There’s a good an explanation for this lacefront, I swear. Before you dare even think it, no, it’s not mine, and please, I do not cross-dress. I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that if you elect to make that one of your favorite pastimes. See what had happened was: I was kind of drinking a lot and doing hoodrat shit with my friends. After we gathered ’round the table to talk 2012 resolutions before a bountiful plate of some bomb ass nachos. Then while we made our way to the host, Mimi’s, bedroom to see its glorious transformation, I spotted the wig. Mimi, being the quintessential bad influence, told me, “Wanna try it on?” I was ambivalent and then she said, “Do it!” So I did.

I immediately thought of Funky Dineva and said, “My hair is layed” like Michael Jackson’s last years.” As soon as I threw that wig on I felt like I had been hit by a smooth criminal, ready to check on Annie’s little young pasty self and see if she was okay. I was named after the King of Pop, after all (my mama since claims that she named me after Saints Michael and Joseph, but my sister broke it down) so there’s nothing wrong with a delayed tribute. Well, besides dancing in the heat to “In The Closet” (for the record, Naomi snatched MJ’s thunder a whole bunch in the clip) on a public sidewalk.

Fresh says I look like Venus and Serena. I imagine if my mama saw this she’d say I looked more like a mortal sin. Or are those terms mutually exclusive? Kidding. Don’t wanna beef with Canada Dry or  Chicago’s Deepest Dish. I might as well be able to make fun of myself. The student loan corporations sure are doing it. Anyway, so feel free to point and laugh…now ’cause this shit will never happen again. Never. That is, unless someone offers me $20 million to do it. Or get me drunk enough. Then again, the economy might force me to go snatch Mimi’s wig from her place and make it do what it do.

I will never put on a bra, though. If I didn’t wear one when I actually needed it, I won’t be doing it now.

Now as I go debate whether or not I’m out of my mind for posting this, get into Funky Dineva, he who rocks that shit much, much better. My favorite clip is below the hood.

“Ain’t nobody hating on you, NeNe. They hate you.” Yes, Gawd, bitch.

But wait: Can I not talk about Tyler Perry anymore? I likely will all the same, but please advise.

Say hello to my first quasi-celebrity crush. Actually, that’s probably Will Smith, but Omar is the first person I saw on TV that I recall really doing his part to lend credence to the theory that girls are icky. That makes it more special, right? Why yes, yes it does.

Some of you might remember this image still from his appearance in TLC’s “Creep” video. Others might recognize him as one of Janet Jackson’s dancers. The one Damita Jo was fortunate enough to crotch grab in the “If” video, to be exact. If none of this rings a bell to you, that means you were born in the 1990s and are trying to make me feel like an old man versus the young-ish one that I am. Gon’ somewhere . Ye ain’t ’bout to make me feel bad, pimpin’.

Anyway, during that time both my sister and I had a crush on Omar. I’m pretty sure she didn’t know I was coveting him more than she was, but oh well.  This would be the perfect time to throw out the lyric “I may be young, but I’m ready,” but unfortunately since I was barely alive at the time of my first Omar sighting it would be inappropriate to do so. I guess. Shucks. I’m free to talk about it now, though.

Look at him. Meet my prototype. Is he not the perfect introduction to sin?

Mark my words: One day when I’m a regular on TV and promoting my projects I’m gonna show up in a t-shirt with an image of Omar Lopez from the janet. tour book on it. Don’t tell my mama that. I left that tour book back home and she’d probably drown it in holy water or old bacon grease to spite me. I’m kidding! Maybe. No matter because I’ll also pay tribute to him in the acknowledgements of my very first book: “I love you, Omar Lopez! Thank you  for sending me on my first mental field trip to gayland.” Or something to that effect.

Apparently, these days Omar is a yoga instructor in West Hollywood. Yes, I have thought about grabbing a yoga mat and stretching for serenity in his presence. Sadly, I have yet to go through with it due to fears that such a move would have me teetering on Courtney Love levels of crazy.

That’s too bad as I’ve seen recent pictures of him and he’s still fine. Damn fine, to be specific. Is there no one in this city that can’t push me directly in front of him? Heaven, I need a hug.

Oh well. I suppose I’ll always have “Throb.” And the “Creep” video (although it’s a shame T-Boz is standing in his light so much).

Now do not leave me hanging, readers. Instead of trying to email this post to the police, share some of your childhood crushes with me. Or, turn that video on, bow in the presence of greatness, and proceed to get your ass up and butterflying. For love.

