That Guy

**This one is a little longer today...trying to make up for my lack of blogging this week, but also-this story cannot be told in two paragraphs or less. So read when you have time. -B

There was a guy in college, a guy who I couldn't ever break myself out of his orbit. He'd be nearby and I'd just know it. He was that guy. The one I could never say no to, could never cheat on, lie to, run from, abstain from. Ugh. For years, he drained my everything. A tornado, he'd come into my life and tear it all to shreds. And you'd never even know he was coming, he'd sneak up, on an assuming, happy me, and before I knew it, he'd wreck shop.

One year, he called out of the blue, post college, post me having learned some valuable lessons about him, and left a message on my voicemail. Hey, it's C. I've been thinking about you like crazy. A lot's been going on and the thing is...well, just call me back please. I have something important to tell you. My interest was piqued. I sat and went through the possibilities with Maria. We ran the gambit: what could he possibly want? What more needs to happen between us? We decided I was going to return the call, if anything just because there was no way I could ignore it. When I called back, he went on and on about how he couldn't stop thinking about me, could barely work, sleep, etc. without me popping into his mind. He said he'd googled me, kept up with my writing career. Had read my articles, every one, was proud of me. Then he stopped. I asked him what was wrong. The things is...um, B, I think I'm in love with you. I think I always have been.

Boom.

Pow.

Zoink.

For all the drama we'd inflicted on each others lives, not once had he ever told me he loved me. Nor had I said it to him, but it was something I longed for like crazy. You don't have that kind of connection with someone and not feel it. Our paths were crossed from the start, long before I was B, long before he was C, long before we came on campus, long before we knew who the other was let alone knew ourselves. Of course, I loved him. I just assumed he didn't love me. But he was telling me he did now, did then, did period.

We talked a while longer, about any and everything. Trying to hash out if we could possibly start over, do it right, better than before. He still lived in Miami, I was in New York City. I was still involved with my boyfriend at the time. Ties had to be cut, plans had to be made. We never made a concrete plan, which should have been my first sign, but we said we'd talk later that night. We did. We talked several times the next day as well, and the day after that, and the ones that followed. We started figuring out when I'd fly there, when he'd come to me. It seemed like our time had finally come. One day, he called saying someone had broken into his car, stripped it, stole all his belongings. He was super bummed as he waited on the police. When they arrived, he said he'd call me back.

He didn't.

I called the next day and was given the catch up rundown. Something felt off-that woman's intuition was in full force: ears docked, antenna up. I asked if he was OK, he said he was, just pissed about his car. Said he'd call me back. The day wore on. He didn't call back. The next day, I called and asked him what was going on, were we still doing the Miami visit at the end of the month. He immediately started saying he wasn't sure, and when I called him on it he jumped on the defense, claiming he'd never said it was a definite. This was the C I knew. The old one was back, had never really left. It had only been a matter of time. When I hung up the phone, I knew we were done, yet again. I had stopped my world, created a little door, and let him in only to end up with the door slammed in my face. Again. When would I ever learn?

We had a few more rounds in the ring, never as deep, me never letting my guard down completely, until one day I heard he was getting married. I found it funny because C was still calling me, still being inappropriate at times, still acting single. He never mentioned he was engaged. He did mention that he and his live-in girlfriend were having problems, they were in counseling, it was only a matter of time before he said forget it. Not that I cared, but he apparently did-enough to make sure I knew they "weren't happy." Apparently, he also thought I was an idiot. And he married her. But before he walked down the aisle, before he vowed to love her forever, before he exchanged rings of eternity, he left a voicemail on my phone.

Hey, it's C. I never can shake you from my head. What is it about us? What is it about you? God, B, I still love you. I think I always will. Um, call me? Ok, bye.

I deleted him from my phone after that and if there was a blocking mechanism, I'd do that too. For perhaps the first time, I see C for who he is. A sad excuse for a coward. On his best day, he's still making excuses and living life in a cage he put around himself. I'm glad it never worked out between us, glad I'm not the wife he cheats on, waiting at home, thinking he's my prince. I'm glad he's just that guy. 'Cause we all know, no one ever ends up with that guy. They end up with the right guy.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

Cute Guy, Ugly Guy

People always say pretty girls don't have personalities because they don't have to rely on anything other than their good looks. They can just be, maybe toss out a giggle or two, flip their hair, and the world turns a different direction for them, so why bother with smarts or anything else other then being aesthetically pleasing? So here's the theory on the table: ugly guys are better in bed than cute ones. And before you get all double standard on me, it's the same with chicks I'd assume, but I don't get with them, so I leave that end of the theory to those who do.

