I saw a video today by Bowwow. The song is called Boy or Girl, in the song he talks about the relationship he wants with his unborn child and how he will take care of and support him/her. The message in the song is good, and while I don't have any children of my own I can relate to him wanting the best for the blessing he is about ton receive in the form of his child. The part that got me all in a tizzy was "if I have a girl I pray that she won't be like none of these hoes that I've met throughout my life."
Ninjas kill me with such logic. He even has the nerve to disrespect his child's mother in the song and on blogs. In a lot of cases when dealing with entertainers (rappers, athletes etc.) or men in general when a woman becomes pregnant with their seed she becomes all types of bitches, hoes, skeezers, and the such like. That sh!t is so annoying.
I'm under the belief that if you are having sex with someone with whom you would not be comfortable combining chromosomes with take every precaution to make sure that doesn't happen. If a man cannot think past his penis then he is no man at all. I'm sure we have all taken health, sex ed, or had the talk with a parent, we know how babies are made. If you don't want kids don't phcuk without protection! It's really not that difficult a concept.
Ninjas also kill me with the logic that they can't stand hoes or golddiggers yet that is all you align yourself with. There are numerous good women in the world but let's be real some men would rather smash something quick and easy and then wonder why he is getting served with child support papers. The only reasons groupies and golddiggers are snatching money out of men's pockets left and right is that some men are to weak minded to say no to pussy. You do not have to smash every random chick that gives you the chance, but you do. She is not a hoe, you are an idiot!
Men don't let your dicks control you, because once you can get past the pussy pursuit better things will await you. I can assure you there are better things than new pussy, and besides no good woman wants to have a baby by your roachin arse anyway.
This song made me really dislike Bowwow, and that's not saying much because I haven't been a fan since like 2003.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Are you African?
Since I have been home from Ghana I have been asked about my cultural origin numerous times. It perhaps is because I have been sporting the bags and jewelry that I purchased in the motherland. It could be that my afro has enjoyed being out and about more frequently, or it could be because my name is so "exotic" sounding. Heck a boy in Ghana asked me if I was Ghanaian after hearing my name.
I have not gone a week without someone asking me or a person I'm with if I am African, and to me it is the most fabulous compliment. Lots of black Americans though take it as an insult and calling someone African has been used as a cutdown for as long as I can remember and that has always hurt my feelings.
But, not to go into a rant about the African diaspora and the brainwashing that black Americans have gone through about the continent, I am totally estatic that my Africaness seems to be so pronounced these days. In fact I have been asked out by three African men and one from Trinidad in the last month. What can I say I'm international baby. I do wonder what has been so appealing to these men from across the ocean that is attracting them to me, so I asked of course.
One said I looked like an interesting person, he later admitted that my hair being on one hundred thousand trillion the day he met me. He said I looked like a "free spirit." Another said "my smile was breathtaking" which is weird because I totally hate my smile.
To make a long post short, or bring this short post to an end I now tell all new people that I am from Ghana and cheese super hard when someone ask me if I'm African.
I have not gone a week without someone asking me or a person I'm with if I am African, and to me it is the most fabulous compliment. Lots of black Americans though take it as an insult and calling someone African has been used as a cutdown for as long as I can remember and that has always hurt my feelings.
But, not to go into a rant about the African diaspora and the brainwashing that black Americans have gone through about the continent, I am totally estatic that my Africaness seems to be so pronounced these days. In fact I have been asked out by three African men and one from Trinidad in the last month. What can I say I'm international baby. I do wonder what has been so appealing to these men from across the ocean that is attracting them to me, so I asked of course.
One said I looked like an interesting person, he later admitted that my hair being on one hundred thousand trillion the day he met me. He said I looked like a "free spirit." Another said "my smile was breathtaking" which is weird because I totally hate my smile.
