Tuesday, April 24, 2012

basically, i am made of sex.

in general, i am not a horny person. is sex interesting and enjoyable? absolutely. would i rather be in bed with a bag of korean tacos than spending an evening bird-dogging dudes with a spanx pulled up to my chin in the vain hopes of dragging one home to do the don't look at my thighs and weird birtmarks awkward first sex apology dance? absolutely. there are so many other things i would rather be doing than explaining why sucking a d would be so much better if i could keep my goddamned shirt on. the thought of new sex is fucking exhausting to me. jesus christ, you want to know what the last conversation i had was about?! THE NEW RANCHERO BEEF LEAN CUISINE. i wish that was a joke, but i just spent five minutes talking about what a drag it is when the meat isn't touching the sauce and it gets all dried out in the microwave and it's like eating a tennis shoe with lowfat chipotle gravy on it. that's not the conversation of a person who is in the market for sexual intercourse, friends. that is what your lonely aunt who wears scarves in the summer wants to talk about, NOT virile young things who can't wait to find some stud to put it in her butt.

i don't ever think to myself, "goddamn, i need to get the shit fucked out of me or i'm going to freak the fuck OUT." women like that seem glamorous and foreign to me, exotic creatures for whom a jar of nutella and a bottle of champagne aren't a suitable replacement for a bearded gentleman with an erection and a checking account. the other night i went to lula with caitlin, who proclaimed, "girl, i always like to keep some dick around," over our split spinach salad. wow, what a fucking grownup! sex just stresses me out and reminds me how little furniture i own and that i should go to water aerobics more often. and that i still buy kid panties with stupid patterns like martini glasses and ponies on them. my underwear drawer looks like the chick lit section of an airport bookstore.
my uterus has always been a finicky little brat. i found this out pretty early in my womanhood when, after being the kind of moron who engaged in unprotected sex with a hot dude who sold dvd players out of the back of his truck, i kept never getting a period yet also never winding up pregnant. so, when you're nineteen and you live in a car with no adult supervision or intervention in your life whatsoever, this is basically THE BEST NEWS YOU WILL EVER RECEIVE IN YOUR LIFE. these were my "fucking in exchange for some fleeting validation" years, you see, so if i could bang dudes and not worry about giving birth to what was sure to an army of street pharmacists and designer bag boosters then it was cool, right? exactly. sex was as boring to me then as it is now, and i'm totally lazy, so not having to think about a strange little creature hijacking my womb was the icing on the cake.

a couple months ago my gynecologist suggested i get an IUD. birth control was making me a bonafied crazy person, plus i am fast approaching the age where all those fine print warnings actually start to mean something ("may cause strokes and blood clots and certain death in women over thirty-five," etc) so i stopped taking that shit. and i was all, "no need, doc. i'm only giving handjobs from now on." he eyed me skeptically before peering through the speculum at what appeared to be my re-grown hymen. he swept the cobwebs away from my cervix and blew some dust from my uterus. "you're not kidding," he said. "who was president the last time you had actual intercourse with a human male?" "ABE LINCOLN." then he scraped a bunch of junk off my cervix to send to the lab and handed me some rubber gloves to protect against catching hand herpes if that's a real thing and not some shit i just made up because it sounds hilarious.

installing that IUD business is like a surgical procedure, and it's one my doctor doesn't do. and since i don't care enough to spend hours doing research and hours interviewing potential doctors just to insert a little piece of plastic in my underground railroad i told him to forget it. he wrote me a script for some metronidazole suppositories and another one for progesterone. JACKPOT, SUCKA. aside from the fact that PERIOD SEX IS THE ABSOLUTE BEST, i enjoy having a period because it makes me feel like at least one aspect of my body is functioning properly. these guts, as you know, are on some bullshit 72% of the time. and i'm mostly psychotic, plus my arm hurts sometimes. but every 28 days as i lay prostrate atop a crimson tide, torso wracked with convulsive pain, i smile with the knowledge that at least this part of my anatomy is doing what the fuck it's supposed to. except it sometimes don't. and then i enlist the help of ten tiny little progesterone pills, and within a week that molten lava comes exploding down the side of the volcano and all is well on pussy island.