I was listening to a story of a guy that is super cute, totally up my alley, tats and a nice body...and apparently he sucks in bed. Mannn, what a waste. But he's cute, girls dig him, so why should he care? Doesn't need to work to pull chicks, so why should he bother? On the other hand, a guy who's mid level cute ("attractive") goes hard, pun not intended. I'm talking never before seen footage, gets it so in, you can't see straight after, aren't walking right for weeks. It's a blast. I thought back to the guys I've been with-those who are cute, fine, attractive, etc. and I came to the conclusion that the ones who've made me scream more have been less than hot comparitively. And I asked male and female friends alike. The consensus across the board was mostly agreement.

I started thinking about it, wondering why? Was it just a coincidence that we all felt the same way? Was I only seeking evidence that would support my own theory? Maybe we don't expect much from the less than fine guys, so we're surprised when they slap it up, flip it, rub it down because they were so under the radar, so average in other areas. Maybe we have higher expectations for the ones who stick out, the ones all the girls are licking their chops at. But what an incredible waste of aesthetics. If you look that good, you should absolutely be able to put it down. Could you imagine your wildest dreams coming true and having the opportunity to bang the guy who claims to have invented sex? Could you imagine it being thee most horrible sexual experience of your life? Of anyone's life? After all that parading around he does? It's a smack in the face. It's false advertisement and nobody likes to get taken for a ride...unless the ride is worth it.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

Little Bits: Love Bites

In this day and age, who the hell still leaves hickeys on people over the age of sixteen. SERIOUSLY?! I was walking down the street, making a latte run, when I ran into a friend I hadn't seen in forever. I love New York for that by the way. On this little stretch of island, you can run into people in the most random places, j'dore NYC....sorry, back to the story. I was chatting with her, playing a good game of catch up when she craned her neck and ogled mine. "Girl, do you have hickeys?" My response, "Huh?" She points out that the left side of my neck is in fact covered with three nice little love bites (which I will refrain from calling them that in this situation because I'm gonna murder who left them behind). I wish I could've confirmed her first question of whether it was the guy I was dating the last time I saw her. Nope. She laughed, knowing my antics. Instead, I had to remember that I broke a cardinal rule and made out with someone from my job. Someone who won't leave me alone now. And someone who apparently didn't get the memo that hickeys are for seventh graders sneaking make out sessions on the polyester sofa in the basement. Nothing but hoodies and collared shirts for the next few days. Break out the cold spoons. I'm too old for this sh*t...

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

On B: I'm NOT Perfect

You know I get emails a lot asking about my toughness, my hard outer shell, my no nonsense approach. But hold on, I've made lots of mistakes, too. I've been holed up in my apartment making out with Ben & Jerry and watching The Notebook on repeat, crying my eyes out, promising I wouldn't love as hard the next time. I've said dumb things and ruined good relationships, I've also been in horrible ones that I dragged on for far too long because I didn't want to be alone. I've been the soft, clingy girl before as well. When I was younger, blinder, that's what I did. I just went in recklessly and loved hard. But hard being the operative word, you get sick of people disappointing you, of coming up short, even though the pay off is sometimes very much worth it. You still become untrusting, unyielding. You start putting people out and not giving anyone a chance past the first indescretion. You refuse to let anyone get close enough to hurt you as much as someone else did before. It's easier to have no patience, to be tough, to not deal with the crap. As you get older, more experienced, you just get it. You just say, "I don't have time for the bullshit, so I'm not gonna bother." And people come and people go and you either care or you don't. The world is a black and white space. It's only grey if you make it.

I write this because I received an email from a reader asking how I do it, how I seem to stay so far removed. She said many things in the email, but the one that stuck out the most was that she wished she didn't care either because not caring seems so much easier. Apathy is anything but easy, if anything it's harder when you can't recall your emotions to the surface, when you don't feel like trusting people. Sometimes you end up pushing people away who would've been positive in your life. It works both ways, I told her. I explained much of what I've just said in this post, but most importantly that this blog isn't a "how to" for my readers, nor is it me mocking the dating world or acting like I know it all. It's just what's on my mind that day. If I have a story to tell, I tell it. It isn't me claiming that everyone else makes mistakes while my bed lies made and unbothered. My life gets just as messy, I make just as many errors in judgement, blunders, and bloopers. But that's life and while I work it out, I blog it out.