To make a long post short, or bring this short post to an end I now tell all new people that I am from Ghana and cheese super hard when someone ask me if I'm African.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Sometimes I Cry
I've been on an emotional rollercoaster this past week. I have been through a range of extreme loneliness to extreme hate and I will tell you why. Please realize that I already feel like a horrid person for my overt and passionate reaction to an experience I had yesterday so please reserve your judgement or at least try to understand where I'm coming from.
First the lonely.
I often discuss my disdain for all things romantic but I will have you know that I am indeed a sucker for love. Now I have no clue how I will react to love when it comes my way and a part of me secretly hopes it does not. Being in a relationship, a real relationship, not just the friends with benefits kind is awfully terrifying to a loner such as myself. It would force me to confront my 2nd worst earthly fear which is growing up. I cannot even begin to express how uncomfortable commitment makes me feel. Writing about it right now makes me queasy. I am not afraid of getting hurt per say but more afraid of hurting the other person. Truth be told I have issues, having another person that close to me in such an intimate way forces me to take responsibilty for my fears and confront them coming full circle back to the issue of me not wanting to grow up. And as much as I love those of the testosterone elegantly put, boys are stupid.
Second the hate.
I make known my disdain for motherhood more often than I do relationships. Becoming "with child" is my first earthly fear. It has become a running joke of my close friends and family of my nervousness of the "little people." People usually respond to my vow to subject my uterus to a barren grave with claims of me being the one to produce an obscene amount of children (after I am wed of course). Whether or not my side or theirs will prevail is yet to be seen, but the Discovery Channel, and Courtney Cox, slammed me face first into my own paranoia.
Last night as I cleaned my room a documentary came on the Discovery Channel, narrated by Courtney Cox, about for lack of a better term "where babies come from." The documentary followed three expectant mothers from conception until childbirth.
Unfortunately they did not show the conception, which as I've heard is the best part about this whole mess anyway, but I suppose that is a whole other documentary. While I'm sidetracking I must say I was hurt to see that out of the three expectant mothers, 2 white 1 black, the black woman's husband/boyfriend/spermdoner was no where to be found. It's like damn could we not find a married black woman to participate? Four words ste-re-o-type!
Anywho fast forward to the birthing process and ummm yuck. New born babies fresh out the womb are the creepiest little life forms on earth. They're all bloody and slimy and crying with big ole heads. They look like aliens. After watching one woman be in labor for 22 hours, one almost die from high blood pressure due to her pregnancy, and one just screaming her head off I couldn't help but think to myself "My God, why would anyone want to purposely put themselves through this hell, some multiple times, only for that little phcuker to grow up and be a pain in the arse?" And then I burst into tears. No. Really. I began to cry profusely. I cried for two reasons.
1. Everything in my soul rejected motherhood on the spot, I hated the fact that pregnancy and childbirth were such a trainwreck of experience for women, I hated that men could never experience the plight of women and our reproductive system, I hated the children that caused their mothers so much pain, and I hated the fact that I was outrightly giving the finger to the whole "be fruitful and multiply" thing.
2. I cried because I felt as though I am a horrible person for feeling all those things and despising part of my make-up as a woman. Like if I never get married and have children I'll be letting my family, and even God down and who wants to let God down right?
So that's been my last week in a nutshell. Probably not the most uplifting post after a 2 month absence but there it is. I should probably warn that the next few will be a little Drake-ish as well.
Drake-ish (noun)- extremely emotional, sad, all up in one's feelings.
First the lonely.
I often discuss my disdain for all things romantic but I will have you know that I am indeed a sucker for love. Now I have no clue how I will react to love when it comes my way and a part of me secretly hopes it does not. Being in a relationship, a real relationship, not just the friends with benefits kind is awfully terrifying to a loner such as myself. It would force me to confront my 2nd worst earthly fear which is growing up. I cannot even begin to express how uncomfortable commitment makes me feel. Writing about it right now makes me queasy. I am not afraid of getting hurt per say but more afraid of hurting the other person. Truth be told I have issues, having another person that close to me in such an intimate way forces me to take responsibilty for my fears and confront them coming full circle back to the issue of me not wanting to grow up. And as much as I love those of the testosterone elegantly put, boys are stupid.