It’s becoming increasingly harder not to be at least a teensy bit jaded about celebrity culture’s choke hold on the media. Yesterday, I read that New York Times best-selling author, Snooki, admitted that she has no idea who J.K. Rowling and Maya Angelou are. I still have yet to see a single episode of Jersey Shore (on purpose), but based on what I’ve seen of Snooki in the press that revelation doesn’t surprise me at all. She’s just one of many intellectually challenged personalities turned pretend writers who can claim to be best-selling authors despite needing a ghostwriter to help them finish writing their ABCs.

Another that comes to mind is Tyrese, who can also boast of being a New York Times best-selling author although he has trouble spelling the word author. Of course, all Coca Cola crooner did was follow a formula laid out by Steve Harvey. Basically: Give people advice on subject matter your own life suggests you know little about. Or in the cases of others, project your own insecurities about race, gender, relationships, and self-identity to people who have been beaten over the head with nonsense, and thus, are gullible enough to buy yours.

If you think I sound like rock and sea salt run through my veins, I can’t say that I blame you for concluding so. I will pay each of the aforementioned this compliment: Every one of them had enough sense to capitalize on their fame and broaden their appeal to maximize their earning potential. Still, this is madness especially since now your technically trained writers are beginning to follow their leads.

I read Tracy McMillan’s memoir, I Love You And I’m Leaving You Anyway. I also checked out that Huff Post piece she wrote about why women aren’t married. Something about them being bitches, shallow, and some other stuff that sounds like it came from the varsity cheerleading squad for male chauvinism. Naturally, that means she has a book coming: Why You’re Not Married…Yet: How To Stop Acting Like a Bitch And Start Getting Hitched. A show called Why You’re Not Married is on the horizon, too.

McMillan is a funny writer, but I don’t get the point in telling women to stop being bitches over a problem that can be statistically attributed to several factors. I really fail to understand how a three-time divorcee can pen a book shelling out advice on marriage. Then again, I’ve read people call Tyrese and his employment of various gender stereotypes insightful.

The other day, the homie Bassey Ikpi tweeted to me about my Beyoncé piece for The Root, calling it “thoughtful and measured.” She did note, though, “…so of course it’ll fall on deaf ears.” She’s right. I’m trying to write well-written material that seeks to make people laugh and think. That’s a horrible way to write in 2011. I’m hustling backwards.

I’ve decided to join the trend and consider writing a book about some shit I know not a thing about. I have a working title in mind: Pulsate The Pussy: A Gay Guy’s Guide To Straight Sex. Initially, I considered joining the female bashing trend and was going to pitch an essay called: “Your Life Is Meaningless If You’re 30 and Unmarried. Same For You, Gays. Your Day of Reckoning Is Coming!”

Unfortunately, I don’t hate women so I can’t go that route.  But, I’m comfortable with the idea of pretending to be an expert to pay off my real loans. Doing it by merit takes an extremely long time.

Which leads me to the point of this post: I want to marry Rob Kardashian.

I have entertained the thought before this career epiphany for obvious reasons. What are they? Look at Rob Kardashian from behind. Hello, obvious reasons.

Undoubtedly, this would give me a great boost, but I think this would be beneficial to him, too. Yes, Rob’s doing Dancing with the Stars or whatever, but he’s still in the shadow of his sisters. At the rate he’s going now, he’s never going to get his own spin-off. I mean, he hasn’t been exactly doing anything on the Kardashian shows he’s already featured on. If he and I got married, he can snatch the gay icon crown from Kim and my future mother-in-law could flip that into a show.

I’ve already thought of potential plot lines for our reality series.

1. We get married in New York because it’s legal there and Mama Jenner doesn’t want another one of her kids shacking up. I’ll be happy to be back on the East Coast, Rob will miss In-N-Out Burger so thus, conflict. Then I will find out Rob had lunch with his ex-girlfriend (I’ll know because I sent the emails to her publicist), the one from 702 Cherish 3LW and The Cheetah Girls. I will confront her on the following episode where I quote Mokenstef. I’ll also let Adrienne know that she won’t be throwing KFC on me like the girl who upset Lil’ Kim ‘cause she wasn’t light skinned when playing her in a movie that she used to work with.

2. I don’t know, something about Twitter. That sounds mundane enough as a potential episode, right?

3. We hire trainers to get our bodies together. No shade to my future sister-in-law, Khloé, but there’s already one plus-size Kardashian. E! won’t accept two for much longer. And the finer he gets, the more he’s ogled. A gay Kardashian wedding is already worth at least two Us Weekly covers. New bodies will give us one more and maybe an In Touch feature. Since I’m black, I can try to finagle additional coverage, too. Kris will love me: I’m always thinking.

