I don’t hate you, but I don’t like what you’ve turned into. I may have had something to do with that. But I could never hate you. I’ve spent nearly half my life loving you.
What we were then and what we are now is something different entirely. It is Emotional Cripple Theatre. It is ugly and painful and all of the things it isn’t supposed to be. I was wrong for being so selfish, so hurtful. You didn’t deserve that. But I’ve been waiting for something that will probably never happen, waiting for feelings that may never return.
I’m not leaving you for someone else. There is no one waiting in the wings to sweep me off my feet, no one to pick up where you left off. Contrary to popular belief (well, not really) black, 34 year-old divorced moms aren’t really a hot commodity. We’re good for fucking and pillow talk, but not much else. No need to worry.
I don’t wish for you to be in pain anymore. I want you to be happy, even if it isn’t with me.
“What makes one an intellectual is the drive to learn, to question, to understand, to criticize, not as a means to an end but as an end to itself. An intellectual believes in criticism in the purest sense of the word, and understands that to be a critic is not necessarily to be an opponent; an intellectual, rather, is an observer willing and able to use rational faculties to distinguish wisdom from folly. An intellectual is necessarily a skeptic. To proclaim oneself an intellectual—admittedly an awkward act in our simplistic times—is to demand the right to doubt.”—Stephen Carter, Reflections of an Affirmative Action Baby
The thing about being separated is…well, it’s like being thrown into shark-infested waters. Men smell your singleness and sorta pounce on you. You’re chum in five-inch heels.
I miss marathon kissing sessions, like the ones you had in high school and college. The ones where his parents were upstairs in their bedroom while you were rolling around on the couch, making out to crappy R&B songs on the stereo. It always ended up with him getting a wicked case of blue balls because you were afraid someone would walk in and catch your ass in the air, and you’d always come dangerously close to missing curfew because you two were making out in his car.
“There was a DJ, too, who spun some hip-hop, but none of the people playing music were hip-hop artists! Look: When I’m promised a “Hip-Hop BBQ” in a headline, I expect nothing but hip-hop stars and enthusiasts eating BBQ. Instead, I learn that a collection of celebrities, some of them black, ate “chicken, ribs, hamburgers, hot dogs, pasta and salad” and then a bunch of pie before listening to Herbie Hancock. Fox Nation could have gone with the “Jazz BBQ Doesn’t Create Jobs” hed, I guess, but why not cut to the chase with something like: “Uppity Blacks Eat Soul Food and Laugh While You Hunt for A Job You Can’t Get Because of Welfare Queens, Affirmative Action, and Carjackers.”—David Weigel in Slate. found on Twitter as @DaveWeigel (via inkognegro)