Top Ten Reasons Why Your Online Pimp Game is an EPIC FAILURE

I had the distinct pleasure, honor and privilege over the weekend to come across a few things in the dating universe that completely got my goat... and I thought in light of spreading more laughter, I'd make a composition of my reasons why some of these dudes that are trolling the internet looking for love *coughcough*pussy*coughcough couldn't hit water if they fell off a BOAT.

So many, it seems, are missing the mark... so here's a little re-education (and yes, I know this message will not get to the ones who so desperately need it the most but I'm feeling froggy today so FUCK IT)

10. You're more than 50 miles away from me.
Unless you are planning to relocate immediately, if not sooner, to the Greater Baltimore-Washington Metropolitan area, do not expect me to waste more than five minutes flirting with you. I commute 92 a miles a day, seven days most weeks and I am not wasting precious vacation leave and overtime dollars flying across the country for booty-call weekends. NEXT!

9. You don't speak English as a first language (or if you do, you have no command of the written medium).
I don't care how fine you are, how big your dick is, how much money you have or how nice you may SEEM to be. If I can't communicate with you without my Secret Squirrel decoder ring or babelfish.com ... in the immortal words of Hall & Oates... "Don't even think about it//say no go."

8. You have no conversation.
Granted, a polite segue will earn you far more cool points than some lewd bullshit, or some big long cut-and-paste (see #5) ... BUT if EVERYtime you see me online, it's some straight "How r U 2day Ms. Laydee" bullshit, your ass is going to straight to File 13 with the Rejected N*gga Quickness. Surely at some point, you can find something ELSE with which to greet me that I will not find offensive.

7. You are more than 10 years younger than the object of your affection.
Okay.. this isn't ALWAYS a dealbreaker... but check the move... as for ME - I'm almost 38 in real-time. In my head I'm probably a lot closer to 50. I don't give a damn about your X-box marathons with your boys, your sneaker collection and (stolen from Bonita) I am NOT coming to your grandmother's house with cake and ice cream to indulge in carnal pleasures with you in your grown and sexy room.

6. You assume that my girth correlates to an equally huge level of desperation.
I try very hard to cultivate my online profiles so that they are an accurate depiction of who I am. That being said, what in the lovely fuck did you read on my page that would make you think that I would accept a date "for lunch and a movie" at nearly 5:00 in the afternoon from a profile with no picture, when in the message you couldn't be bothered to state your name or anything else..... thefuckouttaherewitdatbullshit!

**oh wait... you didn't read it. Don't even tell me you did.**

5. The cut and paste game.
Nothing chafes the inner folds of my ass (credit: Sis. Danja and her girl Ladysol again) like getting some long, fake ass wannabe love note trying to suck me in quoting Khalil Gibran, Anais Nin and spewing some ole bullshit about long walks at sunset and candlelight dinners... I bet the last dinner you ate by candlelight was because your busted ass didn't pay the light bill and BGE shut your shit down like a speakeasy during prohibition. Again.. reading is fundamental. A little investigative research tells you that I don't walk anywhere I don't have to, I'd rather ride my bike most of the time than ride YOU given the choice and I'm not the frilly frou-frou chick that's going to gasp and swoon and catch the vapors and fall into your evil clutches on the basis of what you believe to be the Magic Words. Peddle your papers elsewhere, slick. If you want to talk to me, I need some original writing. I get that the cut and paste game is an easy way to talk to more women at once and up your slim chances of getting laid sometime in 1Q2009, but uhm err aah... women see through that shit like Glad Cling Wrap... *bzzz*

NEXT!

4. You forgot to "stay in your lane" and/or "play your position"
I know that we all aspire to greatness...okay scratch that. I'll speak for myself and say that I aspire to be a better Tracey tomorrow than I am today, in all areas of my life. By that, I mean that I understand that in my present situation, I cannot seek to date a GQ model, with an 800 FICO score, a Ph.D working on his post-doctoral thesis, who owns both domestic and international real-estate. By the same token, my secret identity is not that of Eleanor J. Gotrocks... I am by no means independently wealthy and am not seeking curb-dwellers or other assorted bums and troglodytes to clean up and make into a welfare project. You trying to get with this? Have your shit together to the point where you are at least bringing to the table what I am bringing to the table. Granted i need a tax write off in the worst way but I can't claim your overgrown ass as a dependent.

and I would think you would know that if you got the yuck-mouth, the scabies, your belly is hanging down so far that it completely hides your flaccid member or are just generally unkempt in any way that's an automatic GETTHEHELLON!