I have a feeling Kim will love me just as much.

See what I mean? Not to mention her favorite singer is the Queen and her favorite Nate Dogg featured song is Snoop’s “Ain’t No Fun.” We’re soul mates.

Khloé and I both curse a lot so we’ll be fine. Amerie Kardashian may potentially pose a little trouble, but I can check her if she comes for my husband. Then we’ll bond after or something.

I think this is a great idea. I’m pretty sure Kathie Lee Gifford and Hoda would let us guest-host the Today show (I’m into corporate mergers when it suits my own interests). We could become America’s favorite gay couple, or the very at least, place a strong second to Ellen and Portia.

I might be even able to convince President Obama to lay off the Kardashians based on our shared love of Beyoncé. And you know, I write about politics and shit. I also loved Dreams of My Father. I smell future White House invites when the administration needs some gays on their side.

For those of you ready to bark, “Didn’t you just write about not being the marrying kind?” Look, that was before I realized that these days it’s better to be a celebrity or at least celebrity adjacent before being anything else. Besides, see Rob in slacks. That’s worth giving marriage a try alone.

And there you have it. Rob will break out of his sisters’ shadow, find a job, and prove to Kris Jenner that she doesn’t have to go and set up a casting call to find a more profitable son. Meanwhile, I’ll earn cheap celebrity status that will get me closer to my dreams. Plus, I’ll have a big butt having pretty boy. This fairytale sounds sweet enough for Disney. I’m like Cinderella with a cock.

By now quite a few of you are thinking to yourself, “Michael is out of his damn mind.” Well, some of you probably assumed that anyway so there. I’m no less crazy than the society that has divorcees as relationship experts and functional illiterates with titles traditionally afforded to people above 8^th grade reading levels.

Yes, hard work, perseverance and faith can still get me to my dreams, but fuck all that right now. If I married Rob Kardashian this shit would happen a lot sooner and easier. And it would benefit him, too. See how selfless I’m being? That will help our marriage last.

What do you say, Rob? Will you marry me? If the sex part of our marriage throws you off at first, do not fret, future partner-in-crime. Slow and steady wins the race – with lubricant. For the record, we’re not filming it. Would totally ruin my plans to be a children’s author (everyone’s doing that, too). If he accepts, my future publicist will let y’all know about the ceremony.

As for the lack of updates, some of you have been understanding and a few have even reached out to me via email, Twitter, and Facebook to see if I was okay. You know, given my highly opinionated and talkative self has been relatively quite for longer than usual. Others, though, as I’ve noticed today, weren’t so understanding. With all due respect, if you’re leaving messages like “Where are you? Do I need to delete you?” in a post pointing to a health problem and a professional slip, well…I’ll be kind not to say anything other than thank you for being interested in what I have to say. Well, I did almost call this entry here,  ”Bitch, I Was Too Busy Fearing For My Fucking Life.” But that wouldn’t have been right. I appreciate your support, but to be honest, if you read me and you read that post, come on.

Whatever, I am posting again and if there’s any other reason for a break be it for professional or personal reasons, I’ll explain. I usually do, but there’s been some very unique circumstances lately. I thought that was implied.

Again, thank you. I do appreciate the interest in my writing no matter what. Oh and I finally joined Tumblr. It’s called Fried Fish and Feelings. You can checked me out in a more concise way here.

P.S. No, it wasn’t an HIV scare. Don’t stereotype me anymore than I already have been lately.

P.S.S. That dermatologist still thinks I look like Chris Rock. Yeah, I don’t get it either.

Still, while that was going on I recently woke up to some freakish rash on parts of my arms and hands that quickly spread all across my body. Fortunately, I purchased a health insurance plan earlier in the year following a legitimate fear that one of my ears was committing suicide (or something). After going to the dermatologist I was told that I was suffering from a sun allergy post-trip from New York. Mind you, I was told this in Los Angeles, land of endless sun. Who am I to be skeptical to a specialist, though?

Well, I had my reasons. The first was the doctor walking into the room declaring, “Oh my God! You look just like Chris Rock. I bet you get that all of the time!” Actually, no, I don’t. Back during All Star Weekend there was a little boy at the bus stop outside of my apartment complex running behind me yelling, “Chris Brown! Chris Brown!” A few bus drivers and waiters made the same mistake back in 2009. That’s the only Chris I’ve been compared to in the past and to be honest, I don’t see that one either outside of us both being lanky and brothers in big teeth.

