What I mean by black, is hate. Hate is to the 2010s as smoking was to the 90s, acid was to the 80s, and key-swapping parties were to the 60s. God I wish I was born in the 60s so I could have truly enjoyed the 80s, and then was able to have flashback trips in the 2010s.
When I think about it, everything that makes me happy in life has a little bit of hate and a little bit of black in it. For example; piano neck ties, babies with afro’s, chocolate swirl ice cream cones, the Wayans brothers and their sons, lights out sex, hating on Zebra’s, shaking my head at battered women, top-hats, and my soul. Well, I could do without that last one, it’s such a nag. Always reminding me to stop being so cold and bitchy…or is that my conscious…or is that my mother? Oh, and sorry to the women who have been battered, maybe you should just choose not to date convicted criminals. Hey, those also have black in them. I’m on a roll.
Talking about lights out sex, truly, I am a fan. I consider it preparation for my future. Inevitably being when I get too comfortable in my relationship and let myself go, when I turn 40, or when I am in-fold. If I get too used to lights-on play-time now while my body is still banging, I would spiral into a depression at the first sight of aging. (Did I just rap while saying that? You’ll never know). Though sometimes I think that while my body may not need to be hid, my facial expressions may. But I don’t know! It really frustrates me that I can’t see myself during my getting down with the get down time. (Narcissism at it’s finest). I would invest in a ceiling mirror or camera man, but I think some things are just better left unknown. Mostly just to keep my ego in tact. So in advance, dear body in my 20s, thank you. We had a great run but I can tell we are growing apart, and I’ve met someone else. Her name is Merlot. You need to get out because she is moving in.
Back to hating, I don’t know anyone who loves to hate more than I do. Sure hating is awful, dark and mischievous. But aren’t those the reasons our mothers fantasize over soap opera actors and we fantasize over Colin Farrell. And they never die. Well, they die, but then they come back to life, so I figure I’m following in the right footsteps.
My most recent black is the new black moment happened today. The sun was setting and our neghbours were hosting an open house. I quickly glanced over to see who may be our potential new friends I would talk shit about behind their backs, and guess what: foreign. The non-english kind. The kind who will make the house smell like weird spices and let their kids run around in my backyard. The kind who will complain about our loud music playing, ask us why we don’t have kids yet and wonder why our lights are always off. My first thought was to throw garbage at them and scare them away. Okay, it wasn’t a thought, I did it. It worked.
So, friends, the next time you are feeling a little bloated, get a little hate on. It’s just as slimming as that black turtle neck everyone pretends to like on you. Oh, and remember, lights are your enemy.
I am now walking away from this conversation while tipping my top-hat and sending you a wink. I’m bringing it back! It’s been a blast, see you soon. High five- line it up! Aces.