And I suspect the pendulum will swing back and I'll be an emotional, sensitive mess soon. Let's see if you're still emailing me for advice then...

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

Picking Brains: Why do we care if an ex moves on... to someone ugly? Is it better if they're unattractive, average or shocker-cuter than you?

Dating vs. Just F*cking

My phone rang the other day and it was one of my close friends, Fi, asking if I wanted to hit Whole Foods on the way home from our respective jobs. I consented and met her in Union Square after work. Fi dove right in, telling me she had something amazing to tell me and right between the avocados and the plums, she blurts out that there's a new dude in her life. They are "just fucking," though. Or so she says at first. Then the details come out. They've already seen each other three times in the past 5 days, they are cuddling far more than altogether necessary, and chatting throughout the day. I'm processing her new information, picking out sushi when I hear her giggling behind me. I turn around and she's answering what I assume is a text from the new mystery man. I put my hand over the phone's screen and ask her what she's doing. She says, "answering his text." She goes on to say what he said in the text message and it doesn't sound like the makings of a jump off relationship, it sounds like they're getting a little close to kickin' it, which is way closer to dating than "just fucking." I tell her this and she adamantly swears it's just a sex thing. I say fine and we move on to the frozen section where she tells me about some exhibit at the Met she wants to see. Then she says he wants to see it too, that they're going to see it together. I stare at her long enough that she asks me what my problem is? My problem? My problem is you can lie to yourself all you want, but don't lie to me. There is a big difference between "just fucking" and dating. When someone says they are "just fucking" someone, that usually means they are JUST FUCKING that person. When you add hanging out, ie DATES, to fucking, well, it becomes dating, so stop saying it's just sex when it, so clearly, is not. And that's ok, I have no issue with either, just be real about what it is. Fi argued that she didn't think they were on dating status, that he'd never be her boyfriend. I never said he had to be-there are levels of dating. Dating doesn't just mean one thing-it's all encompassing, includes the beginning to the serious, right up until titles are handed out. It can be casual, it can be exclusive. But it contains hanging out and usual some sort of physical activity combined, so sorry, Fi, you are 99.9% NOT just fucking.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

Here's a Factie! xoxo Blackie : Black Sex

I'm always saying I can't picture white people having sex. Not because they don't, lord knows I know they do, ahem, but I'm always pondering them doing it to each other. Like, really? Y'all get it in like us? It's easy to picture black people having sex, but what about other races? Like Asians or Hispanics. I'm not crazy. I promise. I know others who feel similarly. One sent me this email with the title: You Were Right About Black Sex. Here's the factie, xoxo Blackie:

Did you know...

Blacks/African-Americans and Hispanics (10% each) are ten times more likely to report having sex every night than Asians (1%) and 2.5 times more likely than Whites (4%)?

The Laws of Attraction

Women have lots of ways of describing men. We have our own caste system, our own lingo and vocabulary to categorize the men that come in and out of our lives or even just pass us by on the street. It isn't complicated but the words you may take as compliments may not be that entirely, so read on boys-see what she's really saying when she says you're "cute." And ladies, when your friends meet your man and say he's "handsome," what exactly do they mean? And as always, please feel free to add your own...

Attractive: This is pretty basic. It isn't anything special, so when a girl says, "he's attractive," it's kinda the nice way for saying he's okay looking. He is attractive to someone, somewhere, maybe just not her.

Fine: This is one word which is pretty obvious and pretty universal. When someone calls a man fine or more importantly the emphasis they put behind their words. She will never just say, "eh, he's fine." It will always be, "good got damn, he's fine," or some sort of sound effect similar to moaning before she claims he's "fine as hell." You know if you get told that, well, you probably already knew you were fine. And ladies, if your girls ever say your man is fine, be careful, hold tight, cause they sure as hell will if given the chance.

Handsome: You're dad could be handsome, it isn't bad, but it isn't fine either. It's just good-looking, nice-looking, regal, dateable. The kind of man you'd see in a Sears men's sale ad. It's nice, but she'd still be pulling for her genes to be the dominant ones should children be involved down the road.

Cute: As much as we like the word cute, you do not want to be cute. Cute is what your little brother is. Cute is what your guys stuck in the friend zone are. You don't want cute. Leave cute to teddy bears and puppies.

Pretty: We think you're homosexual most likely. But you are pretty. Bask in that, I guess.