3. Wackadociously Profane/Highly Sexual Screen Names
Let's not get it twisted.... Sista Silk enjoys a good, deep digging, chiropractic back-breaking, hot, steamy, sweaty, bring-cold-drinks-before and-put-em-on-the-headboard-for-later hump like any other red-blooded American girl... but showing me your dick before giving me your name, or expecting that I'm going to be pressed to let you go down on me just because you offered (like I'm the only person you whom you offered that service... oral chlamydia much, jerk?) is going to get your face cracked. No, I am NOT in need of a sex slave for training (had a guy ask me that yesterday) , NO am I not interested in having a white woman begging at my ankles to serve me (used to get those on 360), what I need is for y'all weirdos to go to wherever the BDSM folk go online and play amongst yourselves!

2. You found me... trolling through a female friend's friendlist.
**blinkblink**
Information tends to pass between chicks like water through a sieve. Quietest kept... manwhores are a laughingstock. I don't go behind my friends (well... with one or two notable exceptions I've been there) and they don't go behind me. We do this out of something generally called RESPECT for each other and more specifically for our sexual health. ... cause lord knows if you're knocking off chicks who know each other like that, chances are you are indiscrimate AND indiscreet and you don't need a third strike! Boo Hiss and BYE!

(need I even expound on the drama that ensues when said chicks find out they're all boning the same dude, that one that wrote the poetry with the indiscriminate pronouns so all y'all would think he wrote it for you? I thought not.

AND DONT ACT LIKE YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT, SOMMA Y'ALL DONE FELL FOR THIS OKEY DOKE!)

1. Sure, You Hit It... But It Aint a Revolving Door
So sad for you, my horny friend... that you didn't recognize the blessing you had whilst it was spread-eagled before you. Maybe it was that you didn't give me the proper respect. Maybe it was just that our timing wasn't right. Maybe *I* finally woke up and realized you weren't worth touching to scratch. Again, with one or two notable exceptions, once I'm done with you, I'll wad you up like a napkin and toss you faster than you can say "I've been thinking about you and wondering when we could get together again." ... and I don't waste time reminiscing about how good it was. Good dick is a dime a dozen and most days it's buy one get one free! I'm sorry.. for someone who does so much talking you didn't say SHIT! All these chicks out here giving it away for free by the pound and you're barking up MY tree... *pfft*

... at least that's MY take on it...

And I'm TI'DE!!!!!

Owning Your Sh*t

(originally posted February, 2006)

So often, we as humans can sit back and examine other folks’ lives and cluck our tongues... it’s so easy to see where another has gone wrong, and then have the nerve to identify how to right that wrong. However, for me, on this day, at this moment, it is time to point my razor-sharp observation inward and remove the beam in my own eye before I call attention to the splinter in the eye of another. Based on some of my recent blogs, one might be inclined to wonder what kind of bipolar life I’m living, but that’s not the case at all. I’ll go one better and say that I know I’m not the only person that has these kind of thoughts, but it’s not about anybody else… it’s about me, and it’s just time to own my shit.

I’m tangled in a web of emotions the likes of which I’ve never seen before. Whether or not the final outcome to this complicated matter is to my liking or not, I know I won’t emerge on the other side as exactly the same Tracey I was going in. The situation has become so convoluted that if I dared expose the whole truth, certain members of my inner circle would have me shot without so much as a second thought.