Second the hate.
I make known my disdain for motherhood more often than I do relationships. Becoming "with child" is my first earthly fear. It has become a running joke of my close friends and family of my nervousness of the "little people." People usually respond to my vow to subject my uterus to a barren grave with claims of me being the one to produce an obscene amount of children (after I am wed of course). Whether or not my side or theirs will prevail is yet to be seen, but the Discovery Channel, and Courtney Cox, slammed me face first into my own paranoia.
Last night as I cleaned my room a documentary came on the Discovery Channel, narrated by Courtney Cox, about for lack of a better term "where babies come from." The documentary followed three expectant mothers from conception until childbirth.
Unfortunately they did not show the conception, which as I've heard is the best part about this whole mess anyway, but I suppose that is a whole other documentary. While I'm sidetracking I must say I was hurt to see that out of the three expectant mothers, 2 white 1 black, the black woman's husband/boyfriend/spermdoner was no where to be found. It's like damn could we not find a married black woman to participate? Four words ste-re-o-type!
Anywho fast forward to the birthing process and ummm yuck. New born babies fresh out the womb are the creepiest little life forms on earth. They're all bloody and slimy and crying with big ole heads. They look like aliens. After watching one woman be in labor for 22 hours, one almost die from high blood pressure due to her pregnancy, and one just screaming her head off I couldn't help but think to myself "My God, why would anyone want to purposely put themselves through this hell, some multiple times, only for that little phcuker to grow up and be a pain in the arse?" And then I burst into tears. No. Really. I began to cry profusely. I cried for two reasons.
1. Everything in my soul rejected motherhood on the spot, I hated the fact that pregnancy and childbirth were such a trainwreck of experience for women, I hated that men could never experience the plight of women and our reproductive system, I hated the children that caused their mothers so much pain, and I hated the fact that I was outrightly giving the finger to the whole "be fruitful and multiply" thing.
2. I cried because I felt as though I am a horrible person for feeling all those things and despising part of my make-up as a woman. Like if I never get married and have children I'll be letting my family, and even God down and who wants to let God down right?
So that's been my last week in a nutshell. Probably not the most uplifting post after a 2 month absence but there it is. I should probably warn that the next few will be a little Drake-ish as well.
Drake-ish (noun)- extremely emotional, sad, all up in one's feelings.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Subconscious Civil Rights
I have been reading reviews of the movie The Help that came out this past week. The movie is based on the book of the same name and from what I read is the fictional coming of age story of a white woman in 1960s Mississippi.
After reading the reviews I have mixed feelings about seeing the film, or reading the book. In many of the negative reviews I've read there is much criticism of the stereotypes that are revived by the black characters in the story. The most hated of all, the mammy. The black mammy is portrayed as the overtly happy, frumpy, overweight, asexual black maid that loves the white family she works for.
Of course the word that struck me the most was asexual.
Asexual-a person who is not interested in or does not desire sexual activity, either within or outside of a relationship.
This word often pops up when naming the unflattering stereotypes given to black women, and I am starting to believe that I have subconsciously made it my mission to combat that awful, awful word.
I have been teased by others, and have also made jokes at my own expense about my flair to write about things of a more carnal nature that I haven't experienced. I ama horny virgin subconsciously on a mission to show black female sexuality in a non animalistic, Jezebel way which is the total opposite end of the stereotype spectrum.
Black female sexuality is not to be constrained or exploited, it should be respected and desired. And I for one intend on leading the charge if I have to write a a freaky soliloquy everyday for the rest of my life.
This is all really a bunch of self-righteous nonsense that I am using to justify my over-zealous attraction to exploring my lust on paper and do with my pen what I'm to afraid to do in person, nevertheless it is an issue that is an unfortunate part of being a black female.
Sucks to be me.
After reading the reviews I have mixed feelings about seeing the film, or reading the book. In many of the negative reviews I've read there is much criticism of the stereotypes that are revived by the black characters in the story. The most hated of all, the mammy. The black mammy is portrayed as the overtly happy, frumpy, overweight, asexual black maid that loves the white family she works for.