Descriptive words that have nothing to do with looks: Girl: "Isn't he sooo cute!?" Friend: "He is so nice! And funny and that job, girl, you're gonna be rollin." Sorry, he's uggs, and I don't mean the boots.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

The Real Mean Girls

Don't push her cause she's close to the edge...

I've always prided myself on being a nice girl, a kind person. Despite my scorpio tendancies (I've got a vicious sting), I've never been a mean girl so to speak.

But those girls are incredibly gangsta and I know because I'm friends with some. The difference between those broads and others? The crazy thoughts of retaliation that we all have, well, these chicks actually follow through on. Those girls literally set out to ruin your life and do just that.

I had a hilarious and telling conversation with some friends over brunch. I had just stopped dating someone and was giving him quite the tongue lashing over my eggs benedict. One of my girls chimed in with what I should do to get him back, to embarass him, but her ideas were more like getting him back ten times over...for ten lifetimes to come. She regaled me with a story of a boyfriend who might've turned out to have more than one girlfriend. She decided to send him an email, an email with some hefty secrets exposed...and CC'd half his address book, including the other girlfriend.

My other friends applauded, laughed, and put in their own two (thousand) cents. As I sat and listened to them literally GOING IN, I was dumbfounded! These girls didn't just make the blueprints to the bank, they went in, guns blazing, without masks! They set it off! The things they had done and were telling me to do sounded incredible and there was a fire in me that started to burn outta control. I thought about just how easy it would be to show his ass, make him rue the day he crossed me. I created blogs in my head where I'd name names, lay him bare. I got excited. I felt what they felt. If jealousy is a green monster, revenge is it's twin sister.

But then I got ahold of myself. I'm not a mean girl, at least not easily, and I believe karma will take care of anyone who needs dealing with. I may be pissed or upset to have been slighted and I may have some biting parting words for you, but for the most part, my method of revenge is moving on and living life. Sure getting you back is great fun, but what's the point? What exactly does one get out of that, except for some immediate gratification. I guarantee you'll feel just a bit silly when he sends you the dry cleaning bill for dousing his closet with bleach. You're not taking another thing from me at that point-especially not my time and effort. But I have major love for the gusto those girls have. Man oh man the mean girls are something else. Be careful if you're dating one, cause she's a baadddd bitch. Talk about f*ck your life? Yea, she'll take care of that for you and then some.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

The Code

We've all seen it. Either in a movie or in our own lives (sorry). A woman walks in and her man is doing the horizontal mambo with some chick. There's even a horrible local commercial here in NYC for a company called Ashley Furniture where a very attractive couple is going at it in a bed. The scene is very hot and steamy and we're led to believe that they're married...then we find out they aren't married to each other when a Precious-esqe woman thunders in the room and discovers them in bed together. She immediately goes after the woman, while the husband tries to stop her. Now, it's one of the worst commercials ever made, but it also displays my point. Women always blame the other woman first.

Here's why: Just like there is a man code, there is a woman one too. Yes, we chicks have a little unwritten handbook with certain rules and regulations that must be adhered to. If you go off the page, you're on your own and put out of the gender altogether.

When I was in high school, I fell in some major puppy love with my best friend who happened to be homecoming king, captain of the football team, and was adored by everyone near and far. He dated a friend of mine, a fellow cheerleader (my stunt partner!) and they were the Brangelina of my high school. Well, sometime, during Junior year, he started to realize just how wonderful I was (duh) and we kinda sorta started seeing each other. Ok, we flat out were. Only problem? He was still someone else's boyfriend. Well, when all the crap hit the fan, I was blamed for breaking up the star couple of high school. But it was high school, where relationships barely count and after a week, it blew over, they got back together and I was still voted onto homecoming court. At the time, I found it crazy that no one seemed to be mad at him! It took two to tango (not horizontally, thank you very much), yet, everyone acted like I was out there doing a solo strip tease to just reel him in and break them up. Like it was totally malicious or something. It wasn't. I was all of sixteen for crying out loud! I'd loved that boy since I was in grade school and I felt like it was my turn. Selfish, yes, malicious, no.