BUT FIRST. this progesterone is a motherfucker. for ten straight days all i want to do is rub my vagina on chairs and stick my fingers in the mouths of everyone i see on the street. i'm not kidding, ho. horny isn't even the goddamned word. for a week and a goddamned half i am basically MADE OF SEX. i can't walk through the produce section in the grocery store without having to stop and caress all of the squash and melons half a dozen times. i bought three pounds of zucchini the other day because i couldn't stop fondling all of those smooth green shafts. it's ridiculous. right now i have huge swollen boobs and my labia have turned into a giant pulsating fist made of deli meat and i cried at a dog food commercial earlier, and all i can think about is sticking a remote control up my vag. it's insanity. sure, i get hot and bothered sitting across from a handsome man with burn scars and calloused hands, but generally this dog is not so crazy for a bone that i can't sit through a movie without sticking my hand in my pants.

and OH MAN, THE BABY CRAZY. keep your toddler away from me, because when i'm not desperately fantasizing about horseback riding with no pants on i'm salivating after every milk-drooling tiny human kitten with limited cognitive ability i can get my goddamned hands on. all i want to do is scoop them up and snuggle them close to my heaving bosom before bursting into uncontrollable tears about how perfect and beautiful they are. i can't top kissing them and petting their soft little heads, cooing how much i love them and how i'd kill anyone who got between us. until the pills are gone, and my uterus sloughs off that layer of fetus adhesive it built up, and i'm back to running screaming from sticky little hands and green poopy diapers. and only masturbating one time a day. seriously, dude, i have a fucking job to keep.

this is my adorable friend katy. katy is a formerly drunk vegan who is totally not annoying despite the mental connotation of the description "formerly drunk vegan." katy has a blog called "i want a dumpster baby" and you should read it. fair warning, she is far happier and more upbeat than yours truly, probably because she has more to live for what with the husband and the eating healthy and the wanting to have babies and shit. katy is also on hormones, but hers are shot in her buttmeat because she's about to go through IVF treatments to give birth to something for me to snuggle. here's what she says about her experience riding the hormone wave:
I can't really describe it better than it feels like I'm constantly re-arranging something.  Like my clothes aren't fitting right except that it 's not my clothes, it's my skin.  And my brain.  I want to reach into my body and soul and mind and re-arrange some shit.  I cannot get comfortable right now.

The itching.  The MOTHERLOVING ITCHING.  I had to be on some jacked up birth control for 3 weeks to start this whole IVF business.  It gave me a super rash.  It's normal.  I have NEVER been on the pill in my life.  This was all too much for me.

Forget about a vibrating device, THIS right here is my best friend these days.  I have never felt more pleasure than rubbing  a wire brush all over my itchy body.

People say stupid ass things. Here are a couple of my favorites:
  1. Relax. It will happen when it's supposed to (or some iteration of that nonsense).
  2. Careful what you wish for.
  3. Do you want my kids? You may change your mind.
There are so many others, but those are my favorites right now. And by favorites, I mean, seriously STFU if you think any of these things sound like a good thing to say to someone struggling to have a baby.

Most conversations lately are like this:
People: "how are you feeling?"
Me: "Shitty."
People:  *STARES*, "Well have you tried this or this or how much longer or let's talk about me and how I would deal with that."


I'm having many different hormones shot through many different needles into my body.  It's not pleasant to feel like a human pin cushion.  I feel squishy.  Nothing is going to make that more pleasant.  I feel nauseous all the time.   And I'm incredibly sore.  That's my story.  It's ok, I will be ok, but it sucks right now.  Deal?  It's ok, let's all just agree that I'm not very good company right now and you are off the hook as far as talking with me. 

Way too many people who aren't my husband have been all up in my vagine lately. I'm not OK with it. There have been approximately 645 people sticking the ultrasound wand up in my junk and then looking around in there.  I mean, what am I gonna do, right?

I hate having blood drawn, like every other day, but there is the Latino Older Gentleman at Northwestern (can I call him LOG?) that has his Latino music on every time I go and he's so nice to me.  It's comforting.  It makes looking like a junkie with bruises up and down both arms and my entire torso that much more enjoyable. 

I am overcompensating.  I feel like shit, so I am doing my best to look SUPER CUTE! every damn day.  And logging that shit on a Pinterest board. 

