Loving the SLOW life.

12:02 PM

Don't cuss me out y'all. Sometimes, it makes no sense to blog about nothing. And I don't want to fake it either, and tell you the past month has been full of "single and happiness" bliss. That is far from the truth.

It's been crazy. The writing gigs are rolling in, and I've even scored a new travel client, a group of women who know what they want in life and knows where $2,000 will get you these days.

(Answer: To Paris, within walking distance to the Eiffel Tower yo!)

But I don't wanna bore y'all with business ish. That's not why you read this blog or follow me on FB. I feel ya. I wouldn't want to read about anything else either. So being single and a cute size 9/10 who has noticed a not-so-beer-belly stomach these days*geeked* you know your girl has been on some dates. Where to begin with the foolery? Hmmm...

Let's talk about pretty boys who are defensive about being pretty boys. And I so hate to call a 41-year-old-man "boy", but the tennis shoe (or sneaker for my Northern folks) fits. He didn't wear skinny jeans, thank God!

First, he took me to a movie, which sucks for a first date. Hello? How am I 'sposed to talk to you? After the movie he walked me to my car and instead of telling me how he'd like to impress me on a second date, the remaining twenty minutes was spent bragging about the B-list celebs he meets on his job (as a C-list actor/model...didn't know there was a market for that in Charlotte, but whateva!) and showing me battle scars from fights he'd endured as a result of being called "f@ggot", "soft", and of course "pretty boy".

Again, dude is 41-years-old.

He's comical though and I would have considered a real date if he had asked, but he stopped calling and texting me for a week, then called himself surprising me with a "hey u". I texted back "who dis?" even though I knew it was his arse. He replied "#1". Really? So you just gonna live up to the pretty boy stereotype of being alldat and I'm 'spose to jump for joy in my blackened skin, 'cuz that light-skin-ned-dude-with-good-hair hit me up after seven days. *breathes*

On the opposite end of the short stick of available Charlotteans, is the fool who is ready for a relationship after meeting me in under three hours.

(But first of all...GO RAVENS. They gave it to Pittsburgh last Sunday! *geeked*)

Ok. Now that -- for the 85th time -- I've gotten that off my chest, which seems to be growing these days, by the way *poses sideways*...

...allow me to share with you my thoughts on a 44-year-old-man who is having you meet his fam in less than a week after meeting you. You know when you're sleeping really good, have an awesome dream about winning lots of money, loving life, then the alarm clock reminds you that your life is the total opposite, and you need to rush to work and smile in front of people who secretly wish you would kill yourself? Yep. That was my date. Why I keep referring to it as a date is beyond me, though. When you agree to meet up at a bar, eat skrimps and yell at a referee on TV, that's not a date to me. But it was cool, again, go Ravens.

The disappointment came when he asked to see me again. I was like "sure... a quiet setting would be great". His idea: a cookout at his house, complete with family members "and the men on one side with the women on the other." For those who don't know, I absolutely loathe this type of setting: A bunch of cacklin' chicks who end up talking about you in another room. And these are women I sort of know. Let alone strangers. Nothing like a bunch of liquored-up broads who you don't know, sizing you up like you're dating they arses! Pass.com.

The kicker you ask? When on the following day I received a message, on the dating site in which I met dude, asking me why am I still on said site? So I am 'sposed to meet him, and cancel my account because I done met the one I've been looking for, because according to most media outlets, I as a black bitter B should be honored to have found someone who'd tolerate me outside of the horizontal position. Yay me?

I thought a phone call would be in order, just to make sure I wasn't the crazy one. I'm so not. I asked "how u doin'?" and he immediately went in for the kill on some "let's talk about last night, why are you still on ___.com?" *blank stare at the wall with no pictures on it* Then that mofo dropped the "r" word (relationship) several times, too many times for me, mane. His account has been officially blocked.

What is the rush mane? Is it because you're old as dirt? Need some rebound coochie? You wanna prove something about moving on? You got bills and need help paying them? AND
THIS, MY FRIENDS, BRINGS ME TO WHAT YOU ARE WAITING TO READ. *clears throat*

It was the day of the earthquake here on the Eastcoast. An earthquake I didn't feel although some of my fellow Carolinians did. I had made my virtual rounds to make sure everyone was okay. My daughter laughed over it, to me it was a good thing. Everyone shared stories of experiencing it, and surviving it, minus a few outages. My day of news reports should have ended with my phone, Facebook and Twitter, but nooooooooo, I had to care for the ex's well being. Ha!

I sent a generic "you aiight" text to him. Nothing more. I get a "who dis" response from the number. Surprisingly I was shocked, because I just saw dude two weeks prior and we were cordial. That day, as I went to pick up my high school yearbook he had went in for two hugs but I could only muster up one, and a fist-bump. That was the last time I'd ever want to see him. My drive away from him would have made a great Tyler Perry-esque movie shot, as I looked in my rear-view to see him still watching me. For real.

Who knew he was planning to get married?

Well, lemme answer that. LOTS OF PEOPLE KNEW. Fast forward back to earthquake day, I would be the last person to know and experience my own sense of shock beyond compare. I really was shaking uncontrollably. I mean I knew he was dating someone, sort of, but not getting married, to someone I sorta know (and should sorta know me.)

To protect the innocent, I won't tell y'all who told me...

The joy of writing is that I can finally express myself without being interrupted. I'd spend the coming days still in shock and in a drunken stupor. But it's not for the reasons most of you think. I am truly over him. I have truly moved on. Again I HAVE moved on. Remember, I quit a decent job at a well-known non-profit's headquarters, moved six hours into my brother and new sister-in-law's house, and slept in my nephew's room -- where a big-A Pikichu stared at me looking for a lap dance -- without a plan. Think about it, there has to be a reason for me doing all of this, yes?

Did I have a breakdown moment? Yes. Did I cry my eyes out to my mommy? Yes. Did I post subliminal messages on FB? Yes. How would YOU react though? *I'll give you a minute to come up with a plan on what to do when the one you left in the beginning of the year, gets hitched before the fourth quarter*

But go back to the beginning of this blog, a blog that used to be the home of my wedding planning. *waits for you to catch up on the drama* So you should now understand why I am elated that it's no longer me with him...and why I keep saying that I will pray for her, one day.

What did hurt: I sought comfort in another man who I thought wanted to be with me. A man I've known for years. A man who I would have left the ex for... YEARS ago. Turns out he not only wasn't feeling me the way he was telling me, but he wanted no part of the drama. Did not want to be around me and my mess. Yes, my mess. SMH. So in less than 24 hours I would find there are now two men who I have put way too much effort into, and that sex is terribly overrated. For real.

So there it is folks. Sorry, but if you are looking for me to admit my love for the ex, you already know I don't lie in this blog. What did I just type about faking it?

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