Maria has been victim to this as well after she started dating a guy from college who had been paired with a friend of hers. The problem was that the pairing was a tumultuous one. One that lasted for several years and when Maria started dating him, said friend was livid. As she should've been. Maria and I have had this argument several times: the one where I tell her she was wrong for doing that. Wrong because she was friends with the girl, knew their story, knew how they'd broken up, knew their details. Maria always stresses that they weren't really friends, which isn't true and is extremely convenient for Maria when she's trying to assuage the guilt. My major argument is that you just don't go there with other women. The code that I spoke of earlier, is why. The code that women are supposed to band together in some sort of unspoken truce. We hate on each other's outfits, yes. We talk about each other behind our backs, sure. But we don't steal each other boyfriends, and we don't date ex's of friends. It's just how it goes. There are too many men out there, and even more single women roving the streets lonely and destitute. Well, not really on that last part, but you just don't go there with other females. Women, being the emotion-filled creatures they are, get so affected when other women betray them because we are women! We all get it! It's a double betrayal, a punch in the gut, a slap in the face. Men, could care less, so when their boy gets at a girl they dated, they may be irritated, but barely bat an eye.

Examples can be found far and wide. Monica Lewinsky, Angelina Jolie, Alicia Keys and the oodles of other women who've all been chumped in the media for stealing or attempting to steal someone's husband or boyfriend.

And don't think I'm saying there's no fault with the men. There is fault there, but who cares about them. They're stupid and they don't know the code, hell, they're known for making ridiculous un-calculated decisions, or thinking with the wrong head. Women are smarter, we are calculated and only have one head to think about. We should know better and we should look out for each other.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

Little Boxes On the Hillside

No one moves to NY to find a man or get married. NYC is where you go to find your life, you career, yourself. You arrive bright eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to attack the city, get your bite on. And somehow along the way, as your climbing the rungs of the ladder, kicking ass, taking names, your friends back in Whereversville, USA are getting married, starting families, buying homes with multiple garages. And as it all shifts, you start to realize that their lives are so far removed from your's, it seems like an alternate reality. Who in their right mind wants kids yanking at your arms, shouting at the top of their lungs, while you try to make a meal that doesn't involve Mamwich? Who would trade that in for reservations at Nobu and brunches at Calle Ocho, draining bottomless mimosas for that?

I was watching a movie the other day, one where the leading character was married with children and lived in Milwaukee. There was hockey gear stacked in the mud room, dirty dishes in the sink, SUV's with juice spills, soccer practices to shout at, and a constant stream of clothing that needed to be washed. And yet at the end of each day, they seemed happy, content even. This seemed slightly foreign to me, someone who doesn't crave children or a house in the 'burbs, because that grass doesn't seem at all greener. It seems brown, and undesirable. And sometimes I don't get it, why do I all but look down on the same life that reared me? When I talked to some of my friends from back home, married, pregnant, bun already out of the oven in some cases, some of them definitely yearned to come up to the city to have a snapshot night at what Manhattan has to offer, and some were definitely happy where they are. Part of the reason my ex and I didn't work was because he was ready for the suburban life and I was running around New York without a second thought to a mortgage on a split-level (I hate split-level's btw).

They say the natural progression of things in NYC is that eventually, after success in your career, you get married and move out of the city, to Westchester or Connecticut, after all the city is for the bustling single twenty/thirty-somethings who are still chasing their dreams. But what if your dream is football games at the local bar with cheese blocks on your head instead of a wine bar with a cheese plate on your table? Is that possible? Is the grass ever not greener? Is the suburban life one that people really desire as much as New Yorkers desire a rent controlled apartment that's larger than a family size SUV?

I honestly don't know. I've had conversations with older couples, couples who once ran the streets of New York, but then found each other, got hitched, moved out of the city and had some kids. They bridge and tunnel it in for dinner or date night and I see the longing in their eyes. How life slipped passed them and now they're exactly what their "just-don't-get-it" parents were: boring. For all it's simplicity and stability, that life just seems so opposite of the one here. For all New York is, boring is absolutely never one of them.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

Do you really love?

Love is the greatest revelation of the soul, the vulnerability of ones self, the truth of the heart, problems and all and saying: Yes, I choose you. Yes, I will work hard to make progress in myself and progress in you. I will ache when you ache, I will heal when you heal, I will breathe life into you and you into me, I will be honest even when it's hard to tell the truth, I will understand that we are works in progress, but that we are on the same path, going in the same direction, building each other up with each step on the path we create, brick by brick. I won't be afraid to let parts of myself go, parts that are not a solution to our equation, but subtract from who we are. I know it won't always be easy, it won't always be patient, but it will always be kind, it will never break you down, never force you to compromise the core values that make me love you in the first place. And being together doesn't mean I'll change either, it isn't a complete promise because if along the way, we find we're trying to change each other into people we fundamentally are not, then we are basically saying we want someone else and should walk away. I would rather you get me and know me than get some false representative of who I am, the me with the mask on instead of the beautiful, vulnerable truth. I'd rather lose you, having you never really see me, than get you and you don't even know who I am.

