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I don’t wake up everyday obsessing over my race or my sexual orientation. As much pride as I have in being both Black and gay, my first thoughts of the day are usually “What songs shall I jig to?” and “How can I get myself out of Sallie Mae’s Burn Book?”

Alas, enough people obsess over my race and sexuality in this world for me. To the extent that I end up being forced to think about it at least some point on any given day.

As a result, I am usually exhausted by the predominate narrative about being a gay Black man. I often have to fight erasure from white gays and Black heterosexuals alike. Or, I have to wrestle with the reality that when trying to tell my story, it is preferred that I tell it through some sort of prism of pathology.

Yes, it is still very hard to be a gay Black man.

So often we are limited to the perceptions other people have about us. Our masculinity. Our expressions of sexuality. Robbed of our basic right to simply just be.

I like to think I try to find the good in even the most difficult situation, but funny enough, when faced with the question “Could you write about what you enjoy about being a gay Black man?” I was a bit stumped. All too often I am asked to write about this experience from the opposition perspective. The task felt like a pop quiz I was possibly going to fail.

A few moments later, I went with sarcasm: “Uh, was ass and Beyoncé’s B’Day?

The more I thought about it, I felt that was a good enough place to start. I also like not having to ever be lumped in with those ‘stay-at-home sons’ Twitter often drags (or celebrates)—those sexist, heterosexual Black men who are an enemy to Black gays and Black women alike.

As for other benefits, I cannot speak for other gay Black men, but for me, the best parts of being who I am is all that I am. This includes the things that challenge the stereotypes about what a gay Black man is and the other characteristics that fit right into the caricature.

Read more at EBONY

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So I was a guest on Billboard’s “The Juice” podcast hosted by Erika Ramirez.

I’m lazily copying and pasting their description from the site:

For this week’s episode of The Juice Podcast, Taj Rani (BET) and Michael Arceneaux (Complex, Ebony) join me to discuss the happenings of the week, including Usher‘s new single “Believe Me,” Ariana Grande and Big Sean’sblooming relationship, Karrueche Tran’s tasteless joke about Beyoncé and Jay Z‘s daughter Blue Ivy by way of BET, and the Beyhive’s reaction.


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Last month, I was asked to contribute to the “Men In America” series running on NPR’s “All Things Considered.” My story is on the time I was approached for the priesthood and how it pushed to me finally start dealing with a part of myself I was tired of denying.

A few things:

1. My speech pattern is basically Soulja Boy to Nicki Minaj real quick (oh, Lord).

2. The segment ends with “Say My Name” so #Beyhive.

3. I sound so Houston in certain parts, which means I’m country, and more importantly, like Beyoncé. That makes me feel better.

That said, check it out below.

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I met him in a drag bar in the West Village on one of the first warm days of the year. While I certainly get the appeal of drag queens, it’s not really one of my favorite forms of entertainment. But I didn’t want to be a spoiler so I watched some really large Italian man in makeup quote Trina’s rap lyrics in exchange for laughter and a few dollar bills. Right around the time I thought to leave, he walked in. And we immediately locked eyes. We gazed at each other for an hour until I noticed something: He was with someone else.

How long was the other dude there? The hell if I know, and to this day, I still don’t particularly care. I do remember mouthing off, “Is that your boyfriend?” To which he nodded yes and I said, “I’m sorry.” He told me it was okay and we continued to study one another from a distance. Since I’m never approached, I’m used to going to men first if interested. So when his boyfriend went to the restroom, I went for it.

But as I made my way to his table his boyfriend came back, and I swiftly turned my trifling ass around. To the amusement of my company, I was greeted by them with the following: “WIG!” “Kim Zolciak!” and “Close your legs to married men!”

I’m not usually this guy. In fact, I hate people like this. But I wanted to find out more. I followed him to the restroom line to talk, hoping he would find my Southern speech, now coated in alcohol, charming enough to give me his number. He did.

After we exchanged information, we looked into each other’s eyes for a few minutes. Ho shit or not, it was sweet. I could have tried to do more—kiss him, feel him up, et. al—but since New York City bathrooms are full of bed bugs with gonorrhea, I decided to cut it short.

The next day, we set a date. I’m not much of a dater. In fact, even at the age of 30, I’ve never had a real boyfriend. This tends to frighten some people—even other gays—given it suggests that something is “wrong” with me. I shared this with him during our first date. And, really, I didn’t anticipate much to come from us meeting each other one on one. If anything, I pegged him to be some guy who was having relationship problems and wanted to “see what was out there” before he got scared and rushed back to his man.

