In celebration of 4/20 I’ve brought together two guest bloggers to discuss the topic of the day: that green sticky-icky. We start off with Gentleman Rhoad who writes of weed, labias and librarians in “Ingrid, Tear Down That Wall” (you’ll only find wild shit like that on here), move on to Courtney “The Real Nene” Favors who presents a poetic ode to marijuana titled “Mo’ Waffles” and end with a piece by yours truly titled “Big Chiefa.” You’ll feel it in your lungs, you’ll feel it in your loins. Get ready, here we go!

INGRID, TEAR DOWN THAT WALL

People always tell me that it helps them relax, but there are times when I smoke where I feel more anxious than the person on the other side of a glory hole at Steven Seagal’s house. Why do I continue to get high in spite of this? For starters, it tends to give me a sense of empowerment, similar to how I imagine it feels for Tea Party members when they put their white hoods on after a long day of making their own gravy while fantasizing about rifle shopping with Sarah Palin.

For instance, just the other day a rather obese librarian, who I never cared much for, was not being forthright about the location of Better Homes and Gonads (it’s a niche periodical). “What does she know…and when did she know it?” I wondered aloud. She was being her typical, passive-aggressive self and accusing me of smearing honey mustard sauce on Mein Kampf. Sure, it was true as my struggle is the fact that I cannot resist snack wraps in any form. But I digress.

In situations like these, which tend to happen quite often, I typically revert to my advanced powers of seduction. Now, I know what you are thinking and no – I did not boff the librarian. In a systematic, albeit roundabout way, I merely tried to convince her that it would be beneficial to polish my knob. At that point, she would be under my spell and then assuredly volunteer the location of the aforementioned periodical. I was wrong as fuck.

“Ingrid, I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but I think we both know what’s going on here. And no, it’s not about Lebensraum. Your labia are just right,” I stated with a mild slur.

Seemingly unsure about my about-face, she turned her attention back to what she was doing. However, this was not the time to quit.

“Listen, I’m not sure where that came from. Now, why don’t you take a break from writing up ten-cent fines and have a drink with me? It’s Friday night and no one is here anyways.”

Ingrid’s eyes remained fixed on her keyboard throughout my second attempt. I began to walk toward her when I saw her beginning to reach for the telephone. This aggression would not stand. I leapt behind her desk, but she moved well for a rotund woman. I ran to block the nearest exit to quell any thoughts of escaping so easily. Ingrid then hurried behind one of those metal bookshelf thingies on wheels. I knew her plan was to launch the contraption at me to force me to move, thus freeing up the exit. There was one problem though – one of the wheel locks was in place on the metal bookshelf thingy. I waited for what seemed like seven seconds when she attempted her plan. No, this aggression did not stand.

The metal bookshelf thingy took a sharp right, moving perhaps one foot. Ingrid, apparently surprised by the limited mobility of the device, fell awkwardly to the side. The situation had gotten quite messy. She began shrieking as she struggled to get up. I ran over to her as she lay on the ground.

I reached for the nearest book. As I raised Mountain Get Out of My Way by Montel Williams over my head and prepared to pulverize her innards, I looked up at the book sleeve and saw Williams’ calming demeanor, illuminated by sensual fluorescent lighting. I put the book down slowly.

“Your ass just got saved by Montel Williams,” I announced. “You’re not the first and I know you won’t be the last. Now, Ingrid…you must live your life from now on. Live like you’ve never lived before!”

I calmly strode out after imparting wisdom that Williams himself would approve of. I never did find that periodical at the library. Maybe Ingrid was telling the truth all along. Fuck it either way. I have an iPad.

-Gentleman Rhoad

MO’ WAFFLES

Woke up this morning

With a smile on my face

I said to myself

Today is goin to be a great day

Looked in my freezer

I aint have no mo waffles left

Looked in the cabinet…shit….

I aint have no mo cereal left

So I thought to myself

“Imma go & get some Mickey D’s”

Went outside to hop in my ride….