I am wholly IMPERFECT, and I fear I have embraced that which I despise: hypocrisy. I am selfish, self-indulgent, impatient, and more than a little lazy. Other people have this perception of me as smart and strong, but sometimes the choices I make are stupid and weak. I’m not bulletproof. There’s more holes in my shit than Alpine Lace Baby Swiss cheese. Some days it’s all I can do to get out of bed and put one foot in front of the other. I go through periods when I feel like I’m a complete failure at the most important thing I’ve ever been charged with the responsibility of doing. I find myself scared more than I care to admit, and I cry… A LOT.

Having read these sordid confessions, one might wonder how I still manage to see any good in myself at all. I have come to realize that one of the keys to balance is being brutally honest with myself about what I’m feeling and what I’m doing (and my motivations therefor); seeking peace within as opposed to without, and not seeking (or caring about, necessarily) judgment from others.

I’ve also learned to listen to and speak on the situations that others come to me to discuss without judgment, but with compassion and understanding. Strangely enough, I have found a certain humanity in vocalizing my negative character aspects. This writing was cathartic, as was the conversation that gave me the courage to tell the tale. It can only be that I’m happy in spite of everything, because I have remained true to myself, and refuse to abide in misery.

I press onward knowing that at the end of the day, I have to answer only to God and the woman in the mirror, and that if I am blessed to continue this life tomorrow, I’m given another chance to right certain wrongs. I pray not for strength (my pastor says praying for strength is asking for trouble), but for the wisdom to learn and grow through the dark times. I acknowledge that in order to see the good (in all areas of my life, but especially within myself), I have to accept the bad.

What will you do when your chickens come home to roost?

Seeing the Forest for the Trees

(originally posted March, 2006)

I got a pained, angry, ranting phone call this afternoon, from a good friend of mine who has grown weary of playing Captain Save-A-Ho.

The problem, you ask? Females come to him with their many tales of woe and wet up his shoulders crying over the ones that have left them behind. (Before I get too deep into this, I need to check myself and make sure I’m not guilty of the shit I’m fit’na get to ranting about. ((ON HOLD MUSIC)) )…

(SELF CHECK COMPLETED, we return to my regularly scheduled rant already in progress)

Forgive the sweeping generalization, but men typically like to keep things simple. Admittedly, most of the time it’s women who make shit hard. How? By reading every act of kindness that a particular man does to us as assumption of “ownership.” Sure, it was all good when y’all met. You fell into something “natural” that “neither one of you expected.” That does not a committed relationship make. Neither do weeks and weeks of dinner-and-drinks or Blockbuster Nights followed by mindblowing sex. If he didn’t sit you down and say, TO YOU, OUT LOUD, the words “I want an exclusive, monogamous relationship,” or something else definitely along that line, you fell for the OKEY DOKE. I mean… he’s not going to tell you that you don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell at anything beyond “friendship with benefits” or booty call status, because that would make him a callous asshole, and of course he’s probably trying to keep his stable as full as he possibly can, especially if you’re the type that spoils the one she THINKS is her man. Who gives that up willingly?

Now comes the hard part. If you see yourself, or your current relationship in any of the above, I hate to break it to you, girl… but guess what?

TO HELL WITH:
“HE’S NOT THAT INTO YOU”:
HE JUST DON’T WANT YOU. PERIOD!

My personal belief is that you don’t have to question, EVER, when a man really wants you. He will move heaven, earth and furniture to make his desire to have you in his life as HIS woman known. Further, when a man wants you, he’ll do anything to keep you – but if he DOESN’T, there’s nothing you can to do to make him stay. If you only see him at night… you ain’t his woman. If you’ve been seeing him for a considerable period of time and you’ve never met ANY of his friends or relatives… you ain’t his woman. Conversely, just because you HAVE met some of his friends or relatives, or because he does a few nice things for you here and there or leaves you a l’il $$ when you’re short, that doesn’t mean you’re his woman either.

Me personally – I don’t stake any claims for ownership on anyone. Let’s say there’s a particular guy I’m seeing, and we tend to get together at his place. Until and unless HE brings it to ME that he wants to move to the next level, the only assumption I can readily make is that any given night of the week that I am NOT on the premises, he could have any one of his stable in situ. Cold blooded, maybe – but it keeps me from getting my feelings hurt.