I have been in love before, but my 20s were spent either ducking intimacy or pursing it in unattainable men. Men that were in denial about their sexuality, their feelings for me, or a gumbo consisting of the two that would’ve alerted a saner person to run away. Coupled with my childhood experience—a cocktail of depression, violence, and watching two people clearly not meant for each other suffer from their failure to stop being codependent—I am admittedly fucked up.

But he enjoyed every bit of it.

He knew what it was like to grow up in a violent home. Despite being younger than me, he had more experience with boyfriends, but still seemed to struggle with letting people in. Yet he was letting me in very quickly and I was happy to return the favor. Then the strangest thing happened on our first date: he grabbed my hand at the dinner table and held it the entire time. I’d never been open with affection like that before. I recently opened up about my fear of sex in response to very early exposure to AIDS, but I’m not a virgin by any stretch of the imagination, and the sad reality is, I’m probably far more comfortable with you holding my dick than I am with you holding my hand in public.

Days later we had another date that started at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Once again, he made me hold his hand. Then we kissed in public. We eventually left for the second part of the date at my apartment, where he cooked for me. We had dinner and dessert ready, but ended up naked not watching Boomerang, our bodies spread across my bed. In the time we spent together—more dinners, meeting up to walk around the city and enjoy each other’s company, and coming to spend my birthday with me before I left to go get drunk and dance to Beyoncé with my close friends —we were constantly all over each other. But it wasn’t just sexual—and that ultimately became the problem.

When I realized I was starting to fall in love with this person, I tried to exercise as much self-awareness about the situation as possible before losing control. I looked myself in the mirror and quoted Monica’s “Sideline Ho,” the best song from the painfully underrated album The Makings Of Me: “Ho. Ho. Sideline ho. You’s a ho. You’s a ho. Sideline ho.” I also sang a little bit of MoKenStef’s “He’s Mine” while cruising through both his and his boyfriend’s Facebook pages. I began to make peace with my reality.

Read the rest at Gawker.

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“Put ya arms up….Whew! Ya small.” 

Shadiness about my size aside, the Caribbean woman working at Macy’s was a life saver when I approached her with a specific, time-sensitive goal in mind: to find a tuxedo on a Tuesday and have it ready for a Saturday wedding. I had been given a three-month window to prepare, but naturally, I waited until the last minute to get everything done.

That would include getting it altered in time and finding whatever else in the hell one needs for a black tie affair. As recently as two months ago, I knew about as much about black tie affairs as Katy Perry seems to know about actual Black people. Even sadder was the fact that when everyone asked me my measurements, I didn’t have the slightest idea. The only measurements I can remember are “36-24-36” and that’s only important to a room full of old people at a cookout or a hole in the wall club.

One of my new favorite people ever, Nicole Richie, put it so eloquently on her VH1 show, saying, “I’m grown up, but I’m not like, a GROWN-up.” This philosophy is pretty true when it comes to how I tackle time management and general responsibility, but most certainly correct in assessing my preparedness and ability to dress for truly adult affairs. When you’re blessed with an invite to a wedding and various fancy people events, even if you’ve never been anywhere nicer than Olive Garden before, you know you better show up and put on some Meryl Streep type performance—looking and acting right immediately upon arrival.

Then again, even when it comes to invitations to speak at events less formal in dress code but still requiring a level that’s more than denim and a tee, I’m usually still ill-prepared and in a rush to find something to wear. This happened to me last year, and basically all I did was duplicate a look I wore to an internship interview several years prior. Luckily, no one in attendance was the wiser.

You see, I work primarily from home, a place where pants can be oppressive, and things like jackets, ties, and dress shoes don’t even enter the conversation. Even worse was that up until a year ago, I lived in Los Angeles – not exactly the place for dressing sharp and formal if you’re not attending an awards show. Yeah, damn me for not learning Final Draft well enough.

Regardless, it is a different time now.

Read the rest at Complex.

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Back on NPR’s “Tell Me More” for another pop culture roundtable, talking about those Time essays I keep getting emailed and texted about, plus on Pam Oliver’s new gig (and weave…sorta) and that 2Pac musical no one wanted to see.