SHYT! They done towed my shyt off the street

Now I’m sitting here pissed off

Cuz I live in the middle of nowhere

I can tell that Tuesday

had sum haterism goin on today

So I went back to the house

And realized I left my keys on my bed

Now I am locked out

This shyt is fuckin with my head

Cant get in my house and I aint got my ride

HOW THE FUCK am I to get to work?

Called into to work and said

I aint got no ride; I’ll see yall tomorrow instead

Supervisor started trippin

And said “this is the 3rd time you’ve called in this month”

The mothafucka fired me

So I grabbed a fuckin blunt….

Today’s taken a shyt on me

Its been pretty fuckin lame…

Fuck it! Its four twenty

I’m finna make love to Mary Jane!

Courtney “Nene” Favors: Themusicflame.com

BIG CHIEFA

NOT ONLY AM I PARTYING, driving to Los Angeles for trouble and drinking in a desperate attempt to move on, but I’m also experimenting with marijuana. Although I took a few puffs from a blunt during my freshman year of college and have fantasized about sniffing coke off a fat girl’s ass for years now, I’ve been a square when it comes to drugs. But with the live-for-the-moment attitude that came when my moment with Haniyah was taken from me, I am now more than open to further experimentation.

Giselle is my gateway drug. I meet her after an unsuccessful night downtown. She is among a group of Asian-brown, toffee and high-yellow colored women riding in the back of a traffic-stalling pedicab. I pull over when they do, walk the group to their car and narrowed my attention to her, mainly because she has the kind of ass whose cheeks shift up and down in unison with her steps.

The predictable questions flow easily as I search for commonality with Giselle. Her answers are succinct, but her smile shows she wants the attention. Still, I am unsure if she is interested. To protect my ego, I leave it up to her.

“Well, I hope I’ll see you again sometime,” I say as we stand at the car, her four friends impatiently waiting.

She answers, “Well, you can take my number.”

Days later we meet for sushi and drinks. After an hour of our putting on our most likeable fronts, the conversation turns first to alcohol and then to marijuana. She asks if I want to smoke. Feeling pressured by her thighs bustling out of a too-short skirt, I agree, cautioning her that I don’t have much weed experience.

We head to the beach at around 9:00 p.m. As we come to a stop on a darkened side street, out comes an assortment of drug paraphernalia including a grinder, a dinner knife, Swisher Sweets and some special-edition weed called Purple Kush.

She’s trying to make the blunt, but her knife is dull so I pass her my razor blade. Which leads her to ask, “What are you doing with a razor blade?”

I say, “In case I got to cut someone,” which is true, but is probably not the most comforting thing to say to a woman during a mid-evening date at a secluded beach.

She finally gets the blunt rolled. We walk up a rocky cliff to sit high above the ocean and smoke. We rest on two large boulders, the water below giving us a cautionary hint of its power. The blunt is lit. Puff, puff, pass. Or in my case, puff, damn near cough my lung up, puff, wipe the tears pouring out of my eyes, pass.

After ten or twelve draws, I’m high. My senses become bionic. I hear a slight chirping. Influenced by a Discovery Channel program on sea mammals, I think it’s the noise of dolphins flirting. I can also see an island at least twenty miles from the coast. When I tell Giselle, she starts describing Catalina Island, an island that is nowhere near where we are, in great detail.

“Catalina Island is the shit. You take a ferry out there and they have nice restaurants and biking. There’s a few bars to go to …”

“Oh, have you been there?”

“No, but I heard.”

Okay, not incredibly funny when you’re sober, but it cracked me up for about five minutes straight.

We laugh and talk. I hate to admit this, but I’m not listening to a damn thing she’s saying. My sense of smell has also become ultra-bionic and it’s distracting. I can smell her lust, or maybe that’s my cologne mixed with the weed.

We share a kiss, but first-date jitters prevent anything more. Our euphoria mellows as we take a short drive before floating back over to the sushi restaurant and then saying our goodbyes at her place. She has deflowered my virgin lungs.