Anyway, after her Rock realization and sun allergy diagnosis she shared another opinion: My rash might have been caused by an STD. Syphilis, to be exact. My response was immediate: “Don’t you have to have sex to get an STD?” I’m not a virgin, but it’s been a minute. Several. Eons really. There are perils with being picky with your penis, though secret cases of syphilis was not one I expected.

She kept repeating that she didn’t think it was syphilis, but wanted me to get checked out anyway. In my mind I kept thinking, “Girl (well, ma’am), I ain’t got no damn STD.” I do get regularly tested, after all. And as fate would have it, I do not have syphilis. However, the cream she prescribed to me hadn’t been working. The rash has spread and my hand looks mutated. As a fan of respectable levels of vanity, I found this troubling. Same for where this problem occurs elsewhere on me.

I called the office – frantically – asking for answers, particularly about recent blood work done. I went to the doctor again late in the evening yesterday. That’s when I found out the obvious: No STD. Depending on how the next week goes, I might have actually preferred that scenario.

There is now a possibility that I have what is called a common inflammatory disease that affects about one to two percent of the general population. As I read that in the pamphlet while waiting for another cream I thought to myself how uncommon that sounds. A biopsy was done on me and I’ll know what’s what in a week. Hopefully. It is not contagious, but I was told that if this is what I have this rash can last for 12-18 weeks at a time or 1-5 years. Ah, it just really, really sucks.

Do you want to know how bad the last few weeks have been? I didn’t even flinch at first upon hearing that. Yeah, it’s been that bad. Needless to say, I quickly snapped into how frightening a prospect this all is. I was told that this new and seemingly stronger cream might eliminate the problem by my next appointment. Or it may not. I have no idea.

In the last few weeks I’ve had personal and professional setbacks, medication for other health problems cause my jaw to become annoyingly soar (after a single dosage), and now this. I’ve felt a bit lonely the entire time, too, given I’m far away from all the people I care about most. At least I have my mother by phone. We haven’t even talked about any of this in detail yet. I’m just grateful for everything else.

This morning I got on my knees (which I typically do anyway), said a little prayer, and just felt thankful to have woken up. It’s all I can do right now. Things will get better, but I’m not one to tell anyone not to articulate when things are sucking. I damn sure wouldn’t strip myself of such abilities.

I do have some good news, though. Those weird black marks on my otherwise pink ass lips that popped up mysteriously yesterday: The dermatologist says they’ll be gone soon. I said good as it’s not fair to have the effects of relentless weed smoke without the benefits of any high. Same for the premise of the STD pains without any of the fun first. She laughed. I was serious. Maybe she knew that. At least that’s settled. I’ll find out next week what to do about everything else.

Such a fun way to end summer and kick off the fall. You can’t see me, but I’m doing that jazz hand thing right now. And people have the gall to give me grief over a memoir. Look at all this rich material. Yes, I’m still working on that, too. Other things. Lack of focus lately because well…you know. I’ll get it together. I normally do. I just hope I’m better all around once that happens.

If only it were this simple.

In my latest for The Root, I offered a personal touch to a recent story about a growing number of people (5.9 million of them) between the ages of 25 and 34 who have been forced to move back home thanks to the economy. I actually know of a few people who have either dealt with this in recent years or going through it now. Admittedly, the time period I write about is a few years shy of 25 but trust me, it’s close enough.

I have alluded to some of the issues mentioned in the piece on the site before, they this offers a bit of specifics (like an actual prescription) that I’ve never been forthright about — especially not for publication. I’m opening up more in that medium. Maybe it will help. Me. Someone. Both. Who knows?

Click here to check out “Moving Back Home: A Gift and a Curse.”

So I’ve taken part in Good magazine’s “Dealbreaker” series with an essay called, “He’s In Love With Jesus.” This underwent a lot of back and forth between me and my editor on the piece. That said, I know it might read differently than the personal works y’all have read on the site (possibly a good thing, you can tell me). I should note that the more I looked over the essay the more it almost felt like an amalgamation because I quickly became aware of all I’ve felt this sort of pressure from a variety of people for quite some time. It’s honestly more about what the person referenced represented than the guy himself (shade).

You know, given I’ve been a sad R&B song over someone else for so long anyway. Let’s stop over sharing for a moment, shall we? Hopefully, I’ll get the chance to explore more about myself, religion and sexuality in that thing I really, really want (really). That was largely the motivation for me to even try my hand at this.