So, do you really love? Not the love that many participate in, the fairy tale, false love. The love that starts with two people who don't even know who they are and if they do aren't willing to sacrifice or change for each other, into each other. Aren't willing to acknowledge who they are nor embrace that person. See, when someone is a mess, they love in a messy way. But when someone is a mess and is aware of the flawed person they are, they are able to love someone else. They are honest with who they are, so they are honest with what they can give and how they can give it. Too many people don't take responsibility for who they are, for what they bring to the table. Too many sit down with bags at their feet, completely unaware they've been carrying them for such a lengthy trip. Too many people wear a mask for so long that when it becomes entirely too hard to hold on to that mask, it's way beyond the deception point. When you fall for a mask, you cannot complain when the mask is removed. You haven't been tricked by love, bamboozled or hoodwinked because it was never love to begin with. At least not the love that's truly intended for us.

And, love doesn't mean no struggle, love doesn't mean a kumbaya of sorts for love is painful and crazy. Love has ups and downs. Love gets down and dirty and forces you to honestly look at yourself in perhaps the realest way possible, which is why so many people would rather walk away than really take a look at themselves. Love is uncomfortable, it takes you out of that zone where you sit locked behind a wall pretending you're happy. Love is not easy to abandon when it gets too hard. But remember we are talking about the reality of love, not the fairy tale, not the 'well it's the right time and the right place' love, not the 'I've known you for two months and I already love you love,' but the love that very very few experience. A love that crosses oceans and heals hearts. A love that is honest and ugly at the same time, a love that sustains love simply for love, a love that doesn't fit into a box, for it is inexplicable. It just is what it is. It's just...love.

B.

Cardinal Rules: The Degrees of Separation

There's always the question of who is off limits when it comes to dating and relationships. New York City is a small island, it's only three miles across, so you can only imagine how many lines have crossed. The phrase "small world" ain't got nothing on Manhattan. Everyone seems to know each other, six degrees of separation is more like two degrees here, so the possibility of meeting someone brand new that no one knows at all is damn near unheard of. I was once looking at some pictures of a guy I was dating from a party he'd gone to and a guy I had dated just prior to him was posted up in them. I cracked up. How did they end up not only at the same party, but posing in the same picture?! It was just so random.

That said, sometimes it just happens by accident. Someone you know starts seeing someone you once dated. They met through mutual friends, they met at a party, or event, they bumped into each other on the street and it was lust at first sight. Yes, this happens. But I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about when someone you've dated or were in a relationship with, outwardly pursues one of your friends. A friend he or she knows is your friend. A friend he or she may have met through you in the first place.

That is not NYC's lines crossing, that's some bullshit.

So let's start with what constitutes who is off limits exactly. Obviously, when his best friend runs into you months later at a party and tries to buy you a drink, that's a no-no. But some guy approaches you and you think you might know him, but you're not sure and after conversation, it turns out he works with your ex and you've heard his name a few times? Well, maybe you could go there, but with extreme caution. Depending on your relationship with your recent ex-beau, maybe you can ask if that would bother him. But if he's coming after your friends, girls he knows you chat on the phone and hang out with, he's very very wrong. There are some men that are just stupid enough to think girls don't talk at all. Granted, men gossip like Serena, Blair and the gang, but make no mistake: when you tried to slip it to her friend? Oh yeah, friend definitely told. And you're definitely an asshole for that.

When I was in college, I dated a guy whom I met once in passing when I was out with a girl who was a good friend of mine at the time. We later fell out, but more importantly, I started dating him. The important piece of information was that when I met him, she was dating him. It was all very loose, but I was wrong for that. We became friends again and I came clean about the whole situation, water under the bridge. But of all the guys I could've dated, I dated one of her's? Not cool.

On the other hand, I dated someone who turned out to be a friend of another guy I was once with. I had no clue they knew each other. No blood on my hands there. How would I know y'all were goonies. It's all a big stupid spiderweb and it can get confusing, so here's the cardinal rule: Don't do anything with anyone that in the reverse would bother you. It isn't just about respect, it's about being nice. And somehow niceness is overrated.

Despite this city's small parameters, there are thousands upon thousands of people floating on this little metropolis. While circles collide like crazy, it is completely different to go out of your way to date the friend of an ex. If you're mojo isn't up to par enough to find someone else? Well, make it easy on yourself...move to LA.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins