she has her period? What's that like with a black girl? what if she takes her earrings off? Ohhh nooooooessss, we're too different!
Morons.
So I send him my photo, and I don't hear back from him until today... about 10 days later. And ignoring the fact that he sends yet another tired one-liner, his question was completely ascinine: "Do you like white guys?"
This amuses me for a variety of different reasons, not least of which is this: do you think I have a choice? White guys are *everywhere*, man. Even if I had a bias, do you actually think I could live a life in this state - in this city! - without daily contact? There are a lot of types you might have wiggle room with, in terms of friendly dealings, but guess what, hoss -- white men are not them. (and yes, I just called him hoss.) I need them to buy a car and rent an apartment from, just like they need me to safely gain suburban street cred. In case you didn't know, I'm one of those safe kinds of black girls; I can look the part but won't actually get you shot, and I'm as much perplexed by the concept of a ride-or-die chick as you are.
Ride or die, for reals? So let me get this straight: I ride with you, hold you stash, get shot up and go to jail? For YOU? Umm, yeah. I'll be on the bus, brah. For real.
Anyway, I replied and schooled him a bit, which undoubtedly left him butthurt and clueless. Perhaps one day he'll figure it out, but I think I'm really past the point of wanting to teach him... or anyone, for that matter. If you don't get it, I'm not the broad to ask. Not anymore. If you can't see me for me then why in hell should I bother updating your prescription?
19 June 2009
Is laziness catching?
It occurs to me that if my good friend Rob - who is out in the middle of nowhere currently, hiking the 2100-mile Appalachian Trail - can keep a nearly daily journal and find internet access to chronicle it all, then I should be able to maintain a blog. Again. Let's not forget, I've done this once before.
I'm just lazy. Again.
But you know, when I blogged on Myspace, it started out sort of hesitantly, like this -- and in the end, I had more than 400, which still astonishes me. It got to the point where blogging was cathartic. I've been wrestling with some less-than-desirable feelings as of late, so perhaps I need to hop back on this train. I'd wondered if I should be more mainstream with this one -- find a niche like food or drink or movies or stupid people -- and blog exclusively. But that's just not me.
Natasha just commented that people pop on to my FB page to see what's going to happen next; I guess I'm at my best when sharing the ins and outs of my life. Perhaps I allow people to see that hey, it could always be worse.
I hopefully convey that humor - no matter how dark - can get you through anything, even if it's highly inappropriate. The trick, it seems, is to disguise it cleverly as common sense.
I'm just lazy. Again.
But you know, when I blogged on Myspace, it started out sort of hesitantly, like this -- and in the end, I had more than 400, which still astonishes me. It got to the point where blogging was cathartic. I've been wrestling with some less-than-desirable feelings as of late, so perhaps I need to hop back on this train. I'd wondered if I should be more mainstream with this one -- find a niche like food or drink or movies or stupid people -- and blog exclusively. But that's just not me.
Natasha just commented that people pop on to my FB page to see what's going to happen next; I guess I'm at my best when sharing the ins and outs of my life. Perhaps I allow people to see that hey, it could always be worse.
I hopefully convey that humor - no matter how dark - can get you through anything, even if it's highly inappropriate. The trick, it seems, is to disguise it cleverly as common sense.
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