Here are some promises:
- I promise not to abuse you.
- I promise to make decisions that are healthy for you.
- I promise to do my best not to overextend you but if I slip then…
- I promise to give you ample rest.
After I wrote this post last year, I was surprised to receive a couple of emails from men who seemed genuinely shocked that the old commenting-on-a-woman’s-ass approach to meeting women was deemed unacceptable. After I pieced my will to live from where it had shattered on the floor, I was able to
calmly explain that dating doesn’t have to be so difficult; just don’t behave like an asshole and chances are women will not be averse to spending an evening in your company.
Here is the thing.
Just because I am black, you do not get to ask me*:
- What country I was born in
- If I speak *insert ambiguous/non-existent language here*
- If voted for so-and-so “because he/she is black”
- If I identify as British
- If my hair is real and if you can touch it
- If I know that random black person over there
The tears I’ve cried over the past few months have come from a variety of sources.
If you follow me on Twitter, you know that I attend a Boxercise class. It is a class with which I have a love/hate relationship; I hate the act of going but love it when I’m there. It’s a fun if intense workout and my instructor is not only friendly but also rather hot so you know…win.
Part of the class involves pairing up, doing some sparring and then running through some drills. 99.9% of the class are very mature about this and partner off pretty easily; either with friends/workout buddies or introducing themselves to strangers and just getting on with it. I think is because we are all supposed to be adults as opposed to ignorant, childish little fuckwits.
Stereo. 20-something aspiring bon vivant. London based. Exceptionally Nigerian. Partial to snark. My default setting is "wry". Jeans and blazers are my uniform. Landlady. Speed reader, tuneless singer, hoarder of words, drinker of Schloer; I am suspicious of most people, have zero tolerance for tomfoolery, have a vast DVD collection, worship at the altar of Al Green, own too many bottles of nail polish, have small eyes, small ears and giant hair and owe approximately 86% of my awesome to the Parents Typewriter.
Want to know more?
- +2013 (24)
- +2012 (52)
- +2011 (98)
- +2010 (62)