Of course the word that struck me the most was asexual.
Asexual-a person who is not interested in or does not desire sexual activity, either within or outside of a relationship.
This word often pops up when naming the unflattering stereotypes given to black women, and I am starting to believe that I have subconsciously made it my mission to combat that awful, awful word.
I have been teased by others, and have also made jokes at my own expense about my flair to write about things of a more carnal nature that I haven't experienced. I am
Black female sexuality is not to be constrained or exploited, it should be respected and desired. And I for one intend on leading the charge if I have to write a a freaky soliloquy everyday for the rest of my life.
This is all really a bunch of self-righteous nonsense that I am using to justify my over-zealous attraction to exploring my lust on paper and do with my pen what I'm to afraid to do in person, nevertheless it is an issue that is an unfortunate part of being a black female.
Sucks to be me.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
If I were a poet
If I were a poet I would say
When I met you I was reminded of the time in Dr. Jones African-American history 2 class, while we were discussing Malcolm X, when he pointed to one of the black boys in class and said "Ladies, I would like for you to meet God" the realist in me would say you are not God, but the poet in me would say my God, you are a divine creation, inspiration that leads me to believe that if Jesus was similar to your nature no wonder Mary Magdalene stayed so close
If I were a poet I would say
You have skin the color of homemade syrup, and you smell like my grandmother's breakfast on Saturday morning and when I'm with you all I hear are 90s love songs and lonely, lonely is a curse word
If I were a poet I would say
That the time you walked up behind me in the crowded MSC and whispered hello in my ear my insides liquefied in that manner that on the most intimate of occasions a woman can tell a man without words he has made a very good impression
If I were a poet I would say
Thinking of you takes me back to the days when I painted masterpieces on concrete with sidewalk chalk and played Brown Girl in Mr. Rowe's music class and I always hoped to dance in the circle with you
If I were a poet I would say
That if God were to give me one gift it would be this, that I could make footprints over the sands of time with you by my side and we would make babies and have grandbabies and both sit at opposite heads of the family table at Thanksgivings and Christmases and be the first to go down the soul train line at the family reunion, for you to open my door and all the young girls say I want a man like him, and for me to bring you your food and all the young boys say I want a wife like her, and for us to sit together in church and the young couples say we want to be like them
But I'm not a poet and its not easy for me to think of creative metaphoric ways to say that everyday when I roll over and see you on the right side of my bed that I just love you.
When I met you I was reminded of the time in Dr. Jones African-American history 2 class, while we were discussing Malcolm X, when he pointed to one of the black boys in class and said "Ladies, I would like for you to meet God" the realist in me would say you are not God, but the poet in me would say my God, you are a divine creation, inspiration that leads me to believe that if Jesus was similar to your nature no wonder Mary Magdalene stayed so close
If I were a poet I would say
You have skin the color of homemade syrup, and you smell like my grandmother's breakfast on Saturday morning and when I'm with you all I hear are 90s love songs and lonely, lonely is a curse word
If I were a poet I would say
That the time you walked up behind me in the crowded MSC and whispered hello in my ear my insides liquefied in that manner that on the most intimate of occasions a woman can tell a man without words he has made a very good impression
If I were a poet I would say
Thinking of you takes me back to the days when I painted masterpieces on concrete with sidewalk chalk and played Brown Girl in Mr. Rowe's music class and I always hoped to dance in the circle with you
If I were a poet I would say
That if God were to give me one gift it would be this, that I could make footprints over the sands of time with you by my side and we would make babies and have grandbabies and both sit at opposite heads of the family table at Thanksgivings and Christmases and be the first to go down the soul train line at the family reunion, for you to open my door and all the young girls say I want a man like him, and for me to bring you your food and all the young boys say I want a wife like her, and for us to sit together in church and the young couples say we want to be like them
But I'm not a poet and its not easy for me to think of creative metaphoric ways to say that everyday when I roll over and see you on the right side of my bed that I just love you.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
The List
It seems as though when it comes to love and life the heart and the mind like to wage war. Even though I have had those all nighter conversations with myself about certain someones I believe that I have always been sensible when it comes to choosing men, so sensible in fact I stay away from the decision altogether even have a list, I like to call it...