Okay, enough of my babble. Click here to read Dealbreaker: He’s in Love With Jesus. Feel free to tweet, hit like on Facebook, and offer your commentary on the site.

And if you care, there’s other stuff like “Not The Marrying Kind” and “Accepting Where My Piece Blows.”

Gon’ now.

One too many looks soon prompts my friends to chorus in, “Please get over yourself. We need to start.” Reality checks, they never bounce. There inside some fancy room that I can now afford (Who shot ya, Citibank?) I cue the DJ and my march begins. Well, following a celebratory shot. My nerves are bad.

Beyoncé’s “Get Me Bodied” is blaring. I proceed to jig, get it big all the way down the aisle. Not long after the participants in the front down to the back proceed to stand up and join me and the other groom as we drop down low and sweep the flo’ with it.

Imagine me like this the second after I pick it back up:

If I can’t get Beyoncé there in person, she will be there in spirit. Got dammit. The reception will be catered by Mia X, who will do double duty with a performance of “Party Don’t Stop.” The other groom and I will fill in for Foxy Brown and Master P. I’m not sure if I want to be P or Fox Boogie yet. I mean, Foxy’s voice sounds deeper on the song and her part goes much harder than Percy’s.

The reception will call for non-stop dancing to 1990s era hip-hop and R&B and southern rap of every decade. And you know, I’ll be sure the DJ throws in some Teedra Moses and tracks like Beyoncé’s “Lay Up Under Me” for the folks in need of their emo moment.

This is how my wedding would go if it were to happen. I thought of all of this way back when during a conversation with a few friends obsessed with how their weddings will go (or maybe just obsessed with getting married period). We all have friends like this and given I don’t ever intend to play the role of spoiler and avoid such a scenario at all cost, I played along. It only took a few minutes to conceive. I’m a fool with it by nature.

Now, once the New York State Senate voted to allow gay marriages (but say “marriage equality” in group settings, it sounds better for the cause) a few people mumbled verbally or electronically to me that hey, maybe one day my wedding plans will really come to fruition!

The truth is, though, I don’t see that happening. While I surely will continue to donate money and use whatever status I have as a working writer to contribute to the advancement of marriage equality (see what I did there…better, right?), I don’t anticipate myself enjoying the fruits of such labor.

I have never wanted to get married anyway. No, not ever. Yes, I can pretend how such a move would go but it’s never been something I was really interested in doing.

Predictably, much of this resentment is rooted in the relationship between my parents. Do you know what it’s like to see two people who probably never wanted to be together that long end up legally bound together through the cultural and familial pressures of the time? Then factor in lots of depression, addiction, and resentment.

My parents are still married, though I’m not particularly sure why. It’s like one is waiting for the other to die — or at least hoping so in order to prevent premeditated murder. No, I’m not being facetious. They don’t like each other. I’ve written about bearing witness to violence growing up before, but I neglected to mention that as an adult I asked my mother why. I needed to deal with the resentment I had towards her over keeping us in that kind of environment for so long. She said didn’t want to end up on welfare raising multiple kids. Fair enough.

I know it isn’t right to base the failures of your parents on anything you do, but generally I didn’t grow up seeing a lot of people in what I’d consider to be a happy marriage. I barely saw married couples period outside of the few family members I actually knew. None of their unions looked all that appealing either.

I never quite believed the romantic fantasy Hallmark and various clergymen try to sell people about marriage. I always looked at marriage as some means to some end, typically an economically-centered one. As I got older, I read more about its origins and I continued to think, “Nope.”

My sister never wanted to get married either. She never said that she wanted to be lonely. She just never wanted to be someone’s wife. She did get married, however. At the encouragement of our mother. It was sort of a secret. When she did tell me and mentioned that our mama was pushing for it I instantly quipped, “Why would you listen to her?” She’s asking herself that now as she moves with plans for a divorce. Not her fault. She tried. But she did what our mom did: Marry a man who wasn’t right for her for the wrong reason.

I love my mom, but I’d rather accept a dentist referral from Amy Winehouse than entertain her push for marriage. Not so long ago she mentioned did she mumble something on the phone about me getting married and having kids. With a woman.

Ma’am, bye. Selective memory, that woman has. I know damn well she remembers what I told her and more importantly, I remember what I told her.

The irony of it all is that my mom used to tell me that I would end up alone. I ignored her, thinking to myself that I have just as great a chance to live in sin as anyone else.