Sadly, all the information we (women) need is right in front of our faces, but again, we like to make simple shit hard, and we don’t LISTEN. We ignore the red flags and get mad when our friends do their duty and refuse to co-sign for the bullshit. We read too deep into the vaguaries they feed us and hang onto that shit like it’s the Gospel. It’s time to let actions speak loud than words, girls. Hear what isn’t being said. More importantly, stop hanging onto these Negroes for your happiness and do what makes YOU happy for a change.

Sure, there are exceptions to every rule… there exist master manipulators who hide behind the mask of a person who genuinely cares and will even lead you to believe they’re interested in more, but trust, you’ll die a slow death waiting for that day to come. Those aren’t the cats I’m talking about here. I’m talking about regular dudes, living regular lives who aren’t interested in serious relationships and the women who seem to fall hopelessly in love with them.

(Oh, and uh… fellas – don’t think it can’t happen to you. Some of us ladies are equally specific and unless there’s a clear distinction made as to the type of relationship in which we’re co-existing, no assumption is to be made regarding possession and exclusivity – but I think that’s a whoooooole’notha blog post. *SMIRK*)

This is a Test...

(originally posted April, 2006)

It’s not a test of the emergency broadcast system, and it’s not just “only” a test. More than the average man can possibly realize is hanging in the balance.

Each time a man approaches me claiming to be interested, , I’m evaluating carefully. If it’s in a written medium and I see all caps? Point deduction. Poor grammar and English? More points deducted. Come off the break asking for sex?? GAME OVER. You sank your OWN Battleship! I might also add that one rarely gets a second chance to make a first impression over here.

There are a myriad of ways that a man can lose points with me. Not only that, getting through the initial ordeal of breaking the ice only opens the door to intense scrutiny. You certainly don’t get ME at “hello.” I find myself at times being deliberately obtuse and indifferent (and even sometimes deliberately abrasive) in further attempts to separate the wheat from the chaff. It’s an extremely effective method too.

I was talking to a female friend of mine probably within the last month and she told me that I’d become too picky. I mean, if it’s too much to ask for a man that’s:

•Honest and secure in himself and his position in my life
•Somewhat outgoing and DEFINITELY romantic without being too clingy
•Respectful to women in general (misogynists need not apply here)
•Attentive to detail (the little things mean the world to me)
•Reasonably attractive who is mutually attracted to me both physically and emotionally
•Mentally stable without the use of psychotropic drugs
•Financially stable and gainfully employed in a REAL career with a solid and verifiable employment history
•Able to communicate his needs, wants and desires in such a way that I can’t help but appease him
•Possessed of a mastery of the Queen’s English, including vocabulary AND spelling, (but can flip the script and go standard colloquial or straight ghetto as the situation merits)
•Interested in current events of the world that don’t involve a major sporting event
•Cultured and makes a good presentation before family, friends and business associates
•Capable of enthralling conversation on a number of different topics
•100% HETEROSEXUAL

then I guess I better get ready to be single (meaning not involved in a committed relationship) for a VERY long time. Please note that I did NOT ask for Morris Chestnut or Shemar Moore, with credit scores above 750, who owns both residential and vacation property and holds either an engineering degree or an LL.M. (not to mention a burning desire to satisfy my every whim LOL), and pulls in a six figure salary.

((Hey.. a girl can dream, right?))

If you’ve read this far, you’re probably chuckling to yourself, “Who in the hell does this heffa think she is?” By way of response, I am a woman who has the whole world to offer and expects nothing less in return.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I think that I’m so much better than anyone else, but I have a clear picture of the man that I want to spend a significant portion of my time (if not, one day, the rest of my life) with. I get a lot of offers (although most of them don’t qualify as anything substantial) and I don’t have time to waste playing the getting to know you game only to find out you’ve got six kids, seven baby mamas, you live in your mother’s basement, you’re toothless, jobless and just plain SIMPLE. True indeed, there’s supposed to be someone for everyone, but the mess described above has nothing to do with me. It’s not in me to be raising someone else’s overgrown son.