Right as I leave her, the hunger pains arrive. I order a Big Mac value meal through the McDonald’s drive-thru, but at the pick-up window I can’t find my money. I thought I had seven bucks in my wallet, but I find only a dollar and some change.

I’m starting to panic because I need this McDonald’s and I don’t see the little sign for debit or credit. I’m so desperate, I might have to snatch the burger and speed off. Forget the drink—as long as I have the Big Mac and those fresh golden fries, I’ll be fine. Besides, the police are probably occupied and won’t give chase. If they do, I’ll just go to the ATM, pay for the value meal and end up on America’s Dumbest Criminals.

So yeah, I’m going to do it. I’m going to snatch that burger. The drive-thru attendant looks at me and hands the bag over without asking for money. Damn, do I look like I’m about to rob the place? I smile and think to myself, “He must be a smoker too. Cool.” Who else would understand my predicament?

I put the car in drive and he says, “Hey, you forgot your drink!”

I pause for a second. “Thanks a lot.”

Wow, I guess he hooked me up with a free value meal because he sensed I had the munchies. This smoking fraternity is something else.

As I drive off, reality hits. I already paid for the meal at the order window—I gave the woman my money and she gave me change. I completely forgot the order window existed by the time I hit the pick-up window. So this is what it means to be high.

A couple days later, Giselle and I meet again, this time at a bar for drinks with another couple. I order my usual Jack and Coke and Giselle orders an apple martini. I take out my wallet. I’ve left my debit and credit cards at home and, as usual, I’m not carrying much cash. Searching my wallet, I find exactly seventeen dollars. Damn, I hope there’s an apple martini sale tonight or we’ll be drinking water with a lemon slice.

I’ll at least have to send back the whiskey and pretend I’m not drinking. But when the bartender returns, he tells me that happy hour has been extended for the whole night. Total price for two drinks: ten dollars. Number of drinks purchased after these two: zero.

Over the next hour or so, Giselle flirts and drinks while I just flirt. Tired of pretending that I’m abstaining, I let everyone know they’re welcome to come over to my bachelor pad to hang out. Once we’re there, the Purple Kush, grinder and knife come out again. Giselle offers a blunt and I can’t refuse. If she offered me heroin, I probably would let her shoot that between my toes. We smoke for a bit; I’m also drinking whiskey, and together they bring me to a Rick James stomp-your-muddyshoes- on-the-couch high.

The other couple decides to leave and I go with them to open the complex gate as Giselle stays in my place. As I’m waving goodbye, three police cars roll up out of nowhere. I stand in place, nervously shifting from left to right like a white man try to do the Casper Slide at the Howard University homecoming.

An officer hops out the car and says, “Don’t move!” Oh shit, I’m going to jail. I’m always making jokes about how I can’t wait to go back, how I’m asking to get locked up just to spend time with my family and friends. Now the police are here and I’m five minutes away from the booty house.

I stand still and wait for the other officers to get out their cars. Suddenly, someone from the second floor of the apartment complex yells, “He has a gun! He’s on the second floor.” I don’t have a gun! And then it hits me: they’re after someone else.

Frozen in place, I ask the policeman in a shaky voice like that of a child with social anxiety disorder giving his first class presentation, “Is there something I should be worried about?”

The crewcut policeman says, “Just be calm.”

Like many black people I’m apprehensive around The Law, especially when I hear “He has a gun,” so when he turns his focus to the second floor, I dash for the other couple’s car.

They’re blocked in by the police so they can’t go anywhere, but I figure I’ll be safer in the car than out. The guy in the passenger seat is yelling, “Get in, get in!” I’m trying to open the door, but it’s locked. The driver finally opens the locks and I duck for cover in the back seat. I know my cranium is a large target and I don’t know who the crazy man upstairs wants to shoot. I stay there for about five minutes before making a run for the back door of the complex. I’m home safe, although a bit less enthusiastic about Giselle and smoking marijuana.