Hell, if I ever did decide to get married I highly doubt she would show her face given I’d be marrying a man. Should that happen, I would gain a partner and be rid of my parents. Period.

Interestingly enough, my dad was upset with my sister for getting married. He told each of us to avoid marriage at all cost — in times when he was both drunk and sober. You see, his mother was abused by his dad. When my dad would jump in to defend her, he would end up getting beat, too. Shotguns shoved into his chest at that. His mother would then go on to leave him, and marry some pastor, who is technically my step-grandfather. I call them what they mean to me: nothing.

My dad has numerously made mention that the family life he ended up with was not one he ever intended on having. While I’m certainly glad to be here, I don’t blame him for not wanting the pressures that come with marriage. He didn’t think he could handle it. He was right.

I’m not sure I can either. Being honest with one’s self isn’t always some event that mirrors a “positive affirmative” you can read on a bumper sticker or Twitter timeline.

Not to mention that even if I did get to the point where I felt compelled to be tied to someone on paper, I kind of wonder would anyone even want to do that with me. I’ve been successful with a lot of things. I can see myself being even more successful in the days, weeks, and years ahead. I don’t know if such success will me bet in my romantic life as it will in my professional one.

I know, I know. I sound like a sad Mary J. Blige song. I’ll be that. I’ve had people in my life that I felt loved me. Problem is I also knew that they didn’t want to. Much of that seems rooted in the whole being gay is an abomination and God will personally spit on you should you even dare approach Saint Peter to see if your name is on the list thing.

I know of so many gay men say to themselves and my friends, “I’ll probably end up married to a woman.” Bitch, shut up. I am a magnet for this type. I’m not sure why. I do know that I wish I had some sort of spray for them, though.

I fight that stance so firmly that I know I very well may be alienating people still trying to reconcile who they are with what they’ve been told. I increasingly worry that my mom may have had a point. That warning still haunts me from time-to-time, especially when I think about previous relationships. Or lack thereof.

When I say these things to people, I wonder if I sound completed jaded. If so, there are days when I’m quite comfortable with that. I usually think, “If I don’t end up with anyone or like, get married and shit, I’ll still lead a happy and fulfilling life.” My goal in life is to help make sure those who come after me don’t have to ever feel this way. If by the end of my life jig I made things better, I’ll die smiling.

About a week or so ago, I started to debate if such a life would really be enough and whether or not I should have a better attitude about all of this. It started with a post from one of my favorite writers, Rich Juzwiak. A few days later I was able to officially buy and once again take in how happy married Beyoncé sounds. Finally, conversations with new friends who got me to thinking about the possibilities.

But as soon as think about the possibilities, I go back to all of these darker thoughts. For much of last night I tried to conceive of a way to tie a pretty bow around this post. As in: “Yeah, clearly I’m dealing with a lot – but wait – I still believe!”

I couldn’t think of anything and it only made me angry.

When I think about the kind of commitment that most associate with marriage, I think about people losing. Losing themselves, their dreams, or at the very least a part of their happiness. And though I really am happy gay people are making stride in our efforts to have our love recognized fairly (in terms of property, taxes, medical visits, etc.), I can’t wrap my head around the idea of me ever making that kind of move.

That is my truth. Why should I feel bad because it doesn’t sound “right?” Maybe that truth will change, maybe it won’t. If it doesn’t, I will continue to be happy with my life as it is lived. If it does, I’ll have my Beyoncé-inspired ceremony and I’ll make sure everyone is sent the registry info. No matter what happens, I will be okay.

Finally, I found a way to accentuate the positive. It feels good to know that once I finally deal with this confliction I might be able to do something about it. If nothing else, I think that’s worthy of a celebration.

I especially like the first two mentioned. Speaking of, tomorrow morning between 8-9 PST I’m scheduled to be on MSNBC to speak about my article on the Klan. And tomorrow the Root podcast I participated in should be up. There I discussed my piece on Creflo Dollar and Eddie Long. Both are a first for me. Smile.

I will update with a link to the podcast once I know it’s up. And of course, updates here are coming soon. Smile one more time?

Edit: So here’s the clip of me:

Oh yeah, I have to follow up about something. I actually make a decent living, my point was that my private student loan payments are so extremely indecent and I wish they’d play a little nicer. How am I supposed to tip strippers and go go boys support the arts? I’m doing better because I’m working harder, but you know, I still plan to do this. Anyone with loan payments know what I mean. Thank you all!

Edit: Here’s the link to The Confab, the weekly podcast from The Root.