Baby Mama Drama

Okay, so I had been talking to this guy for like six months on and off. I met him at Mardi Gras. Nice guy. Dark. Happy face, like a teddy bear.

Although I like to think of myself as cold and scorned, I found myself really responding to him. What can I say? I liked being liked back. I liked receiving cute texts and talking on the phone until early in the morning. Oh, and I liked being liked back. Did I mention that? What a dramatic difference from being some guys issue solver, I will tell you that.

Well, when we first started talking, I asked him the two essentials: do you have a girlfriend and do you have children? The answers to both questions were no. He had an ex, but she had like ruined him and he was ready to move on. I have to say, that was music to my ears.

To make a long story short, we had not talked for a while when he dropped back into my life, a long enough while that I decided to ask him that two essentials again. This time, his answer was not as cut and dry as it had been.

Apparently, he went out with a buddy to a club where his ex was. They drank together, then he woke up the next morning at his home, not remembering the part where he had sex with the ex, consequently getting her pregnant.

Could someone tell me how to feel here? I feel like I was cheated on, but I was in one of those titless situations that I actually warn people against, and now look what happened.

I will tell you the emotion that overpowers me: confusion. I am not really mad, because I learned early on that sometimes men do shitty things. I am confused as to how you fuck someone and not remember. I am confused as to how you can claim to really like a person, whether you are technically together or not, and just fuck someone else.

So where does this leave me? Sadly, I still like him. I like the attention. But now he is like at a distance in my mind. It's like I like him, but now instead of being the nice guy in my mind that he was, he is just another nigga who did something stupid to me, and that makes me sad. But what are you gonna do?

A Tight Situation

So my friend Bells calls me and tells me that she wants to have sex with her boyfriend, thus ending her 26 years of virginity, however, there is one problem: her jay-jay is too tight and her boyfriend's penis won't go in. It's the stuff sweet dreams are made of.
Ironically, she tells me this like two months after I saw an episode of Tyra about this very topic. Apparently, some of the women on the guest panel were so vaginally tight that they couldn't even wear tampons, forget having sex with their boyfriends and husbands. One guest had been married to her husband for two years and could not do it, so she had to get silicone injections into her vagina like 40 times!
This is what I thought about when Bells told me the news. It kind of gave me the chills. I mean, you save yourself thinking about the magical time that you will get to have sex, and then that time comes, and you cannot perform! What a cruel joke.
So of course, I really didn't know what to tell her. She said it was uncomfortable, and every time it was time to do it, it was just too painful to finish. She decided that she has to loosen up. How you may ask? By buying a dildo and using it on herself.
Man, until she told me about all of this, I had not really thought about the humility that goes into having sex. I mean, is this the reward you get for waiting for love: silicone injections and dildos?
Well, I guess there is a price to pay for everything. In this case, no pain, no pop. All I have to say is that if something similar happens to me my first time, I will take it as the last true sign that sex is not for me and live a lonely life that lacks intimacy, you know, like I always dreamed of.

Tossing and Turning

I can not sleep.
So I roll around on the floor of my room like a beached whale and sit up every three minutes to catch snapshots of reruns of The Fresh Prince and Family Matters, too tired to even think about going to sleep.
What's wrong? Well, for starters, I don't think that I will ever get into grad school because I did so horribly on the GRE, thus I am distressed about not going to school this fall and having to stay at home yet another long, annoying, miserable semester. And since we're going down this road, I also have no idea what I'm doing with my life. Yes, I write for a magazine, but I feel like I should be doing more and making more and trying more!
Then there are my reflections on love lost. That is enough to keep me awake forever. I go from being sleepy to being pissed, thinking of all the fastballs dudes have pulled on me. I think about the boys I can't have. The boys that didn't want me. The boys I now realize that I overlooked. The boys who will soon realize that they are men that are going to have new and improved and shitty things to do to me. God, it's so distressing that I can feel my eyes going bloodshot.
I also feel that everyone around me is moving forward and I am just standing still. Let it be marriage or new jobs, I feel like everyone is growing up and I am mentally like fourteen.
I'm tired or whining all the time, but I don't what to do. I'm tired!
Well, just had to get that off my chest. Now I'm going to watch a late night episode of King of the Hill.