That's right.  I want that reminder for when I have a belly and can't wear my cute dresses any longer, but really, I'm just trying to feel somewhat normal.  Hint, TELL ME I'M CUTE.

This is what I typically do in a self pity and pin cushiony induced haze on the weekends right now because I'm in NO MOOD for being social.  Ass on the couch, watching Franklin and Bash reruns hoping for a Zach Morris naked butt shot getting outta the hot tub. Brothers and Sisters.  Jesus God. Kitty and infertility and then cancer and how can I relate to this skinny white WHITE girl with these jacked up lips first on Ally McBeal with the clunky white girl 90's shoes we all wore and now on Brothers and Sisters? Am I getting cancer next? I want to crawl in bed with Sally Field as my mom and call it a day.

My mom is so far away and she writes me notes every day trying to make me laugh and encourage me and even one last week said that she wants to punch someone in the face for me having to go through all this bullshit. She didn't know who she would punch, I suggested me as I'm responsible for my life, but in a nutshell she didn't like that idea, she wanted to blame someone else. She's so little, my mom, and yet such a powerhouse. My dad calls her Woodstock. And every time I think about her lately I bawl like a baby.

Try to explain to your cat that he can't be on you because your stomach is ripped to shreds and you feel vomitous all the time. Go on, try it and report back how that all goes for you.  My other bff at home besides my brush to scratch is my heating pad.  I cannot believe I'm turning into one of those "it's chilly in here" broads that I always want to smack on the head, but goddamn, is it chilly in here?  And then Sally Boy gets really excited when I get up and he gets on the heating pad and is all, "oh hey dudes, did you know about this magical ball warmer for my little tiny cat balls that are long gone, but dammit this is so warm on my bum?" 

All this funny bitchiness aside, I am so grateful to even be in a position to try this.  With a man I love so hard it should be a crime.  So I complain and hurt and cry and laugh, all knowing that I am so blessed to be able to even be here.  The moment I start thinking life owes me anything, I'm fucked. Everything I have is a gift. Period. If life were fair, I would be dead. I got the better end of this deal.  Baby or no baby.  Hormones or no hormones.  I win!

i tried to eat these girls shortly after this picture was taken. estrogen monster in full effect. nom nom nom.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

how to fake an orgasm.

issue nine. GODDAMN I'M BAD AT THIS WRITING SHIT. five or six weeks without a magazine post?! that is downright blasphemous. in my defense, though, i'm totally fucking lazy. i wish i had some sexy excuse: dashing new paramour banging me senseless, exciting international travel (resorts only, though, because that hostel shit is NOT CUTE), ghostwriting nicki minaj's autobiography, or anything else that sounds even marginally young and cool. alas, the real reasons i haven't written anything look more like these: lifetime movie marathons, broken asshole ruining my life, trying to find some nerd to fix my fucking ipod for cheap, putting fake ads on craigslist, dogsitting in suburbia, throwing out all of my ratty old underwear, cruising the aisles of whole foods for dreadlocked dudes. thrilling shit, i know. these past few weeks haven't all been fun and folly, mind you. i did get a fucking haircut. and a pedicure, which i hated every second of. i bought a lot of clothes on the internet that look cheap and fit wrong in real life. i got embarrassingly involved in that stupid "voice" show. i gave helen a thorough brushing and she bit me five times. i watched the season of breaking bad i'd missed. i paid some bills, i saw the movie "friends with kids" with lauryn and cried through the whole fucking thing like a girl, i got some new glasses, i went to trivia night and lost because there was no BET segment, i read the new granta horror collection, and i caught a miserable fucking cold. like i said, i've been setting the world on fire over here.

