I really, really wish I were a guy. Then my behavior would be acceptable. I'm serious, this is getting on my nerves, all these double damn standards. Some dude can have 4 kids by 4 different girls, one of which is his third cousin, have no job, but somehow have a wad of cash in his mattress, and live with his mama, but let him have a cute face, a dimple (just one, he doesn't even need two), a couple tats, and a relatively nice body and all hail the king! Girls still chase him. He can still call some unassuming girl at 2am and she'll pick up, all giggly girly, ready for his command.
This is so lame. I mean it. They get away with highway robbery and nobody seems to care. They always come out on top. They can stay bachelors forever and never have children (that they know of) and no one bats an eye. "Oh, that Robert. He's just so handsome. The girls love him. He's just picky. Oh well." What?! Let a woman be 45 with no husband or kids and she MUST be reading to hang herself from the baby mobile that's been hanging in the hidden nursery since her child bearing years. Obviously.
I know you're with me, but you're wondering why. Where is this rant coming from. Glad you asked, kids. In the last twenty four hours, I've been ready to get a sex change yet again. Here's just a few reasons why:
The douchebag on the corner. There are many bags of Massengill sitting on the corner. They're young and old, ugly and not so ugly and all seem to think it's cool calling out obscene comments when you walk by. This morning, I walked by two guys having a deep discussion about the arse on a girl several feet in front of me. It was pretty regular as far as asses go. One claimed it looked like it was once something great back in the day. The other agreed and added that she probably "don't do much for it and it just went away. You gotta take care of it ya know?" Both of these fools looked like they'd gotten stuck in a trash compactor, yet they had the arrogance and audacity to sit there and pass their important judgement on this chicks ass. Well I'll be; who knew all I had to do was have a beer belly, a dirty t-shirt, and a penis to be the end all be all. And I'm about thirty-two seconds away from punching my super in the throat. His "hello, young lady, how are you's" turned into "hey beautiful, you can't call me cause you don't have my phone number." Yeah, that must be the reason. The other day, I was on my phone and he actually jumped in front of me on the sidewalk, flailing his arms, trying to get my attention. I told my sister to hold on and snatched my earpiece out my ear and through clenched teeth gave him the business like my mom used to when I interrupted her on the phone. "Don't you see I'm on the phone? What is your problem?"
They get around. Only girls have to worry about their "numbers," which seems pointless since men either don't ask or ask, but assume the number that comes out our mouths will be a big, fat, round lie. I have a guy friend who's had sex with 106 girls. ONE HUNDRED AND SIX and no body cares. Last night I told him I'd be good and happy if both Idris Elba and Chris Brown were in my bed when I got home and his response was: "Whoa, you're a freak." WHAT? No, I'd be a freak if I actually thought for two seconds this could feasibly happen and then decided to take them both on at the same time. And how many threesomes have you had? How many one night stands have you encountered? How am I chastised for merely mentioning something, yet you are the virgin mary incarnate. Get outta here. I'm sick of liking sex and getting f*cked in the ass (not really, sheesh) for it. Not. Fair.
Sleezy by association. Finally, around 3am, I got a text from this guy I've known forever. He's cute, he's exactly my type, except for one small issue: he's engaged. Not cool and inviting ala engaging, but walking down the aisle and getting married engaged. In fact, he's getting married in t-minus a few months. I don't care what kind of world he has created where this is acceptable, but I find it wildly hilarious. Like for real? This isn't the first time either. It's safe to say he's been barking up my tree for quite some time. Here's the kicker. I made mention of it to a friend who knows us both, told her in a "what a sleezebucket he is" type of way and do you know who she got upset with? ME! I got reamed out for not telling him where to put his 3am phone calls and texts. We went from laughing at him to blaming me! Somehow I was treading on shaky ground, I was the problem, I was wrong. WTH? I didn't answer, I didn't invite him over and hop on his d*ck sixteen times, slap his chick in the face next time I saw her and said, "how does it taste when you kiss him?" No. None of that has or will happen, yet somehow I'm wrong. He cheats on his fiance! Doesn't that trump any and all? Stupid.
I'm in a pissy mood. I shouldn't be writing today. But you feel me? I know you feel me. We're always in sync. Justin Timberlake.
Blackie Collins is a Manhattan turned LA girl with a big heart and a closet full of girly things like skirts and heels. She loves laying on the beach, dogs with people names like Linda, hoop earrings, and sky-high platform heels. When she isn't writing, she can be found scouring blogs, brunching with friends, or enjoying happy hour at any hour of the day. Her true passion is boys. It is perhaps the reason she can't get anything done. She lives in a great, rent controlled apartment with a great, uncontrolled dog. She has quite a few parking tickets, and dreams of the day DVF or YSL decide to slum it with a line in Target. Get it in with her at http://thatbitchstolemyline.com, email her at firstname.lastname@example.org, or follow her on Twitter @blackiecollins.