See... I know what I want and need out of life. I’ve been married before, and I’m done having babies. The man who suits my needs can not only hang in for the bumpy ride, but keep up with me across the board. Together, we will challenge each other to grow immeasurably.

(Hold on a minute while I get the stars out of my eyes, please?)

This wasn’t meant to be some kind of personal ad or anything… but if you know anyone that fits the bill, can you give a me a heads up? And uh…if you’re thinking about stepping up to the plate – remember to step correct, or not at all. I don’t grade on the curve.

The Waiting Game (Rules, Schmules)

(originally posted April, 2006)

Last night I received a message in my 360 inbox that set my brain abuzz. It was a guy that I talk to on a fairly infrequent basis taking an informal poll among his circle regarding what it means for a woman to ask a man to wait an inordinate amount of time before she’ll engage in sex with him.

It blows me out of my socks that in this day and age people are still playing this ridiculous game. I question the sanity of any man (besides one who truly practices abstinence) who would agree to a relationship with a woman that demanded that there be no sex for a minimum of one year. I question the intelligence of any woman who after making such demand, fully believes that said man is abiding by his agreement – because trust and believe if he’s not screwing HER…he’s screwing somebody else, and that’s not within the guidelines of the arrangement, now IS it? What kind of character does a man prove he has by agreeing to said guidelines (but not “REALLY” agreeing, if you catch my drift? More importantly, what does a woman prove by holding out for so long??

>>AaaAhhh… now we’re getting somewhere, aren’t we <<

From birth, the paths of the male and female are not only divergent, but diametrically opposed. Males come out of the womb and are thoroughly encouraged to spend the rest of their lives getting back in where they fit in, at each possible opportunity they can muster. Females are born and chastised to ration pussy by the millimeter. Thus begins the power struggle; we are forced to use what we got, to get what we want. Men dangle the possibility of love before a woman in order to persuade her to give up the panties and a woman will tease a man with the promise of freaky circus monkey lovin’ on the premise of winning his heart.

How about this to bake your noodle: As the Perdue chicken commercial once noted, “Parts is parts.” If a woman’s pussy and a man’s heart have equal value (and notably, they should, considering the way each one tends to be hoarded, respectively, but again I digress), and a fair exchange is no robbery, then wherein lies the problem?

The answer is fairly simple. Women tend to be more emotional and tie all their hopes and dreams to that hot fuzzbox between their legs, and that aint where it’s at. We want to believe that kisses are contracts and presents and promises, and that’s not the way it works in the real world. Sorry. Men see what they want, move in for the kill, hit it off on the “find em, fuck em and flee” tip, and get away with it largely unscathed…until, of course, they come across a woman who doesn’t fall prey to the backwards mindset of tying her intrinsic value to her sex (unless of course she’s a by-the-hour call girl, but that’s a different kind of value LOL), and falls hopelessly in love with her scandalous ass even though it goes against everything he knows and believes in. Some men want to say that a woman who’ll open her legs early in the game isn’t worthy of respect or is no longer in consideration for long-term relationship status… in rebuttal I offer that she didn’t unscrew your dick on the first date and fuck HERSELF with it, so, Mr. Milk-Bone, pot meet kettle!

While I recognize that maybe a certain level of chastity is of great import to certain kinds of men in their quest for a wife or life partner, I also recognize that THAT man is NOT the one for me. I'd also be willing to bet that among this lot are men who become married assholes trolling for pussy on the Internet because now Miss Iron Box won't give them any either... but that's just an observation. I will also state for the record that I don’t begrudge anyone his preferences, because just as men have theirs, I have mine. I just fail to see the logic in “making him wait.” I could make him wait five dates, have mad chemistry with him and then find out he couldn’t screw his way out of a wet paper bag, and then find myself stuck in the conundrum of being interested with someone who doesn’t please me sexually. I could make him wait 10 dates because I think that’s the kind of woman he’s into, only for him to disappear like a thief in the night the morning after he busts them draws and find myself heartbroken because I really liked him.