TURN ONS. it has always weirded me out that someone might need to turn to a vagina magazine to find out how best to turn some boring-ass regular dude on. assuming that you actually have a person to whom you might apply this advice, why not just ask HIM? as you know, one of my favorite mental images is that of the confused and desperate half-naked woman pausing the intercourse to find her battered copy of cosmo and thumb through the pages trying to find that one sex move "guaranteed to drive your man wild!" ugh. what does that even look like, when your man goes wild in bed? (trust me, i wouldn't know.) doesn't that sound dangerous? or at least a little bit scary? i just picture the gnashing of teeth and ripping of the sheets i just washed specifically for this rare sexual occasion.

that said, i very much enjoy reading about other people's crazy fetishes so i feel less weird about the horrifying shit my dumb ass is into. from now on, let's only talk about the weird shit we're into. i can't take all this moonlit walks and quiet evenings at home bullshit. i just need some teeth and lawn tools in the mix, gosh. please and thank you.

please don't eat chicken in front of white people. here's the scene: BRAD'S ANNUAL SUMMER BARBECUE, to which you've been invited every year since you started working in the cubicle across from his. sure, he never stops to get your lunch order as he heads out to subway every tuesday, nor does he inquire as to whether or not you need any ballpoint pens or paper clips as he heads off to the supply closet. but every year, without fail, when his wife sends him into the office with a picnic basket full of hot dog-themed paper invitations to their annual backyard burnt hamburger party, there is one with your (inappropriately apostrophe'd) name on it. as party day approaches you get more and more nervous about making small talk with the people who come to work with wet hair and shoot hate darts with their eyes at you while you re-heat last night's fish dinner in the breakroom microwave every wednesday, yet you pump yourself up and tell yourself that "sure, this will be fun!" when you arrive at the party you realize that yes, brad and ashley still don't know any african-americans other than your ass, and you feel totally out of place with the two giant bottles of strawberry crush you brought as a contribution. (white people don't drink that shit.)

everything is going along smoothly (wow! who knew quinoa salad was so delicious?!) until the minute the barbecued chicken comes out. then every eye in the yard slowly turns to where you stand salivating, holding your thick chinet paper plate. (white people always buy the good paper plates, not those thin ones you have to triple to keep from spilling ribs and hot links down the front of your fucking shirt.) and you are faced with an agonizing decision: pretend you want to eat veggie dogs and turkey burgers, or smash that chicken with reckless abandon like martin luther king would want you to. i've been in this situation before, tormented by a picnic table laden with gleaming red half moons of watermelon while encircled by a gaping crowd of people in tevas and board shorts. and i resisted, choosing instead to eat another ear of roasted corn. (without butter. white people love health.) i'm just not evolved enough to do that shit, not yet. maybe during barack's second term. keep hope alive.

look how insane i look in that picture. i was the only black person in the whole motherfucking place, and those white people made me wear a fake mustache and pretend that crustless watercress sandwiches and seltzer are delicious. (no, they didn't, there were mini hot dogs and shit, but i'm making a point here.) i am a veritable expert in white people, the foods they eat (RUTABAGA, SON!), and the activities they enjoy, and even i act like a cornered animal when surrounded by them on all sides. for real, i get all sensitive and militant and shit. i'm all at karaoke screaming, "no, bitch, i will MOST CERTAINLY NOT sing that aretha franklin song when my turn comes up!" and shit, making everyone in the room feel like a goddamned racist just because i happen to do a killer rendition of "the weight."

here's what you can talk about with white people: THE WEATHER. seriously, any other subject and it's a slippery slope into their inevitably saying some shit that will make you show all your blackness in public, and you know your mama raised you better than to be out in the street with all your chitlins and collard greens showing. traditional magazines are always offering survival solutions for all sorts of awkward interactions and social gatherings, why not one for weird interracial situations? don't white people need to know how best to ask us about our loudness and hair? couldn't we darkies benefit from a professional golf tutorial?! seriously universe, give me the katy perry cliffs notes so i have something to say to this young white woman seated next to me at this caucasian wedding. and i bet she wants to know why i haven't touched that raw spinach with lemon "dressing." or those nine assorted flavors of hummus. someone really oughta help us the fuck out.

how to fake an orgasm. in a perfect world, this wouldn't even be an issue. i mean, right? we'd all be blessed with tender, sensitive lovers completely attuned to our every need and desire, selfless to the point of absurdity, unwilling to take any pleasure for themselves until they've been assured that we are completely satisfied. TOO BAD WE LIVE ON EARTH, HO. earth, where motherfuckers rabbit-fuck you in the nostril for forty-five seconds before collapsing in a sweaty heap on your side of the goddamned bed and drifting into a coma until twenty minutes past he's already made you late for work.