But I continue with the same shit. Giselle and I smoke from bongs, blunts and even an apple with a dime-sized hole carved into it. Then, most often, we have comedy sex. Well, at least it’s comedy for her. She rides me with her tilted back toward the ceiling in a weird wonderment of giggling and, at times, full-on laughter. I lie there paranoid, trying to figure out what’s so funny. Sometimes I don’t even know if I’m erect or flaccid.

Then, as we change positions, I realize I am up to the task and join her in giggling and grinding. We connect as only weed heads can. Fits of laughter and continuous naps cloud our days. Giselle quits her job to have more free time for smoking and watching music videos. Despite being a near insomniac most of my life, I sleep ten hours a night and then skip a quarter of the workday. We even plan a trip to Amsterdam to, in her words, “get high as a muthafucka.”

But what birthed whatever sort of relationship we have also wrecks it. On an otherwise uneventful Friday, she skips out on me to party with other tokers. Lacking access to weed and the skill to roll a blunt, I stay home and find my high with alcohol.

Not hearing from her for the entire night, I unleash a series of angry and jealous text messages in drunken aggression.

Later, Giselle gives me a monologue about her independence, or whatever women usually say when you question them without having a title on the relationship. I try to soothe the situation by saying, “I was just worried,” but that sounds false coming from an uncaring bachelor. So we’re done. I’ve killed her buzz and ruined her high. The gate is closed.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

The news has overwhelmed us all with stories of infidelity among celebrities. While we continue to read stories of “Why men cheat” and “How to know if your partner is cheating,” there’s been little of note from the mouths of reformed sex addicts. Until now.

For this special guest blog I’ve received tips from a former sex addict, turned steward of monogamy. Actually ‘sex addict” does not properly describe this man’s past behavior. For example, have you ever been in a relationship and hesitant to take your partner to a nightclub, out of fear you may seem someone from your past or worse yet someone from last week? This Negro was like that to the third degree. Meaning he would actually be surprised if he didn’t see at least one person in the club that he had NOT boned!

From hookups at the office, to handjobs and head after the first hello…he was the man.

Fortunately his buckwild behavior subsided. But contrary to what many would assume, finding love was not the sole catalyst for change. In fact it took a combination of self-reflection and honesty to reach a point where he acknowledge his sexual addiction and enter and maintain a monogamous relationship. Check out his tips on to remain faithful, despite having a long history of being addicted to casual sex. I’m sure there’s a few of us y’all that can use the tips.

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

1. You gotta be real with yourself. if you’re horny in the mornings or after a work out, just make time to have sex (in person or by phone) with the person you’re dating. If that’s unavailable, masturbate before work or the work out…or after work or the work out.

2. Use porn as an alternative to the person you’re dating. Sometimes you just wanna think about someone new or something else or you don’t always wanna share a nut with the person you’re with. Let’s say you like girls with big tits or you like gang bangs and your girl cant offer either…use porn to get off on that without actually doing it.

3. Value the benefits of masturbation…the goal is simple: to nut. So, consider the logic of cheating – why cheat when you can nut without any disease, fuss, guilt, wetspot, and the whole nine yards of getting involved with someone outside your relationship.

4. Similarly to the first and second point, know your triggers and use them as your strengths. You know three beers and a slow dance may not be for you…so if you’re gonna have three beers Don’t slow dance or alternatively slow dance and dont have three beers. You also gotta see through people and make them the proxy for temptation…remove their unique attributes from the situation and consider them the trigger. You’ll feel good about not falling for their trap and you want think damn that girl was hot or damn she was his or that cuz she’ll simply be a proxy for something bad. You can’t make it about the object of desire because you may fall victim man. I see all women equally regardless of how good they look or whether I would hit if Iwere single.

5. Date someone you’re at least 90% sexually satisfied with. Face it, you cant give them all they want in bed and vice versa. We all think we’re better or bigger then we actually are and there’s always someone bigger and better and sexier out there. But, you gotta be able to say, I’ll at least give the person enough of the important stuff so they stay, and they will do the same. This means you gotta be a freak too, and kinda do things with each other that may test the bounds of decency. Here’s the litmus test: you should be able to do somethings together that neither would admit to anyone else and either hasn’t tried with anyone else. Now this cant be her 3rd golden shower and she owns 10 dildos…that’s a problem.

