The Hopeless Romantic

Can I just say that I am a hopeless romantic and it is killing me? It's disappointing me. It's molding me to take my place as the dreaded Bitter Black Woman that I have been hearing about for about as long as I've been potty trained. I believe in love and sometimes I even think that I feel it, but I don't see it, especially in my own life- personally and around me. When I break it down in my head, I realize that I hear about it in songs and see it on TV, but where is it really visible? I feel that my love faith in something that I can not see and that is not working for me and is leaving me depressed, tired, and just overall emotionally exhausted. I can only liken this to how people must feel before they turn to atheism, wanting to believe in God but surrounded by an overwhelming amount of evidence that proves otherwise. In short, this sucks.

Just A Thought

So many of my friends have chucked dudes and become bisexual. They have just thrown in the towel. Some of them just are, some of them are trying something new, but most of them have gotten so drained by men, so tapped before they were even 30, that they have just given up. I can see where they are coming from, seeing that men are infuriating, calculating, and irritating. However, if I start hearing men say that they are going gay because girls are pissing them off, I think it will then be time to pack our bags and head south!

Sexting...WHAT?

So my sister tells me yesterday while I'm cooking that she learned about the dangers of sexting in school. My sister is 11. Apparently, this sexting business is such a big deal, that valuable time had to be taken away from fractions and the solar system to tell the little nasties that it is not a good idea to text anyone, particularly a fellow horny, pre-teen peer a nude picture of yourself. They had to be told this?
What bothers me about these 90s babies is that they have to be told EVERYTHING! They have little to no common sense and zilch street smarts. As a child, I watched Tom and Jerry Kids like every morning. There were anvils being dropped on people's heads. But I never dropped the iron on my baby brother's head because I knew he would die! The 90s babies kill each other because they saw it on Grand Theft Auto. There was little to no violence when everyone was playing Sega!
But back to sexting. When I was in school, I thought it was racy when a boy in my class sang "Bump and Grind" to me at the lunch table. If he would have given me a nude picture of himself, I probably would have screamed! Not this generation. Nope, they go touch themselves and send a pic back, then they are shocked shitless when little Billy shows anyone who will listen the message!
Here's a question that I think that no one wants to ask: what have we done to make these kids so comfortable with their bodies that they want to show someone a naked picture of themselves? Whatever happened to the security of low self-esteem? I am 25 and have NEVER done that! Of course, I am in the minority on this with my buds. I was looking at my friend's phone, pressed something, and was bombarded with a pic of her vag, up close and personal like, before attempting to escape and being accosted by a picture of her on all fours naked on her bed. But she is 25. My sister is in the 6th grade.
With the sex industry the way it is and reality TV praising nobodies that make sex tapes, it was only a matter of time before sex boiled down to this. I remember seeing a phone sex commercial late one night with women dancing in bikinis, cellphones in hand, singing about how they could text you something dirty for a buck. I laughed until I peed! What idiot would get off on text sex? Boy, was I being naive. Then, about a year or so later, I heard the phrase "sexting" on Glee, you know, the supposedly Rated G prime-time show about a high school show choir? Then Vanessa Ann Hutchins, the cutie from High School Musical got in a bind with Disney when her angry ex released sexting pictures to the internet. This also happened to Rihanna, but we expected it from her. Just recently, MTV had to address the madness and begin the A Thin Line campaign to inform the kiddies that there is a thin line between your boyfriend and the whole school, so think twice before you send out an in-the-buff photo.
Whatever happened to phone sex? Regular uncomfortable, untraceable phone sex? I guess that has gone the way of CDs and cassette players. Times are achangin', I just wish the change didn't involve saying cheese to the back of your cell phone, naked in the bathroom mirror.

Giving Cute the Boot

I'm cute. This I know. But lately, I have been feeling like this is not enough for me. I would much rather be sexy.
Someone once told me that being cute puts you in a good position because cute is cute forever. Beautiful people not so much, because beauty fades. That was back when I was in high school and I was surrounded by "beautiful" White girls with blond locks down their asses, blue eyes that looked like they glowed in the dark, and enormous boobs that sat so high up in their designer bras that they touched their chins. I wish I could remember who told me this little cute forever saying so I could call them to feed me some bull about why it is better to be cute than sexy.
What has caused this need for a change? Well, I don't know what happened, but it seems that my Facebook surfing has revealed to me that my former female collegiate classmates went from adorable to hot like fire, seemingly overnight. They all have huge buts and big perky boobs and long glossy legs. Compared to them, I look like the hunchback! Every time I log in, I am bombarded by photos of girls I know sitting on lounge couches in mini dresses sipping drinks that are pretty colors. And I know that I have addressed how Facebook is killing my confidence in a previous post, but what can I say? I just want to be like other girls my age!
I've started wearing makeup, but I just look like a kid putting on makeup to look older, not a vixen. I recently bought a mini dress, but I look like an overweight 9-year-old trying to sneak into a club.
Plus, I feel like men like sexy, not cute. I have tons of male friends who talk boy talk freely around me because they think of me as a boy, and never have I once heard them give each other kudos for having "cute" girlfriends.
I'm sad that I am shallow enough for this to bother me. I feel like I am in the 6th grade all over again. When I was a kid imagining when I would be 25, I saw myself with a really gorgeous boyfriend and a cool car, not entering some strange, adult puberty. Now, instead of listening to Brandy on my boom box wishing I looked like Staci Dash, I am sitting in the locker room at the gym listening to that horrible techno crap, wishing I looked like that instructor with the perfect everything.
Blah. There is no solution. I am just irritated. I guess I will take my cute ass to bed.