The Never-Healing Story

Could anybody tell me how long it takes to truly heal from a crush?
Well, my story is similar to that of any young girl's these days: chub falls for scruffy, blunt, yet lovable character, scruffy pretends to like her back, at least, according to chub, scruffy pulls the plug, chub is devastated, chub "gets over it," chub and scruffy skip into the sunset enjoying a Dawson's Creek-like relationship. It's the stuff fairytales are made out of really.
So I, a.k.a chub, move to Atlanta and begin my young adult life as a budding young journalist in the city of Coca -Cola and nickel bags, while scruff stays behind to continue his education. He is never too far from chub's mind. They are friends.
Where am I going with this?
I thought I would give you background before I jumped into it.
It has been two years. I am still in Atlanta. He is still in school. He has had a girlfriend and I did not freak out. I was actually happy because of course, I was "over" him. He broke up with his girlfriend and I was genuinely sad because I am his "friend." Besides the occasional eye roll I allotted our past, I thought everything was good until I got shitted on. I will tell you about that soon.
After the shit affair, I could not stop thinking about him, the first guy who I feel really, really did me wrong, and I found that I was not mad about my current situation but I was steaming about what happened two years ago.
I was mad because I felt played. I was mad because I allowed myself to get played again, even though my eyes were open. Scruff was not involved, yet I felt he was responsible, and the circus from two years past kept replaying in my mind.
Question: how long does it take to heal after you are done wrong? It has been two years already! Am I always going to revert back when someone does me wrong in the future? Or is it deeper than that? Am I just not over Scruff? Can you ever really get over someone or do you just have to drag the heartache with you wherever you go?
I'm sure you were not expecting me to know the answers, because I don't. All I know is that I see him in the men that I am attracted to, and when I smell gross men's body oils or see a packed parking lot at the Mosque near my house on Friday's the wounds on my heart reopen and blossom wide like sunflowers.
Corny, huh? Oh well, was never good at analogies, but the fact still remains that I don' t know how to feel. If I don't get "over" it soon, I won't be able to feel anything at all when it comes to relationships, and although that would be easy, it's not what I want.

Playing House

When I was in kindergarten, the teacher sent home a letter to my mother telling her to buy me a bra before I came back to school because my huge boobs were distracting the other kids in the class. By the second grade, I was already in women's shoes, and by the third grade up until college, I was either the tallest girl or tallest person in my class. I say this to say that I have always developed faster than my peers.
So why the Hell, may I ask, am I developing at a slow pimps pace on the relationship front, a good 13 years behind the people I know my age?
Today I was surfing Facebook and was generally disgusted by the never-ending pictures of everyone I went to school with who is now in like one of those baby marriage relationships. Looking at all the pics of these couples joined at the hip at the zoo and in their kitchens and at the mall and so on and so on caused me to log out for like the first time in God knows how long. Looking at the displays of syrupy sweet happiness was spiraling me into madness.
I remember a time when it was hip to be single. Of course, I was five at the time but I remember all the women around me talking about their fun single lives. Now, everyone is in a mad dash to link with someone, and not in a casual way, but for real, for real. And of course, those single sistahs from my childhood are surfing internet dating sites crying with their fingers crossed.
Examples? Well, I have two friends that are in long distance relationships: my buddy Matt and my bestest Haynes. And these are not like the ones from freshman year that everyone was allegedly in. They are actually faithful to the other party involved.
My friend Quinny recently moved in with his girlfriend, a move that I feel has scootched him one inch closer to the altar. And numerous other friends I have are on on their way to the altar. And seriously, not like in elementary school when a boy bought you a cookie and you were married for a week.
I want to be happy for these people, but since I am a closet hater by design, I simply can not be, and only because I do not know where this leaves me. As much as I like being independent, I do not want to join the class of '84 on Match.com!
Yes, I know that I am still young and that I technically "still have time," but I don't want to blink and look around and be the only person in the group without somebody. I don't want to be that friend that is always getting invited to the cookout because someone's single cousin is in town.
Fo-Fum. Why complain about something that I can't change at the moment, right? I may not have a man, but I have other exciting stuff going on. I have a pretty swingin' social life if I do say so myself. As a matter of face, my friend Kelly invited me to her 4th of July cookout. Let's keep our fingers crossed:)

Fear and Loafing in L.A.

