just bask in this for a moment.
today’s lesson: “i’m sorry you feel that way” is NOT an apology.
(UPDATE: If you’re unsatisfied with J. Murray’s apology, contact Tariq Muhammad of AOL Black Voices. email@example.com (via ForHarriet.com))
i’ve been meaning to write this entry since a few months after i moved back to kentucky from philly, but i guess it’s better that i didn’t do it so soon. after being natural for two years and spending one of those years in louisville, ky, i’ve had a lot more time to really examine the experience.
as i sit here watching you talk to a bunch of kids who had babies, i kind of can’t help myself. it’s emotional porn, the way you spread your caring around, how you caress those on the stage with the softness of your voice but put a little bass in it when someone decides to get loud and wrong. the way you lean in and peer into the center of someone’s eyes when they speak. the way you listen. like, really, really listen. sigh. you speak to that need in me, the unscratchable itch that screams “OMFG I DON’T CARE ABOUT WHATEVER SPORT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT RIGHT NOW. I JUST NEED TO TELL YOU ABOUT MY DAY, CAN I FUCKING DO THAT, PLEASE?!” you are the human embodiment of a shopping spree, a walking bowl of chocolate covered winning lottery tickets dipped in good dreams and free foot rubs. just win. just so full of win.
so we’ve all seen that slightly batshit yet somehow awesome Jimmy McMillan in his quest for the governor’s chair in New York on the The Rent is Too Damn High Party. i am inspired. ladies and gentlemen, i would like to take this opportunity to declare my intent to run for governor of any state of your choosing on a brand new platform to be known as the These Damn Cans of Glory Greens Are Dented Party.
okay. i know yall pretty well. i lived amongst you for a time. everybody knows that yall can be some hateful sumbitches when you wanna be. we know you like to boo people. sarah palin. beyonce. santa claus.
but yall gon throw a BOOK at MY PRESIDENT?!?! COME THE FREAK ON!!!
like. im at home takin my earrings off right now. don’t NOBODY throw a book at MY president! oh no, chile! that’s when miss benita go OFF!!
She lay on the bed beneath him, filling her lungs slowly beneath his weight. She liked the feel of every part of him–his beard scratching at the smoothness of her cheek, his tongue, hot and wet, playing along her earlobe, his fingertips tightening the slightest bit around her wrists.
“Oh, D’Clarkeon,” she whimpered in his ear, squirming.
“You like that, Sh’Quaydra’Nique?” he cooed back. By the way she was beginning to squirm, he already knew the answer. …Or so he thought.
“Yes, baby, it feels good, but something is wrong,” she said, throwing a hard arch into her back and pulling violently at the thong she wore.
“Yeah, you can’t wait to get outta them draws, can you girl?” he said.
“NO!” she screamed, throwing him off of her. “It burns! It BURNS!! Lord Jesus in heaven it feels like I’m bout to birth Beelzebub!!!”
It was then that she knew she had to tell him about the gonorrhea.
(h/t to britters_43!)
(note: actual title of an actual book, but not the actual text of said book. but it probably should be.)
i’d had a sucky weekend. the reasons why, the story about what happened, that doesn’t matter. just know that i’d spent my entire weekend indoors, stewing, just wanting to be somewhere else. finally, it was Sunday and i spent the day anxious to jump out of the house, if not out of my very skin, and just go somewhere. that morning i laid out an outfit. that afternoon, i put it on and left my house with no destination, no concern for one. i was keen to just walk. through the streets of my neighborhood, to the center of the city i was born and raised in. to think, to be alone, to see something other than the yellow walls of my living room or the pink (ugh) walls of my bedroom.
what i was wearing doesn’t matter, but know that i was covered from collarbone to toe. there was nothing at all provocative about me, guaranteed by the 60 degree weather of the day.
…but i have a theory.
must have been a great school, since the applicant was apparently there for 12 freaking years.
im gonna call this a fluke. it just so happens that this is a real place. good thing he didn’t write “Ninja High School…” that’s just a little too hard to believe.
hey, hey, brotha. remember last weekend when you were getting ready for the club, and you had on your finest steve harvey suit with your mint green gators, and you jumped back, intending to kiss yourself, but instead found yourself gazing in the mirror saying, “damn. if only this outfit had just a little more roland s. martin.”
remember that? oh, it didn’t happen? oh.
well… pretend it did and keep reading.