Sins of the Mother

It would take too many posts to catch you up on the Sorta situation. I know, I know, I said that he was out of the picture posts ago and he should be. What can I say to defend my stupidity other than I like him?
We were supposed to meet up in New Orleans during my visit. He got the days off work and everything. We were supposed to chill. Long story short, he stood me up, claiming that he got sick after eating something on Canal Street. Two things: of course you got sick eating something on Canal Street and I'm not sure I believe him. I want to because he has been honest in the past, I think, and again, because I like him and the hassle of finding a new beau is just overwhelming!
Fast forward to yesterday. The doorbell rang and my mother ran to get the door. This is odd, seeing that my mom is 45 with the knees of Father Time and the back of a field hand. So yes, seeing her run up the stairs aroused my suspicions. Who was at the door? Why it was Al. Yay.
For lack of a better term, I call him my stepfather, for there really isn't a phrase to define a man who never married your mother yet fathered her other children while reigning Hell on your childhood. I'm being kind when I call him pathetic. But I will leave the treasure that is Al for another post. He is not the point of the story. The point of the story is how my mother runs to this negro, still, after years of him shitting on her and her children.
Watching this grotesque display got me to thinking about Sorta. How many times do I have to be slapped before I realize that I am being mistreated? My mom is still getting slapped. Brownie told me I deserve better. I agree. What happened to my mom that she didn't care to look for someone better? Did she just get tired like I am now? Whatever the case may be, the whole sight kicked some sense into me, because even though I don't want to be alone, I don't want to be my mother.

Valentine's Day

So tomorrow is Valentine's Day. I don't really want to talk about it, but it's here, so I guess I should address it. Frankly, I have not really enjoyed this day since elementary school when it was required of everybody to give everybody a card and candy, even if they didn't like them.
I was just at the grocery store, watching people scramble to buy gifts. I don't see how they could have forgotten V-Day was coming, not with all those annoying commercials and emails. All that was left was the slim pickings, and let me tell you, nothing says "I Love You" better than those huge gross heart-shaped cookies saturated with frosting and deflating balloons.
Believe it or not, I am not bitter when it comes to Valentine's Day. Well, I used to be. This is true. But this year, I concentrated on showing love to my friends. I sent out cards and such. And I have to say, I do not feel pissed off and empty like I usually do this time of year.
And that's not to say that I wouldn't like spending the 14th in the company of a man. But I am happy and actually a little relieved about having dinner plans with my girl Erin. My heart also went pitter-pat when my friends called me with thank yous for their cards. Who knew I would reach a level of maturity where this day wasn't all about romance for me?

Snow, Snow Go Away

I should be on an Amtrak train right now, snacking on a bag of nine dollar Doritos and trying not to think about how badly I have to pee; I should be on my way to New Orleans. But instead, I am here, sitting at my computer and watching The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood for the 900th time, wishing I was sipping on a hand grenade.
Have you ever just felt like you belonged someplace? You just went somewhere and felt like you didn't understand why you weren't there all along? That is how I feel about New Orleans, even though I have little to nothing in common with the people of the city. But just being there, even in the bad areas, makes me happy- makes me just want to lie on the ground and draw and write poetry. The whole place encourages creativity, from the vibrant color pattern of the city and everyone's clothing to its old world charm. I even miss the bittersweet smell of piss and puke and spilled beer, especially living in Atlanta, a city that is quickly becoming a haven for the super rich, super gay, super chic, super saditty, and super obnoxious. Don't get me wrong, I love the A and it's beautiful array of wannabes, but I have found that if you stay here too long, you will literally begin to choke on everyone's designer labels and demo CDs.
So the snow is melting rapidly, and tomorrow, I will be back on my way to the N.O. where the air is dirty and everyone has an attitude. Ahh, it's like leaving home to visit a fairytale.