i was having phone sex with your uncle the other day when all of a sudden he broke character and asked if i had ever faked an orgasm. "of course i have, dummy," i said. "i fuck dudes." and that statement sparked a lively discussion (read: HEATED DEBATE) during which he tried to convince me that no woman he'd slept with had ever faked an orgasm while having sex with him. OH, SIGH. menfriends: if your lady starts all of that nonsensical screaming and shouting your name fewer than thirty-five minutes of incredibly specific vaginal stimulation, that ho is maybe definitely faking it. sorry to break it to you, but she's probably chafed and bored and wondering if she can catch the last few minutes of grey's anatomy if she can hurry up and roll you off of her.

some dudes are getting hip to us, though. at this point in my life i don't fake anything. i either 1 glare and ask him to clear out of my vagina because i'm over it or 2 boss him around until he gets it right, which is goddamned exhausting so i usually just don't. but the last time i did, that sensitive dude caught on. so here's the deal, you need to act excited, but not TOO excited. like, ben and jerry brought back rainforest crunch excited. but not omg my so-called life is back on the air with angela as an adult excited. and then say something like it was so amazing you need some recovery time, and when he asks why you're putting your coat on, tell him you need to go home and make an energy shake or some shit. make it sound believeable (ie, don't say that dumb shit if you don't have a working blender or whatever). then you can NEVER BANG HIM AGAIN. because once you fake it you can never go back and demand he service you properly. so act wisely. AND STOP SCREAMING SO LOUD. that shit is a dead giveaway. plus, it'll piss off his neighbors, and you might need their wi-fi password someday.

FORTY DOLLAR MASCARA. i will never forget the first time i saw a bitch spend $1000 on a neck moisturizer. i was at nordstrom with this girl i used to hang out with who was what any sensible parent would have deemed "a bad influence" five minutes after making her goddamned acquaintance. but my parents are dead and not a single one of the adults in my life cares enough to talk me out of doing dumb ass shit, so i spent two years doing boutique drugs and watching this broad turn expensive tricks. i learned everything i've ever needed to know about 1 tricking a dude out of his money and 2 pharmaceutical grade cocaine from her. just like a hallmark card, my life.

anyway, one of her johns had a nordstrom card. and a bloomingdales card. and a house account at saks. and in exchange for chauferring her around in his leased mercedes, she would sometimes buy me things with his money. i'd never before seen someone spend $400 on a haircut. or, for that matter, on much of anything else. at the time i was living with 127 roommates in an apartment the size of the average hall closet, so my fucking rent wasn't even that much. and i'm not practical by any stretch of the imagination. i basically shit money, when i have some. i CANNOT WAIT to throw that shit away on diet coke and magazines or whatever else i'm always so busy buying. but EVEN I had a hard time keeping my jaw off the floor around her. we would go out for, like, two hundred dollar LUNCHES. what can you possibly order in the middle of the day that costs that much goddamned money?! (lobster and champagne. seriously, at one in the afternoon on a tuesday.)

okay, so this one day we went to a fancy spa to get facials. as soon as they handed me a too-small robe and slippers half the width of my foot and sent in a tiny german woman armed with torture devices meant to rid my nose of its blackheads i was totally fucking crestfallen, because when i say "facial" it has a TOTALLY DIFFERENT MEANING. i fell asleep while she was oxygenating my pores, and an hour later awoke to find my face shiny and covered in blotchy red patches. "ten years younger!" the german barked as i inspected my face in a mirror. i was twenty-fucking-two at the time. jesus, if i had upgraded to the deluxe package what would i end up with, skin like a fucking newborn?! after our "pampering," which had only succeeded in making my face raw and tender to the touch, we went to the buy new products to maintain our youthful glows. "i'll just use vaseline," i said, holding an ice pack to my jaw as she perused the la prairie counter in water tower, sheilding my light-sensitive cheeks from the overhead glare. after consulting with the lab-coated makeup scientist (that's why they wear those coats, right? because they're lipstick doctors?) she settled on a small jar of angel tears and unicorn hair (i'm guessing) that dr. face cream rang up to the tune of $1050.oo let me reiterate: 1.7 ounces of lotion for one thousand and fifty motherfucking dollars. my entire bowels released at once.

in the car on the way home she tried to explain to me why it was worth it to use her ring finger to gently pat a used toyota celica in relatively good condition into the delicate skin under her eyes, but i was not hearing that shit. back within the confines of the padlocked room that i rented in what i'm sure was a fully operational CRACK HOUSE, my 99-cent wet n' wild eyeliner pencil mocked me from its spot atop the overturned milk crate i used as a dresser slash tv stand. "bitch, you're living wrong," she snorted. "good thing your skin looks like that of a motherfucking fetus."