You never can tell with people, and I for one, have no cut cards in my deck. I mean, REALLY, what in the hell are we waiting for, as two consenting adults possessed of our right minds and prophylactics? However, PLEASE let it be said that in no way by this writing am I advocating reckless promiscuity on the part of either males or females – it does pay to be somewhat discriminating, and that too is a lesson I have learned in real-time.

I close with this: tricks are STILL for kids, and I’m still a grown ass woman. Time waits for no man and neither do I.

Building a Case for Possession: Not Only for the Demonic and Not Just 9/10ths of the Law

(originally posted April, 2006)

Did you ever notice that a child is the center of his or her own universe? Everything that he or she can pick up is christened with a singular title: “MINE!!!!!”

...and thus we come to the subject of today’s musing... The question we’ve all asked or been asked at least once in our lives; a question that raises eyebrows (or, in the alternative, bile LOL) depending on the person who’s doing the asking:

WHOSE IS IT????

(I’ll pause here to wait for the groaning, chuckling and eye-rolling to stop. Done yet? )

What is it about the act of sex that makes people take leave enough of their mental faculties to want to claim (or, in the alternative, confer) possession of someone else’s (or their own) genitalia?

I mean, maybe I’m taking too serious an approach to this whole thing. Then again, anything that could potentially screw up my downstroke is cause for consternation. Sex is (or at least should be) serious business, right??? These matters must be handled delicately, of course, but tact isn’t my strong suit. (Yeah, yeah, I know, tell the world something it doesn’t know.)

To me, this is the sort of thing that can turn sugar to shit in 2.2 seconds. Sure, in an ideal world, none of us would be having sex if we weren’t married; and it stands to reason if one is married, then there is at least what could be referred to as “leasehold interest” (that’s a right to which a person who receives mail in your home is entitled, and once they get it, it’s impossible to get rid of them without at least 30 days notice, but I’m digressing) in the goodies of the person that’s on the other side of your bed. BUT: What’s my credo? “If wishes were pigs, bacon would be free.”

Imagine, if you will, a HOT scenario. Two people with an insatiable hunger for each other, doing what they do best, with not a care in the world for anything other than devouring and completely satisfying themselves in each other. They have a natural rhythm to their stroke, and they’re clipping along like 95 going North… until he whispers in her ear the Dread Question. ****RECORD SCRATCH****

Everything came to a screeching halt when those words were uttered. Seriously. I had to struggle not to LAUGH right there on the spot. I mean, pillow talk is just that, but I hate to make anything more than it is. I don’t want him to lie to me and therefore I don’t lie to him, even when the truth is ugly and/or painful. I tried to ignore the question and keep on going and then came the insult added to the injury: He went so far as to claim it for his own whether I was going to confirm it or not. I guess thought he was doing me a favor as well by verbally deeding title of a certain piece of prime real estate to me. However, knowing him as I do, I’m thinking that the chain of title is not exactly as clear as he would have me believe, and there might be some difficulties should I attempt to take this one through settlement…but still I digress.

So what’s the point? Is the real issue here the actual concept of “ownership”? I ask this because I think a lot of the time the idea of having something is better than actually having it – evidenced PERFECTLY by some of the gadgets I’ve been pressed as hell to buy which are still sitting in their boxes untouched. (Get your heads out of the gutter. I’m talking specifically about a garment steamer I bought before Christmas. LOL) Let’s go back to my analogy about small children again – any object that’s in their hands at any given time is THEIRS. A lot of the time they’ll put an item down and move on to the next seemingly without a care but woe betide the fool that tries to play with the discarded item. There’s hell to pay, right? (I’m wondering if I’m the only one truly feeling the symbolism here… *sigh*)

So… when someone inquires of you, “whose is this?” … think about what you’re going to do if the response is, “It’s Yours!!!” – decide if you’re going to maintain it and respect it in the manner it’s being given. Conversely, if you’re more the type to just leave your toys in the middle of the floor and then throw a fit when one of your friends wants to play, even if you’ve got another toy in your clutches, you need to consider that as well. Better yet: Stop talking shit and don’t say in bed what you don’t mean OUT of bed!