6. Be scared to cheat – I’m scared as fuck to cheat on my current girlfriend. We already crossed the STD situation and the thought of bringing something else home or getting sick or fighting or loosing a relationship over a nut is pointless (see point 3). Also, date someone you trust isn’t cheating on you and is with you for the right reasons. It makes staying faithful easier.

Click Here for an earlier post on sex addiction, and Here for a post on “Why Men Cheat” from Esquire.

This Might Be Something Long Term If:

We met in the parking lot of my apartment complex; the apartment I shared with my fiance. HE was one of three, and one of them belonged to me, my younger brother. His smile shone brightly against all that ebony and caught the sunlight just so. That was it. Nothing more.

Fast-forward 4 years and I’m on his turf and unbeknownst to me I had just flown, literally, right into that 75/85 South Love. I was holding a baby and he was holding my gaze. Without me knowing it, he was checking out my natural mothering tendencies, as I fed my nephew, and blending them with the possibilities lingering around my childbearing hips. The conversation flowed so smoothly I never even noticed the full-body caress his eyes gave me and I clearly missed the fantasies dancing in them as my nephew covered me in mashed sweet potatoes.

A week later, me and time flew on and the wooing commenced. Long distance wooing is a different beast and must be done creatively. Needless to say, he came widdit. First was the friend request on Facebook. Then came love songs via YouTube. Daily. He asked if-when-he could talk to me, weekly.

I kept ducking because, after all, he’s my LITTLE brother’s friend. He let me know he wasn’t smart enough to give up and he wasn’t goin’ anywhere. I should’ve listened. The exact moment where I broke under the pressure isn’t clear to me, I just know one day we were on the phone and it couldn’t have happened without my consent. I tried to keep our conversations of the platonic sort, knowing good and damn well that something about him got me open like mussels in garlic and wine sauce–partially.

I gave an inch and he took a mile, 620 to be exact. My trip originally had nothing to do with him. His apparent desire to see me, my secret desire to see him, and his schedule made it easy for him to scoop me from the airport. I even accepted his invitation to stay in his childfree environment. I reminded him often of my intention not to know him biblically as we ate sushi and made rounds to visit folks on the friends and family plan.

Night fell but my panties didn’t as we prepared for bed, with the imaginary platonic line drawn down the middle. By 6 am, with his voice in my ear (why the hell was this man awake?), I was giving myself quiet dap for making it through the night with my chastity belt still locked in place. After all, I’m a lady (snigger). Again, I missed the moment things changed. I uttered something like “no” unconvincingly and the next thing I knew neither one of us was paying me any attention. Needless to say, the one song he never sent was Lost and Turned Out, and that’s just what I am.

If frequent flyer miles weren’t involved…there could be a love thing goin’ on.

Ndygo Sunshyne is a teacher by day and a writer by breath. She’s a cafe au lait blogger by way of Chocolate City, currently in the throes of chasing her dream and jumping off this writing thing. Check her out at pitchinpennies.blogspot.com and in other publications using her government name.

This Might Be Something Long Term If:

Great question that most of us ask ourselves in the early stage of a new relationship.

I’m currently in a relationship that is going on almost five years. And I can pinpoint the moment that the light bulb went off over my head and I said, “Holy, crash batman, this might be forever”.

Around three years ago, my long distance father found out he was terminal. Princess (short for Pretty, Pretty Princess) and I decided we would make a trip from Ohio to Florida so the two of them could meet. This meant more to me obviously, but nonetheless we had it planned.

As we walked up the driveway and saw this petite figure of a man who was once my stubborn, asshole of a father, I broke down into tears. Despite my goal of not giving my father the opportunity to see my sensitive side…I could not hide it. My poor Princess and I had only been together less than a year, and here he was picking me up to move forward with this meeting.