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I’m sitting at my desk in my increasingly uncomfortable office chair drinking red wine while listening to Anita Baker. For someone in desperate need of a vacation, but months away (at the very least from taking one), I’ll take whatever temporary moments of escape I can get. For years now, editors and many of my fellow writers have referred to me as a machine due to the way I’ve been able to churn out assignment after assignment. Maybe, but I think it’s about time someone put me in the shop.

Last week, Cord Jefferson wrote yet another very good essay, this time on how tiresome it can be writing about racism over and over again. It’s worth the read, and as someone who, too, writes about race a lot, I can attest to the sentiment. For one of the outlets I regularly write for, I often joke to my friends that they might as well give me a column called “That’s Racist with Michael Arceneaux.” My way of tackling what I often think are worthless targets is to simply make fun of them. Even so, I’d much rather go with the Mariah Carey method of dealing with a complete waste of space: “Ain’t gon’ feed you, I’mma let you starve.”

I wish dealing with racism was the least of my problems, though.

Since graduating from college and actually collecting checks for my writing, I’ve tackled pop culture, politics, music, celebrity gossip, sexuality, race, satire, and social media. I am happy I’ve been allowed to write about so much. Not everyone can be versatile, or at least, be convincing at. That doesn’t negate exhaustion, however. Like, I’m not necessarily over writing, but I am somewhat tired of a few things.

The aforementioned writing about idiotic racists, but also subject matter I can classify as either “dumb shit” or “silly shit” or “patronizing shit.” I came across an article entitled “The Internet has a content diversity problem.” In it, the writer basically takes shots at varying publications for following into the listicle vortext in response to the chase for clicks. I’m somewhat conflicted on that. Do I think “sharebait” has further contributed to the decline of people’s attention spans and their desire to read anything more than 500 words that might require them to think? Yes. Nevertheless, for a bunch of people stuck in cubicles and offices at least three hours too long, I can understand the desire to read something easy breezy.

Plus, I’ve contributed to the problem ’cause those pay the checks. And honestly, writing a “dumb list” is a lot harder than people realize. It can be a challenge to make any piece look like easy reading.

I’m less annoyed by the list than I am this growing subgenre of online journalism that’s basically “Tell ‘Em Why You Mad, Son.” It’s like watching people race to out politically correct the other in an effort to sound more evolved than the next. There are plenty of things to get mad about, but so many seem insincere because it pays to rage. A lot of it comes across a lot like masturbation. As in, let me patronize you, oooh, baby, baby, they’re so bad, but your point of view, so-so-so good.

I don’t wake up everyday wanting to be “mad.” I want to make people laugh and make people think. If some people deserve a roasting, so be it — just don’t position it as “moving the debate” forward. That would require a level of respect, and gasp, nuance, which so many writers seem to lack.


In any event, I found it more interesting that a writer is complaining about diversity in content but only cited works from mainstream publications. That’s not surprising, but no less dually ironic and irritating.

What I’m personally sick of is having to chase for a check. I’m even more sick of having to churn out more than ever because though there may be an across the board wage depreciation, the publishing industry has really made an effort to take advantage of it. Even when I am offered the chance to write something that actually excites me, I have to contend with the reality that I have to be careful where I pitch it ’cause motherfuckers ain’t trying to pay the way they did even six months ago much less two years.

And yes, sometimes I do feel like Beyoncé being forced to cover Keri Hilson’s catalog due to increasingly stupid and/or lazy readers. 

You know, a lot of the time I get told, “I’m so proud of you for living your dream.” I know the intent is complimentary, but I sometimes wince anyway. Yes, I’ve written a lot of things I’m particularly proud of – this year included – but I wouldn’t necessarily say I’m living my dream. I’ve accomplished select goals, but my dreams are too big to truly embrace a statement I find hyperbolic.

I could go on, but I’m about to switch to Anthony Hamilton and perform “Float” in my apartment.

A few weeks ago, while watching Oprah’s Master Class with Whoopi Goldberg, she said something to the effect of, “Do what you have to do until you no longer have to.” That’s something I continue to tell myself, though I do know I have to push (and get it right) to do more things worthy of my talent (that pay better). Even if I feel tired. Even if I increasingly get upset by the state of the biz. Thankfully, there are people every now and then who remind me that in the midst of the noise, my voice still stands out. I appreciate that. More than most will ever understand.