This is a festive tale about a chubby girl who decided to go to L.A. with thirty-two dollars for a weekend to go to the BET Awards.
Well, luckily my first hotel had free breakfast. I would take that food to my room to also have for lunch, so that way I only had to buy dinner. Luckily, there was a Taco Bell and a McDonald's right next door.
I had no rental car which is fine, because I can not drive. So I had to take the gross, gross, gross, and dirty Los Angeles transit to the Shrine Auditorium to pick up my credentials and to attend the awards. Man, I thought I had seen some harsh neighborhoods in the past. People were living in some of the worst shit holes I had ever seen. I spent the rides with my head down, listening to my fellow riders curse out their boyfriends on the phone and talk about how easy it is to the rob the grocery store.
So I'd calculated the bus rides would cost 10 dollars. However, after the show, I looked in my wallet to see that I was fifty cents short to get back. So I had to ask what I was pretty sure was a pimp for some change. He gave me thirty-five cents. Then, when I transferred buses, a kind spirited drunk who had the must of ten men and beaded chin hair gave me fifteen cents so that I could get back to the hotel.
The next day, as I shared with you, the plane engine blew up, so the airline put me up at the Westin that almost would not let me check in because I did not have a credit card they could hold for incidentals. Once I checked in, I went to McDonald's and overdrafted my account just to get a McChicken and fries for dinner.
Living meal to meal was kind of fun this weekend, but I never ever want to try it again in L.A.

The MJ Effect

So on Monday, I was on this huge plane coming back to Atlanta and we were about to take off when the engine exploded.
At first, the pilot lied and said that it was a blown tire. Then three seconds later after he called the technician, he announced that the engine exploded and that we had to get off the plane.
If I could have only taken a picture of the looks of the other passengers when they heard that engine go bust. As with any flight, the passengers of the flight came from all walks of life. But on Monday they all wore the same expression: a mixture of fear and this other look that read "Please God, kill my neighbor and not me!"
After I got off of the plane I was so shaken. If the plane would have taken off, we all would have been toast. That second as I stood in LAX with my laptop bag and purse after leaving the plane, I realized that I could have died. That that would have been it. That moment as I aimlessly began to follow the other passengers to the information desk, I could have either been burning to death or already dead, my soul taking a comfortable stroll to Hell where liars and people with lustful hearts such as myself reside after they kick the can.
Once I was in the information line, I began to call and text my friends to tell them what happened and of course, only one person texted me back. Later they would call me and tell me that they were in class or at work or taking a shit or whatever they were doing that was so time-consuming that they couldn't answer the goddamn phone. And they would have still been doing that task after I was dead. As I waited for my turn for a flight agent to give a rubber apology for what happened, I realized that had I had died, life would have gone on. Life will go on after I die. The people closest to you will get over it, and some of them won't give a shit. I don't know. It's something that you always know, but it hit me Monday like a ton of bricks at LAX in the information line.
After getting the information on my next flight, I seriously thought about Michael Jackson for the first time. On Wednesday before he had a cardiac arrest, he was probably at home or doing his usual King of Pop stuff, not thinking about death, and clearly not pondering over how is was going to die the next day. He probably had tasks planned throughout the week.
That night in the hotel room that the airline had set up for me, I sat up awake on the bed looking at the ceiling. Still, none of my friends had returned my call and I was beginning to feel dizzy. I had never felt so alone and shitty. I thought about all the times I had been depressed and actually asked God to kill me; all those times in middle school when I had actually tried to kill myself. I felt like an asshole.
Now I am at home and still thinking about it. Needless to say, the whole thing has been a wake-up call, so much of one that I have not been able to get to sleep. But at least I am still alive and I have to tell you, I have never been so aware of this fact.