We spent two days with my father. Princess was dragged all around my father’s home as he told him about the trees and which ones he planted in what year. Princess was bored silly but he did that for me. All the while I was trying to come to terms with what I was dealing with. Essentially, I was saying goodbye to a man I hardly knew, to a man I spent my 20 + years trying to figure out. It was a surreal experience.

Was this the moment I thought Princess was forever? Nope you’d be wrong. About five months later my father passed away. So here we are making another trip to Florida. I won’t go into details but the funeral was the biggest joke of my life.

After the funeral fiasco, we went back to our hotel room. Princess was walking on eggshells as he kept waiting for me to breakdown and cry. To which, I had not. But…I did feel the worst gas pains I’ve ever felt in my life. So I tell him, “I’m gonna go drop a deuce and be back in a few…”

This right here is the moment I knew we would be forever. I went into the hotel bathroom and poohed. Here I am 15 minutes later, and I realize its blue ribbon quality poohing. I flush the toilet and it overflows…I’m laughing hysterically and tell him he needs to call the front desk. He calls, the maintenance guys arrive. They end up having to snake the toilet and get it all cleaned up. They leave….

And Princess looks at me…I’m laughing the entire time and says, “You do realize they think I did that.” We had such a good time after this pooh experience and can even laugh about it now…This is the moment that I knew my Princess was the man for me!

Katie Sessor, raised in Columbus, Ohio and currently living in Kentucky where the word conservative doesn’t begin to describe the people. Likes to take long walks off of short piers, blogs in her spare time for fun, is Master of the Universe by day. Check her out: ghettobilly.wordpress.com

This Might Be Something Long Term If:

First; long term is contextual. Two minutes, two hours, two nights.

It shouldn’t start off sexual, rather built off of the intellectual.

So if she turns it up on the first night, although it may seem right, remember the code; you don’t turn a hoe into a housewife.

Once the foundation is built, it might turn into something long term if all the contradicting love songs start to make sense, one after another.

Immediately excluded from long term are those who make time with my brothers. You can’t smash the homie! You can’t smash the homie!

About that turn of time, if your mouth waters just the same at the sight of her in the morning without makeup and wearing your oversized t-shirt, as it did the night before in the sleek and classy curve fitting fabric — you got me thinking about offering dowry.

If our bodies talk even if our mouths don’t. If our bond is about more than the mere geometrics of puzzle pieces, but also includes quantum physics — and you don’t even need to know what that is. If you can stroke both my ego and the love below with the grace of a dog whispering snake charmer.

If you have the ability to pop that big butt and smile like you belong in a Luke video, and saunter your hips that tell the truth about your Afro Latin roots, bestow that soft kiss with the same lips you … well, you get the idea. If we can meet with triumph and disaster and treat those two impostors just the same (Thank you Rudyard Kipling) … it might be something long term.

It might be long term if you let me do me, trust me, but don’t cross me.

If you are still around when you have surpassed the term limit. It just might be long term.

— The Joyce Voice

James Joyce III is a former newspaper reporter who still gets enjoyment from the written word. For most of his seven years as a daily newspaperman he covered education issues among other things. However, unveiled from the daily deadlines and strict adherence to conventional journalistic principals, he aims to manipulate the language for our enjoyment. While juggling his many other projects, Joyce sporadically posts to his blog, The Joyce Voice (www.jamesjoyce3.blogspot.com).

This Might Be Something Long Term If:

Your heart flutters every time he speaks your name. Your throat gets dry and your palms get sweaty every time you dial his number…and you listen to his full voicemail message just to hear the sound of his super fantastic, perfect-in-each-and-every-way voice again *sigh*. You can imagine the pitter-patter of little feet, and just the thought makes you all melty inside, because you just KNOW you are meant to be. He’s perfect for you in each and every way, and you’ve NEVER felt anything like this before. No, honestly, this time you know that you have found “the one”.