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The wonderful people over at NPR’s “Tell Me More” reached out to me about my xoJane essay that chronicled me tackling my fear of sex. This is the segment that aired yesterday. Was honored to be asked. I felt classy as opposed to my usual classy ratch. Now, I make Beyoncé and Mariah references during the discussion because I am who I am (you just can’t change me…I hope you hear that in Lil’ Kim’s voice). I was told I towed the line between NPR and not NPR/me well.

Y’all let me know. Thanks to them again for having me.

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My introduction to homosexuality, and subsequently gay sex, came by way of death and a slur. Now, I don’t remember a lot about my dead uncle or his funeral. I can recall being six-years-old, walking up to a casket and crying. He was dead and I was a child: you do the math.

The only other thing I distinctly remember about my uncle is the vitriol spewed about him by my drunk, habitually angry father. My father had a habit of disclosing information he otherwise opted to forgo whenever he was in one of his moods, so not only did I discover that my departed uncle was a heroin addict, but also a gay man or “faggot” as he was described.

As an adult in 2014, these bits of information might provide a fairly clear path to an assumed cause of death. But it was not lost on me as a child that AIDS paved the quicker road to death for a gay man in 1990. What’s interesting about this is while I can only give you the major points of the story, it is one that has haunted me for much of my life and fueled such an immense fear of sex that I am only just now beginning to tackle it.

Sex is something I thought about even as a child. Like the Patron Saint of the Butterfly and 8 Count (Janet Jackson) once said in an interview with the now defunct Blender magazine, “As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to realize that I had a very active sexual mind at a very young age. I hope that doesn’t sound bad.” Oh, Janet, you could never say anything wrong.

Like Saint Damita Jo, I always had “little fantasies” and on many occasions, acting them out with other children – boys and girls alike – during recess and naptime. Once puberty hit, my hormones placed shackles around my – umm, there – and didn’t relinquish control until…ha, any day now. My friends noticed.

In high school, one of my best friends called me “Perv” — she still does. The very first friend I made in college describes my club activity as follows: “Yeah, Mike, you dance really sexual. Like it’s the first of the month and rent is due.” One of my best friends called me “Hoettie McDaniels” via text the other morning. Yes, I’m blessed with wonderful people in my life.

Be that as it may, it wasn’t until I was 21 when I actually tried to initiate sex, and not until 23 when I did the full act. I’m only now at 30 starting to truly embrace the Lil’ Kim line, “I used to be scared of the d*ck, now I throw lips to the sh*t.” The way the Lord intended.

To be fair, there was a nice battle with body dysmorphia that helped push this fear of intimacy. But even after my body shifted from Theodore Seville to Alvin, I could get it up, but I couldn’t follow through. In my mind, if I was going to have sex, it needed to be with someone I loved. Someone essentially “worth the risk.”

The problem with that logic laid in the unfortunate reality that I am a magnet for unattainable men and unhealthy emotional attachments. That sentence just described 90 percent of my 20s, and the two men I wasted an entire decade chasing in vain.

In my frustration with each, I ended up engaging in the very sort of activity that would lead me to a shortened life full of way too many pills. This would include literally pulling a virtual stranger off the street in anger. We did go get condoms, but that ended in abrupt dismissal all the same. Two years later, I ended up having sex with a friend of a man I had just shaded out of rage over finding out he had had sex with another guy.

What did having drunk, angry sex in public accomplish? Absolutely nothing besides wasting what was supposed to be a special moment. For the next couple of years, I would initiate acts and then abruptly stop — again and again. It was like “The Mr. Blue Balls Show World Tour.”

Then around 2011 two separate doctors told me that I had syphilis and Hepatitis C. I was under a lot of stress and might’ve been drinking more than I should have been. The stress resulted in migraines and weird body rashes. When a dermatologist told me that I might have syphilis, I responded: “You have to have sex to get that, right?” I didn’t have syphilis – this particular doctor happened to be an idiot.

Similarly, the crackpot male doctor who immediately suggested whatever STI he could think of to explain my apparent abnormal liver levels when he found out my sexual preference was outtie versus innie. For three days I had to think about whether or not my life would be shortened over having Hep C. I also had to seek comfort in my mother, who to this day is likely trying to pray my gay away. That doctor ultimately said I was Hepatitis C free and that he was merely “exploring all options” and that “I gave you no reason to have any real fear.” Screw him forever.

I wish this was the part where I said: “And it was then that I decided that my libido has been left in the ice box for far too long and it is time to overcome my fears and set it free.” Yeah, that didn’t happen.