401ko'd. i tried on a pair of $178 pants on monday. NOT KIDDING, HO. i was at bloomingdales, rifling through the clearance rack, when this pair of beautiful eileen fisher pants descended from the heavens and into my line of vision. i don't know what came over me. maybe breathing in air thick with the smell of neck cream and hair dye makes you feel important and rich, or maybe i just wanted to get away from all that restalyne-plumped, liver-spotted skin, but i saw these pants and just sort of floated over to them, a love song in my heart. the way women do in movies when they see a hot guy with wind ruffling his perfect hair smiling at them from afar. seriously, i glided over to those goddamned pants on invisible roller skates, my jowls glowing in soft focus. they didn't really look like anything special, just plain black pants, but they felt like they'd been woven from jesus's beard.

dressing rooms are the worst, especially if your real body is horrifying and you can't figure out where the cameras are to shield your thighs from the scrutiny of some surly lady security guard. but i braved it anyway and did the awkward trying-to-kick-these-pants-that-are-too-tight dance so i could try those beautiful pants on. man, they felt good, like someone pouring cold, fresh cream over the roadmap of spider veins on my legs. i circled the dressing room in my bare feet trying to gauge the chafe factor before crouching to test the durability of the inseam: PERFECT. satisfied, i was just about to take them off and ask the nosy broad who'd followed me from rack to rack inquiring as to whether or not she could help me find anything to ring them bitches up when i glanced down a my shirt, a crumbling black piece of shit worn sheer that had cost me approximately $1.42 at old navy TWO SUMMERS AGO. old navy clothes aren't meant to last until the end of this sentence, let alone two goddamned years. i returned those fancy pants to their hanger and gathered the triple markdowns i could actually afford.

this is my most favorite thing: skimming glossy, shiny page after meticulously designed and art-directed page filled to overflowing with luxurious $80 shower gels made from ground platinum and unicorn tears and $3500 panda fur handbags that some malnourished new york editrix has decided you simply CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT this season, followed immediately by a very sensible-sounding article gently reminding you that, as a woman, you should always have a safety net and rainy day fund. listen magazines, how in the FUCK am i supposed to put money in my retirement fund when i have to buy these $22 bottles of nail polish you keep telling me i'll die if i don't get? what do i look like, some sad asshole eating a lean cuisine that's not cooked all the way through while crying in bed flipping through your publication? OF COURSE it is essential that i have the most expensive and up-to-date eyelash treatments! pffft. i literally have zero plans for my future other than watching television and sleeping as much as humanly possible and maybe buying a round or two of drinks at the bar, yet i was just looking at a gucci travel bag that costs almost as much the GDP of a small third world country. and i don't even travel all that much. i obviously need to get my shit together.

i opened a savings account and put $180 in it because i was so proud of myself for not having bought those stupid fucking pants. and i withdrew most of it three days later to buy some concert tickets and impress some dumb ape at the paramount room. gah, HOPELESS.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

dear white people, i love you.

i fucking love white people. as a matter of fact, having grown up surrounded by your legion on the rough, tree-lined streets on chicago’s north shore, i wasn’t really even aware that i wasn’t white until i was approximately seven years old . okay, i knew, because i never had a sunburn, whatever the fuck that is, but i didn’t know-know. but with every politely declined camping invitation and spat out mouthful of roasted beets it becomes that much clearer to me that, despite my penchant for craft beers and j.jill knit cardigans, I AM NOT WHITE.

