DOA

Blackie had a little too much fun last night. Odd, since it was a Sunday and all... BUT a new day has dawned, unfortunately B is completely hung over. In fact, she's writing this email laying next to her pretty porcelain paradise where she's been most of the day. Alcohol is always better in theory, not so much in practice. Furthermore, B needs to realize that this is what you get when a friend has a break up and begs you to go bar hopping with them yet somehow you wind up drowning sorrows you didn't even know you had. Lovely. See you tomorrow. If I live.

B.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

It's Not So Hard To Say Goodbye: An Addendum

Since writing last weeks post on the permanent hang up (Just Be A Man About It), I've noticed an obscene number of friends-both male and female-who have succumbed to the notion of just never picking up the phone again. Instead, everyone just sticks their head in the sand and pretends the other person doesn't exist. But they do! And This. Is. Rude!

Puh-lease, grow up, pick up the phone-or shoot a text, get up the courage and say something baby! Its not hard! And even if it was, cry me a river.

"Hey, look I don't think this is going to work out. I just don't see anything romantic here. Take care."** I know, I know, shouldn't you just take a look at the context clues? S/He hasn't called you back, s/he obviously doesn't want to...isn't that your answer right there? What more do you need? I'm glad you asked and here's my answer: people (women) need closure like air and they can also get quite blinded, quite easily. Aide that with their expert ability at making excuses for men and you get a whole lot of stage five cling on's. Saran Wrap.

But just incase you still don't believe me. Here's some more reasons I came up with while ranting in response to a female friend of mine who has been complaining about this guy all but stalking her in his attempts at getting her out on a real date. She swears he's corny and gets on her nerves now, so she just doesn't respond, hoping he'll get the point. But in the meantime, she could just tell him to back off and not have to wake up to three hundred texts from him each day. Anyway, reasons, the reasons that we're here...

One, it doesn't make you a pu$$y ass punk. If anything, you become the cool dude who was nice enough to sever a tie or two. And when you happen to run into her because you're now dating her friend, well she just might give you the friend stamp of approval, which is more important than the damn purple heart. (Or she might not. Girls ain't called bitches for nothing.)

Two, you never know what kind of bridge you're burning. I dated a guy while I was in grad school. He was cool, but wasn't exactly done sowing his wild oats and true to my (old/young) fashion, I screened him something serious. I might've even publicly cussed him out and then to top it off, refused his phone calls. Guess when I saw him next? At a job interview a few years later. He was on the OTHER side of the table. Right. You can guess whether or not I got that job.

And three, your ego cannot be so inflated that you truly don't believe you're life is so much more important or busy that you don't HAVE to bother with silly little minions you dated. Please, if you're that arrogant, they probably don't care if you call anyway but when you do, they say: well, s/he's not that bad I guess. I've said countless times that I'm all about no beef left behind (unless it's a burger from anywhere, but Bar89) so I always try to leave a situation wrapped up like a Macy's wrapped gift. Never bringing a situation to a close properly is wrapping it in newspaper that my dog peed on.

I guess I just believe in no burned bridges unless absolutely necessary. I guess I'm just a really nice, kind-hearted, amazing person. Besides awkward run-ins suck. Ducking into the cereal aisle or hiding behind a friend at a party just screams lame to me and when that can be avoided, I go ahead and take the road less lamely traveled. The road paved with good intentions and phone calls.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

**I love the phrase "take care." It's so simple and yet there's something so f*ck you about it, but in one of those kill 'em with kindness sort of ways. One of those final-you-have-no-say type of goodbyes that you can't really be mad at because they didn't say something like, well, f*ck you. It's like calling someone delusional. It's a nice way of saying they're stupid crazy and should be shipped off to Bellevue.*

Losing His Religion

It was a Sunday, I had gone to church, enjoyed the service, took in the word, and headed out to meet friends for brunch when I saw him. He was walking down the opposite stairwell, but I spotted him immediately as did he me. Once out on the street, he approached me, asked if I enjoyed the service, how long I'd been attending. I recognized him from being one of the ushers, one whom I'd tried quite diligently to keep my eyes off of while actually in church. He introduced himself as "Rev." We parted ways, stating that we'd see each other next Sunday and off I went.

The following Sunday, Rev found me on the sidewalk after church and asked if I had brunch plans. Oddly, my plans involved rushing home to walk my dog and get on top of a very put off deadline. The dog and deadline could wait, though. Rev was baby jesus cute, so I accepted and we set off to Toast on the UWS. The conversation was seamless, he was equal parts kind and funny, had enough charm to make it into heaven, and just the right amount of intellect-ie he didn't spout off political propaganda like it was his last supper (it was an election year). In a nutshell, we had a great time and decided to see each other again the next Sunday and eventually the other days too.