Read the rest at xoJane.

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A little over two weeks ago when I turned 30, they sky did not open, celestial choirs did not begin singing Beyoncé, nor did the number of nuisances of my life in recent months suddenly decide to do the right thing (exit) and make my world perfect. Sure, I woke up in a good mood all the same, but I didn’t bother pretending to know anything profoundly more at 30 than a did a couple of hours before at 29.

So when I looked in the mirror that morning, I told myself what I felt was most important at the time: “Still look prettttttyyyy.” To Kimbella be the glory. Now and forever.

Time has since passed and while I do still maintain “I don’t know shit, bitch!” stance about turning 30, I do have some reflections.

Since moving to New York nearly a year ago, I’ve done pretty well for myself both professionally and personally. I have a ways to go as far as certain goals, though, but I do think overall I am thriving and leading the life I’ve long wanted to have. Still, in recent months, I’ve been reminded that there remains a certain fragility that will continue to cause frustration until it no longer doesn’t.

As nice as it is to hear people tell me that they love my work or to compliment me on recent achievements – seeing me here, hearing me there, and reading me in places that apparently matter more than where I had written before (in lit, Lindsay > Lupita) – no matter how “prominent” some of my friends and colleagues may perceive me to be, I know that means nothing if I find myself in the predicament where I’m owed thousands of dollars and regret never becoming the sissy 2 Chainz or better compensated Joseline Hernandez, Baby.

It happens less frequently than it used to be, but the reality is if I solely support myself as a writer I will always have to be a bill collector. Granted, I am not homeless. I am eating. I have not stopped living my life. Nonetheless, these are issues that come with being a working writer in 2014. That is partially why I am actively working to being more than just a writer. In fact, if there’s any ironic moment in my life as of late, it’s been the realization that I pretty much had the best career path paved out for myself at 18 and only 12 years later am I remembering I always knew what it was and what it needed to be.

I was a broadcast journalism major in college, not a print or English major. I allowed insecurities to get in the way of the pursuit of that, but I’ve since let that go. There was never a reason for me to deny myself the truth that I am much more than a writer, but we learn these things in our time.

That said, I’ve been working and pitching and talking with people about different things in media, but beyond me writing about things I may not give a solitary fuck about for an unfair amount of money. And some progress has been made on that front, though without getting into specifics, I can attest that petty, insecure, and vile people will fuck your shit up for reasons that only they themselves can explain. I was pissed about that. Very, very pissed. Drag you to the ground by your hair pissed. #FreePorsha

It’s so interesting how you can make other people feel without even trying. Over it? No, but not iron-pressed about it either. Often missed opportunities are blessings in disguise. And even when they’re not, things happen on their own time as they are supposed to. My impatient self has to hug that shit tight and never let it go.

Not to mention, there are more important things going on.

Which leads me to my mother, who I am still unsure of whether or not I will have to let go. I wrote this post a bit prematurely. I don’t regret it as it helped bridge a rift between me and a colleague whose hustle I greatly admire and aspire to duplicate, but I hadn’t really let go of the hurt as purported to. I still haven’t really. I will say that I have since made it plain to my mother that if she chooses to continue being apart of my life, discussions of my sexuality will not be tolerated.

Another talk needs to be had. And oh, it will. I love my mother very much and I find her to be an amazing, strong person despite her faults. Even so, I am not afraid of her the way others are. Moreover, no matter what anyone has done to us, while it gives us an source to root mean spirited and hurtful behavior, it doesn’t make it okay. You don’t have to exercise that option, and even if you do, once it’s brought to your attention, it’s up to you to decide if you want to carry on with it.

It’s not easy and it’s not something you can quickly conquer. But if you want to change your ways, you work for it. I wouldn’t say I was a mean person, but I know I can be when provoked. Pure evil, depending on how much you push me. I know that my temper is not as dormant as I want it to be. I know that I need to talk to someone professionally to help me sort out how I grew up and how that continues to affect the way I live now.

There is so much heavy lifting and sometimes I get lazy like Britney Spears on any stage after 2007. That’s why for a few months before my birthday, I couldn’t open my mouth all the way without feeling an immense pain. I started to grind my teeth the way Rihanna used to grind into Matt Kemp Well, at least how I would like to grind into Matt Kemp anyway.