The kinky conundrum of why I can't have coitus with you
2. You have no attainable goals.
I want to be a lawyer and a successful blogger. What about you? Men who can't finish school, can't keep a job, or have no inkling of what they want to do in life make me itch. I don't mind a brotha with dreams. If you want to own a ribbon making factory great! If you majored in dance in college cool, open a dance company and get your Alvin Ailey on, but you got to show me some initiative. I have seen too many women in my life get swindled by some man into being their sugar mama and I just can't do it church.
3. You are with child.
I have some guy friends who are fathers. Some are great, some could use a little work. I am more than happy to be apart of a child's life as auntie kinky, not step-mama kinky. I am still at a point in life where children seem more of a burden than a blessing, and to be honest I am way to irresponsible and/or selfish to be put into the position of rearing a little person. I have had men try to tell me that their child is not my responsibility and all I have to worry about is being their woman but I have to disagree. If our relationship is to be long term then at some point or another I will be directly or indirectly be responsible for the well-being of your child. That is a lot of pressure, then there is the chance that your child won't like me and who's to say I'm going to be head over heels about Jr? The most important issue however is the mother of your child. You are now linked forever with a woman who has seen you naked, that is a problem for me.
4. You are to "eurocentric"
All my life I been black and all my life I been happy as heck to be it. I've had this nappy hair for over a year now and I'm not turning back. I'm trying to get back to Africa next summer and I have read the Autobiography of Malcolm X. A sista is quick to throw up the black power fist ok? If you ain't down to fight the power every once in awhile or at least have a conversation about it then to you sir I say good day.
5. Non-argumentative
You can blame this on my highschool sweetheart. I've always been slightly confrontational but thanks to him I now need a couple good arguments a month to keep me on my toes. The strong silent type is good in theory but I need a little passion in my life. Not thug passion or anything that one may find in the urban section in Walden Books just someone who doesn't mind going toe to toe with me. Plus if we never fight how will we ever make-up? wink. wink.
There it is, the top 5 things that I look at to decided if I am worth a man's time (I didn't type that wrong, that's what I meant to say). I suppose I should back door with a list on what increases a man's coital chances. So I guess this post should be called The List pt.1? Well join me tomorrow kids for part 2 of our segment. Same kinky time, same kinky place.
The kinky conundrum of why I can't have coitus with you
- We're unequally yolked.
2. You have no attainable goals.
I want to be a lawyer and a successful blogger. What about you? Men who can't finish school, can't keep a job, or have no inkling of what they want to do in life make me itch. I don't mind a brotha with dreams. If you want to own a ribbon making factory great! If you majored in dance in college cool, open a dance company and get your Alvin Ailey on, but you got to show me some initiative. I have seen too many women in my life get swindled by some man into being their sugar mama and I just can't do it church.
3. You are with child.
I have some guy friends who are fathers. Some are great, some could use a little work. I am more than happy to be apart of a child's life as auntie kinky, not step-mama kinky. I am still at a point in life where children seem more of a burden than a blessing, and to be honest I am way to irresponsible and/or selfish to be put into the position of rearing a little person. I have had men try to tell me that their child is not my responsibility and all I have to worry about is being their woman but I have to disagree. If our relationship is to be long term then at some point or another I will be directly or indirectly be responsible for the well-being of your child. That is a lot of pressure, then there is the chance that your child won't like me and who's to say I'm going to be head over heels about Jr? The most important issue however is the mother of your child. You are now linked forever with a woman who has seen you naked, that is a problem for me.
4. You are to "eurocentric"
All my life I been black and all my life I been happy as heck to be it. I've had this nappy hair for over a year now and I'm not turning back. I'm trying to get back to Africa next summer and I have read the Autobiography of Malcolm X. A sista is quick to throw up the black power fist ok? If you ain't down to fight the power every once in awhile or at least have a conversation about it then to you sir I say good day.