There was one thing about Rev. A thing that me feel incredibly heathenistic because my desires weren't nearly as easy to ignore. Rev was celibate. Fine, no prob, Bob. At least that's what I told myself and I did everything I could to abstain right along with him. I liked him a lot and it wasn't like he was asking me to do crystal meth in the middle of the FDR at rush hour. He was asking me to do better in the name of my faith. And he was barely asking me to do that, in fact, it became increasingly clear that Rev wanted to leave his abstinence on the back burner altogether.

I told him I supported his quest, told him it wasn't a problem, joked that my vibrator had titanium batteries. In other words, I'd be fine. But as our cuddles on the couch turned to rolly pollies on the floor and headed closer and closer to the bedroom, I knew we had to have a serious talk. I didn't want to be the reason for his celibacy sabbatical, but he assured me it was okay. That he wanted to be intimate with me.

Looking back, I shouldn't have taken on that responsibility, I didn't really feel solid about it anyway, but one night, when my libido took over like a fallen angel, we went all the way like two teenagers losing their virginity's. And somewhere between ooh and ahh, Rev started to cry. No, not a single tear while he looked into my eyes and declared his love for me (which would've been really lame), but ferocious tears. Tears for fears tears. He was hysterical and I was all the way freaked out. We stopped, of course, and I asked if he was okay, had someone miraculously sprayed bullets through his seventh floor apartment window, catching Rev in the leg? Rev explained that it was just the first time breaking his vow, the next time would be better. I was not feeling it at all and it was almost another week or two before we tried again. This time, he tried pressing his face into my neck, but his muffled sobs filled the room, vibrating through my body. He tried incessantly to calm himself, told me to hold on a second and just when he started to actually chill out, he flipped, started screaming:"I can't! I can't do this! I can't do it, oh God, I can't!" And he shouted all this while still right there on top of me. I didn't know who felt worse. Between me, him, and the holy ghost, there was one too many in Rev's bedroom.

I pushed him off, jumped off the bed, and, while dressing, told him, "Actually, no. I can't do this. This is too much. It's just too much." I apologized, for what I am still unsure, and blew that popsicle stand. There's taking it to the next level and then there's taking it to a level that's beyond anything I'm able to humanly deal with. Instead, I left that to Rev and God. That relationship was way more in need than I was and way more deserving of that kind of commitment.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

212s/646s/718s and Heartbreak

After living in NYC for almost 7 years, I've learned that heartache is par for this particular course. I've heard theory after theory from friends stating that NYC is the last place to come for love-unless your a rat. And despite the number of romantic comedies that take place here, it's starting to not only appear true, but freak women out. After all, those movies aren't real life. I know, shocker.

The city is beautiful, seems picturesque for falling in love, and it is, but only for a select few. Hell, the city has done me proud when it comes to dating, but the only serious relationship I was in was with a guy from my home city, soooo. Bogey.

The reality is that there are just too many damn hopefuls (ie women) here. Even though all these colorful red and blue maps have been published stating that NYC is actually a prime mating ground city (with which I have no beef, but mating doesn't mean dating these days), it still seems to be full of whiny twenty-to-forty-somethings complaining that all their friends are getting married sans them. Even if I look at my married-in-NYC friends, I immediately recognize that the overriding commonality isn't love, but the fact that they met before coming to the city.

Now, of course there are those that met and married here, but I've never met them-seriously! That's scary! What's happening in the city that never sleeps together forever?

I believe it has to do with a few factors. One being location, location, location. Aside from the fact that we're all smashed on an island, which I think makes everyone slightly frantic, NYC is one of those places where you can have whatever you want at any time of day. We are spoiled beyond good reason, so if I can have take out from a different culture every night of the week and never repeat a restaurant for three thousand years, why can't I have the same type of variety with dating? I never have to commit there either-score! The possibilities of meeting someone "better" is about as prevalent as a new IT restaurant opening below 34th street...or above it for that matter.

With so much drama in the NYC, it's kinda hard being w-o-m-e-n (sorry Snoop, that didn't quite work, but I tried). There are just so many of us. And every one of us is looking for love. Even the crazy, stock following, suit wearing, espresso addicted chicks are looking for a good man between the DOW and NASDAQ. And as soon as everyone finds one (if they do), they run off to Connecticut or New Jersey to raise families and hide their good fortune from NYCers, aka husband snatchers.

It's not a secret that people don't move to NYC for love, no movie ever centered around someone running off to this city to find their one true love. Even Prince Akeem came to QUEENS, not Manhattan, to find his wife-they have lawns for goodness sakes!- and everyone thought he was an idiot for that one too because in all honesty the night club scene with Peaches and her breasts represents the dating world far more than Lisa McDowell.