In closing, when asked that SILLY question, I tell the truth: it’s mine. After all, what’s MINE is mine… but if you play nice, maybe I’ll let you borrow it… ;)

My Big Fat Monologue

(originally posted April, 2006)

With my writer’s block soundly smashed to smithereens, I return to my post to ponder over a subject that people often tiptoe around on eggshells. Considering where I’m going with this one, that’s almost laughable. I usually avoid wearing stiletto heels out of fear I’ll break them, so that whole walking gingerly around on anything is sort of a non-issue for me.

I unabashedly and unapologetically stand on the mountain top (and that mountain, in my fantasies, is a mountain of Junior’s Cheesecake, STRAIGHT from the corner of Flatbush and DeKalb Avenues, but still I digress), fork raised, and proclaim to all who will hear me:

I… am a FAT chick!

YES! I said it, gotdammit! I’m FAT. Not phat, thick, curvy, fluffy, zaftig, Rubenesque, big-boned, pleasantly plump, chubby, chunky, or heavy-set. I got more ripples than a bag of chips and more waves than a water park. Whyyabullshittin: I had to double check the last belt I put on to make sure it didn’t say “Michelin” in raised white letters. HOWEVER: Let’s not get it twisted… I’m not the fat friend that the skinny girls drag on dates to cockblock, or hold their purses at the club. At the risk of tooting my own horn: I’m probably one of the flyest fat chicks you’ll ever meet…I just know my limitations and work well within them.

I know some folks reading this are cringing while others are shocked and still others are laughing. “Fat” is just an adjective, like tall, short or skinny, and maybe if more of us used it to describe ourselves where it applied, the stigma attached to it would disappear. Example: people have attempted (unsuccessfully) many times over the years to insult me by calling me fat. Most of those folks are either ugly or stupid, and with enough effort I could potentially lose weight so I still got a leg up on the competition!

There are a billion reasons why I’m still heavy (even six years post-op from gastric bypass surgery). For starters, my eating habits and exercise regimen are woefully inadequate. (Hey, man, let’s call a spade a spade.)

Some of it may be psychologically rooted. Maybe deep down inside, the real me is hiding behind all these layers of adipose tissue, longing to be noticed but afraid of the attention at the same time (now there’s one to bake your noodle, huh?). Then again, maybe I’m using my considerable bulk as a shield because in spite of themselves, fat people are sometimes invisible, or at the very least, marginalized and forgotten to an extent.

My closest friends make all kinds of excuses for me. Some of them say that they don’t see me as fat (HA.. take a look at the size tags in my jeans, why don’t cha). Some of them say that my “fly” diminishes my fat but again… I don’t always see myself the way other people see me. I’m just glad that I’m blessed with more than a reasonable amount of health, physical strength, mental acuity and devastating charm (haha). Contortonist-like flexibility and a creative, yet freaky side don’t hurt either.

My dear sweet babysis, Bella, once remarked that I had so much personality that I need the XXXL bod just to contain it all. (I thought that was hella sweet, too. Thank you, Bellissima!). I always say that God made me fat to keep me humble, because if I were a size 12 NOBODY would be able to stand me but I don’t think that’s especially true either. I’ve been heavier than I am today, and I’ve been thinner and the contradiction was that the thinner me was more conservative. That came as a result of seeing how differently the thinner me was treated by people who knew me before, but that’s a whole ‘nother blog.

However, the most important thing, be I fat or thin or anywhere in between, is that I am HERE, and refuse to let anyone or anything steal my joy. I have found my voice and I will shout my message from the rooftops until people stop listening, or until I go hoarse. I will bleach my hair blonde and wear clothing capable of turning heads and popping eyes at every opportunity; I will ride my motorcycle like I stole it and drive my truck like the ass end is on fire and the Devil himself is chasing me. I will dance like no one’s watching (even if they are) for the pure joy of bouncing my ass all over the place, and most importantly, I will laugh much and love hard in the skin I’m IN, because life isn’t going to wait “until I lose weight.”

…would that we all find a measure of happiness and confidence enough to all get along, and live life as abundantly as God ordained… *sigh*