5. Non-argumentative
You can blame this on my highschool sweetheart. I've always been slightly confrontational but thanks to him I now need a couple good arguments a month to keep me on my toes. The strong silent type is good in theory but I need a little passion in my life. Not thug passion or anything that one may find in the urban section in Walden Books just someone who doesn't mind going toe to toe with me. Plus if we never fight how will we ever make-up? wink. wink.
There it is, the top 5 things that I look at to decided if I am worth a man's time (I didn't type that wrong, that's what I meant to say). I suppose I should back door with a list on what increases a man's coital chances. So I guess this post should be called The List pt.1? Well join me tomorrow kids for part 2 of our segment. Same kinky time, same kinky place.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Photographs
I f*cking hate to take pictures.
Somewhere between ages 18 and 19 all the cameras in the world said "we gon f*ck this girl up." Very few pictures taken of me after my 19th birthday do I find flattering. The worst part is I hang around picture happy bishes that have Tourette's syndrome with their effing camera phones. Any random event that occurs is a photo op for these skeezers and its freaking annoying.
For instance the birthday dinner that my friend planned for me was very sweet and I enjoyed every minute of it. Except for the pictures! The fake smile plastered on my face is now plastered all over Facebook. Which means I have been tagged in these awful arse pictures for the f*cking world to gawk at.
My friends, as lovely and kind hearted as they are, simply don't understand that I don't care if they think the pictures are cute, I don't care if the entire world thinks that the pictures are top model status, I hate them and that reason alone should be enough for them to stop forcing a camera in my face everytime I f*cking turn around. In my opinion the camera does not love me, that bish hates my f*cking guts and is out to get me. I aint never ran from a nigga but I will sprint right past a camera everytime.
I realize that I am overreactingyes it is that time of the month and that my friends just want to capture our times together on film seeing as though any of us can kick the bucket at any given time, but sh!t, damn, motherf*cker I think I have a personality that will remain even in the case of my demise, I mean really we don't know for sure what Jesus looked like but we're all still talking about him. Same thing for me, I don't walk on water or anything but I do tell a mean Knock Knock joke so we're basically two peas in a pod.
I am a genius behind a camera not in front of it, I'm part native American anyway the camera steals a piece of my soul everytime someone gets a snap shot. You see what these heffas are doing to me? They're stealing my f*cking soul.
Tramps.
*Fun facts about this post*
The word f*ck was used 6 times.
I'm pretty sure I misspelled Tourette's.
I'm not part Native American.
Somewhere between ages 18 and 19 all the cameras in the world said "we gon f*ck this girl up." Very few pictures taken of me after my 19th birthday do I find flattering. The worst part is I hang around picture happy bishes that have Tourette's syndrome with their effing camera phones. Any random event that occurs is a photo op for these skeezers and its freaking annoying.
For instance the birthday dinner that my friend planned for me was very sweet and I enjoyed every minute of it. Except for the pictures! The fake smile plastered on my face is now plastered all over Facebook. Which means I have been tagged in these awful arse pictures for the f*cking world to gawk at.
My friends, as lovely and kind hearted as they are, simply don't understand that I don't care if they think the pictures are cute, I don't care if the entire world thinks that the pictures are top model status, I hate them and that reason alone should be enough for them to stop forcing a camera in my face everytime I f*cking turn around. In my opinion the camera does not love me, that bish hates my f*cking guts and is out to get me. I aint never ran from a nigga but I will sprint right past a camera everytime.
I realize that I am overreacting
I am a genius behind a camera not in front of it, I'm part native American anyway the camera steals a piece of my soul everytime someone gets a snap shot. You see what these heffas are doing to me? They're stealing my f*cking soul.
Tramps.
*Fun facts about this post*
The word f*ck was used 6 times.
I'm pretty sure I misspelled Tourette's.
I'm not part Native American.
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