*rolls eyes* Yeah, because that intense and overwhelming feeling of infatuation is really going to last forever. But then you take off those rose coloured glasses of yours and realize that Mr./Mrs. Perfect is just like everyone else – human, and therefore flawed. So, since perfection doesn’t actually exist, and since even those married for decades now (despite popular belief to the contrary) were not actually a match made in heaven, what is it that makes some relationships last for the long haul while others simply fade into oblivion at the first sign of disagreement?

You can probably find examples for every characteristic you truly desire and deem important in a relationship in your previous dabblings…great conversation, serious chemistry, shared values, similar achievements, goals, and dreams….and yet even if they had most, or even ALL of these traits sometimes it still just doesn’t kick off. So what is the determining factor, Ruby? Well, since you ask…

It’s simple. You know the relationship you’re beginning with someone is long-term if:

1) You’ve decided you would like to be in a long term relationship, and vice-versa (What? You thought that there was gonna be some magic involved? People get, and stay, together because they decide that they are ready and willing to make a commitment)

2) You’ve decided that you’re willing to compromise many aspects of your lifestyle to incorporate the new suitor into your life, and again they feel likewise. This may be beneficial, or detrimental, in the end, but again ?refer to point #1

3) And most importantly, you’ve (and they as well) decided that you are in the mood to deal with someone else’s BS, while working on resolving your own in the process, regardless of how difficult because ? refer back to points #1 and 2

I’m sorry, but that’s all there is to it. Whether you think love at first sight is a real phenomenon, or just some fairy tale BS we’ve been sold by a consumerism society that wants to leech every penny from us by way of over priced lovey-dovey greeting cards, flowers, chocolates and jewelry, you’ve got to admit that there isn’t a single relationship out there that stood the test of time without some serious determination, hard work, serious tests of patience and pride, and soul searching. And nobody is gonna go through all of that unless they are in the emotional and mental position to electively choose to go there with someone.

Cheers

Classic Ruby a.k.a Jessica Christle, is a 25 year old Psychology student from Mississauga, Ontario, Canada. She is working towards her Ph.D in Psychology, but has always had a passion for writing, and has been at it for as long as she can remember. Currently, she hosts her own website which features her short stories, poetry, and digital stories www.25andalive.tk. She has also recently launched her own blog, http://classicruby.blog.com. If you would like to get in contact with Ruby you can email her classicruby@rogers.com.

This Might Be Something Long Term If:

Well, just so you know what you’re getting into—let me tell you a few things about myself.

I live in a one bedroom apartment with a popcorn ceiling. I could have owned a home by now, but my Negro tendencies led me to purchase a sports car instead.

I also have intimacy problems. Obviously I don’t mean problems with Big Thunder, but more so with saying “I love you.” In fact, if a woman says “I love you” I often give vague response like “Fareal!” or “You don’t love me, you just love the way I apologize after selfishly reaching orgasm too quickly.”

And it’s not that I won’t love you. It’s just that I wasn’t raised around such emotion. The only time my dad said “I love you” was after he whooped my ass for talking back. To be exact he whooped me, took a shower to calm down, came out the shower butt ass naked and said “I love you, but you gotta stop talking back all the damn time.” Dad also has Big Thunder.

At this point you’ve probably lost all interest. If not, this might be something long term if you have the following qualities.

Physically, a pretty face and a nice ass are more than sufficient. By “nice ass” I mean a woman with the type of ass that you not dare hit from the back because you know you won’t last but a minute. An ass so damn round it frightens you to approach her—so you run home and search for a similar ass on onionbooty.com. A rump so rotund that you dream of asking her to do freaky shit like use the bathroom with the door open…just so you can see that mammoth heaven-sent blob of flesh engulf that lucky white toilet seat. Basically you gotta have an ass like Prince! (Sorry somebody else typed that sentence about Prince…)

As for the lasting qualities, you have to be focused on the present and future. My skeletons are very comfortable in their plush closet and will remain so provided you don’t fuck it up. A habitual conversation holder is also nice.

You also have to cut me some slack. For example, if I’m ever accused of impregnating an impressionable teen on the dance floor of my local 18 and over nightclub and insisting that she “name the baby De’One, or don’t have it all!” you have to give me a chance to explain.

Or, if I can’t spend much time with you because I’m busy playing Jeffrey Daniel in a Shalamar tribute band, please be supportive.

But most of all you have to believe me when I say “I’m just joking around…no reason to get mad.”

Dewan W. Gibson: Author of The Imperfect Enjoyment

So, over the last week or two, as a professional “in-class-Facebooker,” I have noticed a new trend; Making your profile picture that of a celebrity that you feel you look alike. This is cool and all and I must admit I have often found myself wondering, “Hmm, I wonder who I look the most like?” (However, this is not the point of this guest blog…btw, shout out to Big D Gibson…I got you)

This new fad has been ongoing for roughly two weeks now on the social site, and seems to actually be pretty popular. I’ve even seen whole photo albums FULL of picture of celebrities that one particular person feels they resemble (come on now girl you KNOW you don’t look like Beyonce!) There are also a few groups that have come to be only for the “doppelganger” friendly people AND I’m NOW being told by the Huffington post that “coming hot on the heels of ‘bra color status updates,’ ‘doppelganger on Facebook’ is the social networking site’s latest fad.” (Bra color status??? What the F*@k is THAT about?!) And as of 3 pm on 2/4 it made the top 4 news stories on Yahoo! News!!!! Are you serious!?

Side-note: Have we really become so bored with life that we get off on logging in to Facebook to see what color bra Amy Jo from 1st and Market St. is wearing? Mehh…whose complaining. (I hope it’s pink!)

Anyway, like I said earlier…this trend seems fun. No big deal for my friends to do it if they feel it’s the “cool” thing to do. However, I ran into a debacle due to this trend that has lit a flame under my ass. The other night, I realized I had an assignment due in one of my classes, maybe the one I’m in now? Whatever, anyway… I realized I had no contact information for anyone in my class and had only talked to ONE person the whole time. I got smart, logged on to blackboard, and pulled up my class roster in an attempt to make contact. Taking the class roster, I logged into Facebook, however this time it wasn’t to feed my fish on Fishville. No, I logged on in an attempt to find SOMEONE who was in my class and perhaps get their email or cell number.

At the time this seemed like a genius idea… considering I was using my brain to solve a problem, I felt I was using college experiences wisely. So I type in the first name and I click search and begin my investigation. And who do I see? Is that Ashton Kutcher? Wtf…I didn’t know I was friends with….oh son of a b**ch! Let me recap; I knew no one in this class especially by name. It’s not like I could just say oh yeah I know that Brittany girl. Why can’t I? Because when I type in Brittany so-and-so’s name…all I get is a damn picture of Meghan Fox! And no…she doesn’t look like Meghan Fox (at least I don’t think, I haven’t seen a Meghan Fox worthy girl around here at all let alone in my class, so until that happens I’m unconvinced)

I continued this search and realized that nearly 90% of people in my class had celebrities as their profile picture. This is just ridiculous! (For those of you who care…I DID end up getting the information I needed from Paris Hilton, or at least that’s who she resembled)

Moral to my story? END DOPPELGANGER WEEK…or month…or year, or wtf ever it has become now. Please Facebook I beg of you, let me have my friends back! (Fact: Did you know that Doppelganger is actually illegal according to the Facebook terms of service? Yeah…I did my homework…)

My idea for a new trend? How about “I only have ____ days left of employment before my job goes down the toilet” That seems fitting for today’s lifestyle

I hate to complain (no I don’t) but I think it’s time we focus our energy into something more worthy of getting all worked up about. Forget about what celebrity you look like or what urbandictionary.com says “what your name means (again, if ur wondering, apparently my name means a retarded cat that flys by waving it’s tail in a circular motion… Ok? Can I have that 5 seconds of my life back please?)” Stop looking for something to do so you can fit in to society and just be yourself! Also…you don’t wanna break Facebook’s terms of service do you???

…I didn’t think so

Eric and Macaulay Culkin