There's just too much to do. Too many career ladders to zip up, too many belt notches to make, too many mismatched genders to settle on just one. So, while there are exceptions to the rule, as there are to all, is New York a love wasteland? A graveyard of broken hearts destined to buy one way tickets to Iowa to put a ring on it? Surely it's easier there with all those potatoes...oh, wait, that's Idaho. Well, hell, go there too. As long as you avoid this island like Shutter Island.

That bitch stole my line

Xoxo,

Blackie Collins

Happy Holiday!

See ya tomorrow!!!
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

To Have and To Hold Down Part 1A

I love SistaToldja's blog and I wasn't surprised to find a concise and organized post on Chris Brown and our sometimes enabling love of black men. I began to respond, but realized after the third paragraph that I had far too many thoughts. Here's what I wrote-and then some:

I was in LA when all the news broke of the fight between Rihanna and Chris Brown in the Hancock Park section of LA. Way before it hit the east coast, I had friends texting and calling, asking what I knew, what she (Rihanna) had done to warrant the assault, were they at the Grammy's, had I seen anything (um, LA is kinda big)? It was interesting how everyone immediately came to his rescue, asking what she did to evoke that kind of anger. I listened to young girls call into radio stations to tell all who would hear that Chris was just defending himself and that Rihanna was a known crazy. Nevermind how it all affected those young girls, but what about how it affected the young men who heard these girls brushing it off, defending their skinny jean, neck tatted, R&B singing, arrogant peer? Now it seems excusable to slap a chick. Hey Chris Breezy did.

I agree with all the current arguments to "let CB live" and to stop holding nailing him to a cross, BUT I think the reason people are so quick to keep him there is because he honestly hasn't shown any remorse. From day one, he posted Youtube videos that were anything but sincere. They were clearly attempts to eradicate a dire situation, not to mention hard to take seriously when in the days proceeding/following someone's camera phone would catch him saying crazy, arrogant, and unsympathetic comments in bowling alleys and what not. Then came the sappy love songs and the Twitter apologies. I understand there's a strong possibility that his sincerity was in fact genuine, but it gets completely watered down when just mere months before, you bashed your very famous girlfriend's face in with your very famous fists.

So now fast forward to the BET awards and after all that's happened-the assault, trial/conviction/sentence, an album that was designed to bring him back (despite him not going anywhere) but didn't do well, and his popularity being snatched and given to Trey Songz (J. Holliday are you out there?). He gets up and does what he does best: danced like Twinkle Toes. While audiences sat astonished, myself included, you couldn't tell if you were more excited for him to be "back" or just moved to have MJ back on stage (metaphorically). I cheered him on, told people to let him be, but when the tears started, I got a little guarded. I started to remember the insincere videos and the whiny Twitter pleas and, of course, the picture of Rihanna's battered face. But there was Chris onstage. And there was my Twitter feed, going crazy with people already claiming he was faking it, that he was the typical abusive man, that we shouldn't forgive him. But I also saw the "we love you" and the "Rihanna who?" comments and I realized everyone was just as confused. It is clear the boy is talented, but it's clear he made a serious misstep in his recent life as well. So why does it have to be either/or? Why can't we accept both ends of the issue, but also let it go? There is such thing as forgiving sans forgetting. We could all forgive CB and give him a conditional second chance-that he never repeats this behavior. He did swear he'd never let his fans down again. And while it's tucked away in our brain's rolodex, we can also give him a shot at greatness, cause who doesn't deserve just that?

It also got me thinking about our obsession with celebrity's personal lives. Yes, pop culture is a ruling force in our country (and others). People hop on reality shows for 15 minutes that they can hopefully stretch into an hour, USWeekly and InTouch fly off the shelves and paps chase the stars to the edge of reason on a regular basis. And we greedily eat it up, forming our opinions, casting judgement on people we don't even know. Sure, it's fun to watch an awards show and tweet away, making jokes that will get RTed, having a mild chuckle, but once it switches to burning people at the stake for their own personal indescretions, well I get a bone to pick. I watched people go in on Alicia Keys from the moment Swizz hit the red carpet (people even said stuff about his son, not cool). When she won her first award, I saw tweets about her award being Best Homewrecker and Slut of the Year. The number of women on my feed who said they wouldn't watch if Alicia kept gracing the stage was astonishing. I knew many of them personally and almost all had some cheating mistakes in their pasts. Those same women, sitting in their glass castles, were the same ones minutes later, claiming to love CB and let it all go. Hmmm.