it has been exceptionally difficult for me to come to terms with this shocking revelation. i don’t know what the fuck kwanzaa is. if a bitch asks me some black history shit i’m always like,“i don’t fucking know! rosa parks?” and black people are always telling me i “talk white,” which until recently i thought was due to my passionate defense of christopher guest films, but now realize is a criticism of the fact that when i say “motherfucker” i pronounce the T. and the –er.

i’m pretty much an expert in white people. i don’t really understand lacrosse, but i do pay for a subscription to the new yorker. the subtle differences between us, though, were the catalyst through which i became cognizant of my blackness: the stay-home mom who also has a nanny? the shorts in the middle of december?! i don’t get it, but i’m grateful for you guys, i really am. without white people i wouldn’t know what the fuck a scone is. or that a five thousand dollar bicycle is a real thing. and with valentine’s day fast approaching i thought i would write you a love letter to prove my undying affection for your kind.

dear white people, i love you because you fucking mean well. i should clarify and say that i am referring to white people who buy north face jackets and take their babies to yoga class, NOT these fucking newport-smoking teen moms named “destiny,” spelled with nine E’s. those kinds of white people are terrifying. i like farmer’s market white people, the ones who are always dressed like they just finished climbing K2 when all they’ve done all day is eat samples at whole foods. the ones who try to convince me that a fifteen dollar jar of organically-grown, locally-sourced, environmentally sustainable white peach marmalade is a worthwhile fucking purchase. i’m black, ho. FUCK EARTH. black people don’t really believe in recycling. or, for that matter, artisanal jam. if you see me put my coke can in the recycling bin, it’s because 1 someone left that shit within arm’s reach of my desk and 2 a white person is watching me. seriously, if there weren’t so many white people around all the time i would literally be standing outside with a can of hairspray spraying that shit at the goddamned sun. fuck being cold. the only black vegans i can think of are the ones dodging the bags of donated oatmeal raining down on them from red cross helicopters, but i love that about you guys, i love that you could sit down to an enormous thanksgiving dinner and only eat the fucking green beans because a turkey with a brain the size of my toenail didn’t have a happy childhood. that shit is fucking admirable.

i also love you because you are still afraid of black people. whether or not you are the type of misguided racial profiler who would lock the doors as i walk uncomfortably close to that old-ass piece of shit volvo you’re sitting in, if i raised my voice in here right now 2/3 of you would get out your wallets and start up a collection to get me my reparations. or whatever it is colored people are always YELLING ABOUT.

i love that you’re so fucking fancy. you don’t cram yourselves into a sticky booth at IHOP to shovel $4 pancakes from a box mix down your throats, no, YOU stand huddled against the cold for three hours waiting for the hotly-anticipated opening of that adorable new brunch place that serves bald eagle omelets and tiger milk pancakes with cinnamon butter. and i’m snarling at the table next to yours, sneering as you upload a snapshot of your breakfast and tap-tap-tap out a glowing yelp review, but that’s just bitter jealousy because your three-year-old is trading mutual funds on his iPad at the table and i only have 37 dollars in my 401k.

i love you because you love me. if white guilt were tangible currency i’d be in the one percent. i’m sure it’s because in your minds i fill the role of the minimally-threatening sidekick or the sassy black maid white people have been conditioned by cartoons and television sitcoms to yearn for your entire lives. i am that childhood dream actualized: the tootie to your blair, the alphonso to your ricky, the broom-wielding thick brown ankles to your mischievous mouse-chasing house cat. you love that i can teach you things about black culture and our current socio-political landscape, and i love that you have no idea that i don’t know what the fuck i’m talking about. i'm not cornel west, bitch, i don’t know shit about black people! i'm from the fucking suburbs! BUT i have an innate sense of rhythm, so i’m a total blast to take to the disco, yet you can also relax with the knowledge that i’m not going to embarrass you at your wine and cheese party by saying “pitcher” when i’m referring to a photograph.

i’m never going to go kayaking, i don’t understand the popularity of the show arrested development, and i’m still not sure what montessori means, but i love you. let’s be together forever and ever. or at least until a white person becomes president again and you can stop pretending to like me.

note: i wrote this for a bout i competed in at WRITE CLUB in january. my topic was "white," my partner's opposing topic was "black." it is the piece that pissed that one dude off so much. you are racist for having laughed at any of this. for real. i'm sending the NAACP to your house right now, bro.