I waited too long to have it checked out. When I finally did, I instantly thought, “Why in the fuck did it take you so long to see a dentist and then a doctor, you big teeth, lanky sum’bitch?” ‘Cause my ass is crazy sometimes, but again, we live and learn — particularly when it comes to making your life less difficult than it needs to be.

All that said, I could’ve easily checked out of my birthday and allowed myself to be angry or sad or some combination of the two. I refused. One of my friends, the ever so fantastic Mitzi Miller, mentioned last year about choosing happy. Mitzi is not one of those fortune cookie, social media fake deep fucks, which is why I could embrace her philosophy. It doesn’t seem as easy as it sounds, but it can be depending on the severity of whatever all is consuming you.

Nothing that was going on felt worthy of taking away from my moment. All of it is short-term frustrations. There are things on the horizon for me. Besides, if I don’t like my situation, I have to be the one who pushes myself to change it. I have been blessed to have wonderful people in my life on a personal and professional level, but I have played an integral part in much of what I have accomplished so far.

So I keep going and I do whatever I have to do to make sure I don’t stop. If I need a muscle relaxer to stop attacking my own mouth, so be it. Same for whatever cools my anxiety.

And in the meantime, I admit certain truths to myself and to others around me.

It is my own fault for spending a decade of my life chasing the unattainable. And while you’ll always be someone I deeply care about, you will never be what I want you to be. I’m not sure if you ever loved me, but I have known that even if you did, you didn’t want to. Because you felt it was wrong. Because you think who I am is unnatural and sinful. Because you resent me for whatever feelings I seem to bring out of you. It hurts, but I have to let it go. This Frank Ocean, peculiar friendship fuck shit cheated me out of ample ass and super-sized happiness. No more. You forever finer than a motherfucker, though. Ugh.

My parents did not want children nor each other and even though they fulfilled their duties, there’s a bitterness and darkness there that tainted everyone in that house. I became so obsessed with not being anything like them that I was repeating their mistakes. I’m glad I never slit my dad’s throat the way I wanted to, but if I have to pretend both of them are already dead for the sake of living my life with a freer feeling, I’ll do what I gotta do. Hopefully not, but I’m not above. It’s either me or them. That goes for them and anyone else.

I’m never going to be Pharrell-level of happy. That’s fine ’cause he sounds like he’s smoking hash in a blunt made with fortune cookie paper. I’ll settle for Mary J. Blige when she’s singing over Black beats — bopping and killing you hoes with a tight wig and exercise regimen.

I really care about someone. To the point where I’ve engaged in the nastiness that is public displays of affection. Actually, it’s not nasty. I have quite enjoyed simp life despite being initially weirded out the first six or 19 times or so. Granted, Pimp C would slap the dog shit out of me, but that’s fine. Bun B would get it. My brother calls me Bun anyway.

That said, I may have to let that go. As Vivian Green once said on the album y’all didn’t buy, “I like it, but I don’t need it.” My mom once said I’d end up alone. That stuck with me until the homie La explained that she probably only said that given she knew what I was and knew that some man would eventually want to live in sin with me. Maybe it’ll happen. Maybe it won’t. I’m cool either way.

Overall, I don’t deny myself of certain pleasures anymore either. I’ll be exploring that a little more in work elsewhere and maybe in this space, too. We’ll see.

Oh, I’ll get my fucking book deal. These polite, you’re a Black and not famous, so can’t see me selling this project, sis, but I love you, though, rejections tend to make me itch, but it’s also planting seeds. It’ll come.

Bottom line is, things are not perfect, but they are better. I am happy inconsequential people, broke ass media companies, sabotaging sum’bitches that turn out to be blessings in disguise be damned.

To quote one of my favorite prophets, T.I., “Nann nigga don’t stop my show.” And to be honest, the only person who ever truly fucked up my program was me.

For some months now, I’ve described my career, and I suppose my life as, “Kelly Rowland on a good day.” Cute, but I’m a Beyoncé and it’s about damn time my “Crazy In Love” moment happens already. It could be happening very soon or could very well be underway already. Whatever the case, I am going to be more than fine. I always am. 

That’s why I spent my birthday being around a bae and then getting drunk and twerking with the people I loved. I’ve done enough worrying for a lifetime. If I have to grit my teeth in the meantime, I’ll do just that. Just not too hard. Can’t give head when you can’t open your mouth.

I’m kidding! Okay, I’m totally not, but whatever, I got it going on, what what or something.

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