I suppose that's the cost of fame: your personal life is essentially no longer that, you must tread carefully, understanding that every breath you take, every sex tape you make, will be put on a costly blast. But there's still something else important to remember: no matter the celebrity, they are still, at the end of it all, human beings and that means flaws and mistakes. Instead of judging, we should take it for what it is: missteps and pitfalls, forgiving yet not forgetting because I'm quite sure we'd all hope someone else would give us a second chance when it counts most.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

Making Our Beds: The Name Game

Author's Note***Making Our Beds is a series dedicated to the garbage moves men make, from their own treasure chests of mistakes, told to me by them. These are their words, handled with care by yours truly. Enjoy your step inside their minds. It's a teenage wasteland in there. -B

I was running out my last class of the day, it has been a long one and I was exhausted. Glad I went to the gym in the AM instead of waiting until later. There was no way I could hit a treadmill right now. I hustled to my car in the deck, already thinking about the cold ass Heinekens sitting in my fridge, the mindless television I planned to watch while drinking that beer in my favorite chair. It was a Thursday evening, probably should see what was going on in the streets, but I just didn't feel like it. It was one of those nights where I felt like doing absolutely nothing, by myself. As I trotted up the stairs to my apartment's floor, I was happy I'd opted out of rooming with my LB at the beginning of the semester. Knowing there was nothing but my shit and my silence behind that 1304 door was worth the extra money for a one bedroom.

Moments later, I was propped in my lazy boy, with a Heine in my left hand, the remote in my right. I ran threw the channels until I cam across an episode of Martin. Funny as hell. Only a thirty minute commitment. Perfect.

Mere minutes later, my cell phone sounded off with a text message. I flipped it open and saw that it was Leah, my pseudo girl I was dating. I say pseudo because I was really just messing around with her. She was nice, a cute girl, great ass, gave pretty good head, so I prone to kick it with her once or twice a week. I was still getting passed the last girl I'd been seeing, Blackie. We'd had an off and on again thing for a minute, she drove me crazy, but I loved being around her. We had some sort of weird thing between the two of us and I couldn't be anything with anyone else because that thing was only there with B. Leah wasn't B, but she was there. Blackie had tired of my shit again and rolled.

Hey, what are you doing tonight. Wanna play?

Leah loved saying she wanted to play. She used it in place of "hang out" or "do something." Let's play today, she'd say and while it was sort of cute at first, it was getting annoying. But back to the actual point: did I want to see Leah tonight? I gulped my beer, thought about exchanging my night in alone for entertaining Leah. She'd sleep over for sure. Which meant I'd have to deal with her in the morning. If my memory was right, she didn't have class until noon on Fridays, which meant breakfast. But I could get some and the thought of Bianca's ass, started moving me for real.

Sure, come through.

An hour later, she was at my door. Half hour later, I was back in my chair with Leah on her knees in front of me. Yeah, this was definitely worth canceling my single-night-in-alone. She was giving her A game and I was certifiably appreciative. She bobbed, she weaved, she slobbed, she knobbed. And just as I was about to bust, she jumped up and told me to come to the bedroom. At that moment I would've followed her to hell if she asked. We kissed our way down the hall. I shoved her on the bed, grabbed a condom, and hopped on top of her. And we were off. She rolled on top of me, feeling herself obviously as I remembered Leah had been a little lazy lately. But not tonight, she was feeling good. Real good. I closed my eyes and let her go to work. I felt her reverse herself, thighs smacking against mine, her juices dripping on me, the bed beginning to creek. I opened my eyes to find her backwards, bouncing around like she was on a pogo stick. She looked hot. I was definitely about to cum. I grabbed her hips and threw her forward, coming at her from behind. Grabbing her ponytail, I hunched over her and. here. we. go.

"Yeah! B, shit!" I hollered. Damn, I was happy she came over.

"What did you just say?" Leah froze.

"Huh?"

Leah bucked me out of her and turned around glaring at me. "What. Did. You. Just. Call. Me?"

My mind raced, what was she talking about? We got it in, I came, what was the prob-?

Oh shit. Shit! I closed my eyes for a second, hoping, no, praying I didn't just call her what I think I just called her. But nope, I opened my eyes and Bianca was still there looking at me like she might kill me.

"Baby, what are you talking about? It was good, what's the problem?" I tried.

"Oh, now I'm baby? You gotta be kidding me. Do I look stupid?" She huffed as she jumped off the bed and grabbed her clothes. She didn't really want me to answer that, did she? She wanted me to put up a fight, stop her from leaving, apologize at least. "Yo, I don't know what happened. It just sort of slipped out. Come on, you know she and I dated pretty recently."

"And that's supposed to make it okay?" She yelled. Clearly that wasn't the right response either. "You're ridiculous." Dressed now, Leah raced out my bedroom, seconds later, I heard the door slam. I heaved a huge sigh. Relief probably. She was gone. For good most likely. I came. All the above. I picked up my phone and scrolled through the address book, stopping on B's number, clicking on the numbers to write out the right sentences.

I miss you. I know you miss me.

Send.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins