An open letter to money in the G-Unit jeans last night

6:15 PM

This post is brought to you by the letter G. What y'all youngins know about cursive lettering?
Lemme start by stating how much of a label whore I am not. I like branded stuff but I only buy them if I really, really like them. If I see an off-brand that suits my fancy, I'll rock that, too.

And I get it: this is not New York Fashion Week. This ain't New York period. (It's not even the ATL although for some reason folks are still out here calling Charlotte a lil A. Other than sharing I-85 and the same tastes in food, we have nothing on the A.)

But last night I was like "look at him, partying like it's 2003". Caramel complexion, confident and carefree. Your paycheck or tax refund had you balling on the yacht at the bar, buying a select few including me some dranks. Thanks. Here's the problem though: my dude, you had G-Unit plastered on your what.

And you probably got some last night.

You conversed with my girl E for a minute and I just knew y'all were about to exchange numbers or something. You're younger than us (but within dating age limits) and you sounded halfway intelligent to me. You offered us both some drinks and we walked to upstairs to the bar to get em. Sure did...

I don't know what happened since then but by the end of the night you were sitting next to us -- as we left the party, on the back of the shuttle struggle bus -- with your tongue down the next chick's throat.

Excuse me, sir? With no effort you get treated like your Idris? Really?

To rewind back to 6:30 that evening, I took an extra five minutes to put in my contacts and made sure my makeup game was on fleek, as they say. I brought a smile and a positive attitude although it was chilly up in Lake Norman, and so windy that the boat had to be docked for the night.

Yet I only get one drink, no phone numbers, no date plans and no Valentines love. I pride myself on keeping my looks up but because in Charlotte there are at least five women for one man I get damn near no love. Not just on February 14, either. It can be hot as hell in the dead of July.

I know, it's not your fault...well, not really.

Anywho, you paid for our drinks and I even borderline flirted with your boy, even though he grabbed my waist out of nowhere and violated my space by standing beyond my one-foot-if-I-don't-know-you- unless-we-are-dancing rule. Laughed it all off in the name of fun. Still because you're a man, you get to wear G-Unit and half ass your way to tonguing down some chick you just met. She was basic, with a "hardly Marley" natural hair weave, but still.

Oh and did I hear you have five kids?

So because you're a man with five kids, 12-year-old jeans and some extra money to buy a few drinks you get action. Because you're some hot azz commodity.

Meanwhile I sit down on a couch to read a text from Mr. 6-7 who swore he'd change his way this year. Well, not only did he not wish me a freaking Happy Valentines Day but he got annoyed when I told him I was out doing me. I side eyed him in my head.

That's about the time you stood up. Is that...Gggg G-Unit? Young man, you've put Winston-Salem to shame last night. It doesn't take much to put Winston to shame, but still.

You are living proof that being a black man in America means living a life of screwing, wearing and being whatever the hell you want because most women won't call you out. Those who do, you'll simply ignore.

Being a black woman here means hearing authors and comedians tell me that screwing, wearing and being whatever I want is wrong, because I'm just a girl.

If I could take a sledgehammer to these rules, smack the women who allow men like you to exist and burn your jeans at the same damn time, I would.


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  1. ROFL ok i'll get in trouble for what i am thinking so let me just step to the side and say i enjoyed your writing as i sing G-unit, Gunit :-)

    1. Aww you can tell us. We don't bite...on Sundays...

    2. Please share! I wanna know what you're thinking, sir.