Love Birds

It seems that lately, everyone around is shifting in their romantic relationship dynamics: some are breaking up like crumbly chocolate chip cookies, some are getting together, and others still fall somewhere on the spectrum in between. Maybe it’s because Winter is coming and we will all have to fuck for warmth soon. Whatever the case, it’s hella entertaining to watch from the sidelines as people clumsily stumble from one partner to the next.

All this “thrill of the chase” got me thinking about a time when I thought relationships were a positive life choice: high school. Yes, the time when everyone’s hormones are raging at 200 km/hour, probably because of the additives they put in the chicken. It’s a time when teenaged boys think that the way to impress a girl is to spray the entire can of Axe body spray onto their bodies in the middle of the hallway instead of bathing, producing a cloudy stench that is the combination of gym class and a cheap hotel. On fire.

They were doing it right during WW2

I had a crush on this boy when I was in high school. We’ll call him Jeremy. Jeremy and I had been pretty close friends in the ninth grade. We were both socially awkward people (Correction: I’m still awkward as fuck; that’s why my life is this blog) and enjoyed talking to each other on MSN messenger because that’s just how kids used to flirt back in the day. In the tenth grade, I started developing feelings for Jeremy. Hell, I was so mushy I would put Taylor Swift and her blond white girl-cuteness to shame. However, there was an issue. Jeremy liked another girl who we’ll call Fiona. So my dumb ass listened to him whine about how much he liked Fiona every night as we chatted online. Yeah, I was a really clever 15 year-old.

Eventually, I couldn’t fucking take it anymore. I was going explode if I didn’t tell Jeremy that I had a not-so-secret crush on him. Hell, I didn’t even want anything  past that. I just wanted to tell him I cared about him. So one night I did.

“Hey, Jeremy, I like someone but I’m afraid to tell him,” I typed with all the juvenile maturity I could muster.

“Oh, really? Who is it?” Jeremy typed back, puzzled.

“Um… well… err..” I stammered online(!?). What the fuck? Why the hell did this jumbled pile of shit happen? Ugh! Children…

“Oh, come on! We’re friends! I told you about Fiona. Now, who’s this guy?”

“Well… um… you…” I admitted, so utterly ashamed.

“Well this is awkward.”

I signed the fuck off MSN messenger immediately. A month later when Jeremy finally got his shit together and had enough balls to speak to me again, we had our first conversation after that clusterfuck of adolescence.

“So why was is it awkward that I like you? I mean, Fiona and you are friends and she knows you like her. You guys are still friends. Why can’t we be friends?” I asked.

“Well, I guess I just don’t see you that way,” Jeremy finally produced after 10 minutes of online silence.

“Ok, but that still doesn’t answer my question.”

“I guess I’m just not really into black girls…”

“What?” (Sidenote: fair enough. There are just some races you find attractive and others you don’t. It’s not a racism thing. It’s a preference thing.)

“I just don’t think races should mix,” said Jeremy of both Japanese and Caucasian blood. Yeah, the kid’s mixed race.

“Um… okay,” I meekly typed back as I went and developed a complex that would haunt me for years after.

I’m going to pause this shit for a second. “Um, okay” was my answer?! Jesus fuck, if I ever find out my future kids take somebody’s shit like that, I will neuter them myself. That’s not even a little acceptable. If I could be 15 for that 20 minutes I was talking to Jeremy all over again, my answer should have been:

Listen, you festering sack of warthog dick pus. It’s completely acceptable that you are not attracted to me based solely on the uncontrollable fact that I have a larger amount of melanin in my skin than your cancer-prone ass will ever have. It is NOT acceptable, however, to tell me that I’m unworthy of being with you because you don’t believe in interracial relationships. And you can very well fuck right off with that argument anyway, you tiny-knobbed prick. Your parents do not belong to the same ethnicity. Did you not realise that ever at some point in your life? Jesus, Mary, and shit-cakes, do you ever have a lot to learn.

Now I realise that Jeremy was probably feeling bashful and alarmed by the entire situation and did not know what to say. However, that does not make it okay. Without guidance, that ignorant thought continues. This is not the last time I heard that very remark. It’s exactly attitudes like this which cause problems like this:

http://www.collegehumor.com/picture/6471397/big-black-dude-letter-to-neighbor

Apparently the worst thing in the world for some folks is to date a black person. Or to even have a black person like them! Now, I’m not sure why. We make excellent fried chicken, we dance well, we can sing you pretty songs, and we can run really fast! All of us. No exceptions. So it’s really surprising when I hear of teenaged girls threatening their parents with:

You won’t let me go to the movies?! Fine! Well, I’m just going to go out a date and a big BLACK guy! See how you like that!

What the hell? How is that a threat? You need to come up with better material than that. If I threatened my parents with:

Oh my God. Fuck you! I’m going to go out a date a super scary guy whose skin colour is different from mine! In fact, about 90% of human DNA is identical to everyone else’s, so it’s really your xenophobia that is the problem. I’m obviously going to date someone with whom I have nothing in common in terms of values so that you can worry even more! That’ll learn ya!

They would respond with:

You still have to empty the dishwasher.

21st century child slavery

I would not want to be one of those idiots who believes we just have to keep marrying/dating into the same ethnicity. At least because I’m open to having a non-black partner, my kids are less likely to come out with disease due to racial inbreeding. Or ugly.

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Dancehall Queen

Happy Canadian Thanksgiving, everyone! And also a very happy birthday to myself this weekend.

Yep. Another year older, another year wiser, another year of random bullshit people try to pull.

One of my very oldest and closest friends, we’ll call him Rob, insisted on taking me out on the town to celebrate my age being a palindrome. Obviously I said yes because you can’t say no to Toronto’s gay village. Or to Rob. Let’s be honest, the boy has skills like a lawyer.

I got myself casually dolled up for the occasion and we met up with 2 of his other friends for dinner at a sushi restaurant. I swear to God our server had never seen black folk in her entire life before. She was so excited when we finished all our food and paid the WHOLE bill. Seemed like some kind of paranoid/post-traumatic stress disorder shit to me. That sushi was fucking delicious, though.

I’d be a liar if I said this was what we actually ordered

Our peachy little friendship crew headed over to the club, which filled up quickly half an hour after arriving. We were having a great time dancing away when a man who was dancing in close proximity to our drunken tomfoolery approached us. He first spoke to the other girl in our group and then came up to me.

“Hi! My name is (Dave)!”

“Oh hey, Dave! It’s nice to meet you! I’m Timmi!” I danced to the blaring club tunes as we exchanged conversation. Ain’t nobody getting in the way of me shaking my groove thing. I assumed he was gay anyway. I am yet to see a straight man walk up into a gay bar alone.

“I’m Colombian!” he gestured to himself as I noticed his heavy accent. So he was. “What is your background?”

“I’m Jamaican!” I screamed back over Rihanna’s auto-tuned wailing.

I figured that because this man also shared a non-Anglo Saxon North American background, he would just leave it at that. What in fuck’s name he said next I still can’t believe.

“Oh that’s cool! You don’t dance like you’re white!” he said with a big stupid grin smeared across his face.

Hold the fuck up. What?

“HIiiiiiiiiiiiiii! I’m Jenny!”

Ok, I know I don’t take a lot of photos but I know for damn sure the girl in the image above is NOT me. I don’t dance like I’m white? What the fuck is that supposed to mean, you dirty sack of shit? Was the light glaring from my teeth so much that you couldn’t tell I’m not white? It’s not like my name is Beyoncé Knowles or anything.

Listen, Dave. Sharpen some pencils and fall on them. Best birthday present ever.

Never Before

You know that awkward moment when you’re walking down the street with your best friend when, suddenly, a man holding a bunch of bananas and a box of cookies stops you and says, “Excuse me. I’ve gotta be honest… Would you like to buy some bananas?” No? You must live a sad and sheltered life, then.

New experiences are fantastic. They’re so fucking great, in fact, that it’s innate for people to want to tell others about them. No big deal, right? Wrong. Sharing with your friends that you drunkenly made out with a carved pumpkin on Halloween is a lot different than confessing your life story to a complete stranger. Trust me; I have experience. As the complete stranger who wants nothing more than to shoot themselves in the foot as some random drones in their ear.

A friend of mine convinced me to go clubbing with her and a group of friends one night. I don’t know why the fuck I went. As a woman, being in a nightclub is the worst experience ever. There’s always some creepy guy who dances like a dog in heat following you the whole night, some annoying-ass girl you’ve never met trying to make friends with you because her (intelligent?) friends ditched her there, and several drunk and skimpily-clad girls vomiting in all over the washroom stalls so it’s impossible to pee. By the end of the night you just want to tell everyone to wipe their ass with barbed wire or Falcon Punch them in the crotch.

I digress.

About halfway through our magical and unabashedly drunken evening, a guy approached me and asked me to dance. My logic was that he was wearing a really cool fedora and maybe he would give it to me later, so I said yes. Like a fucking fool. As we danced we made small talk and I mentioned that I really liked his hat, so he let me try it on (mission: halfway accomplished). Two minutes later, he leaned in and said in my ear:

This is fun. I’ve never danced with a black girl before.

Bloody. Fucking. Shitcakes. Are you new? How am I even supposed to respond to that? You don’t tell a girl that you have no fucking clue what you’re doing. “Hmm… I’ve never worked with this model before but I’m sure that if I just use my wrench and tweak…” No, dumbass. Just no. Do you go to your goddamn job interviews and tell them that sort of shit? Yes, everyone lies on their resume but you don’t just straight up say that you have no experience and expect to get the job. How in Jesus’ name do expect me to take you seriously at this point?

The thing is, this was not the first or last time I’ve had some idiot admit that he wants me to be his black girl fix.

I want to fuck a black girl. I’ve never fucked a black girl before. I know I’m no black guy but…

I’ve never dated a black girl before. I think they’re just so much more spirited than white girls.

I’ve never liked a black girl before. I think you’re the first. You’re really pretty for a black girl.

Oh, I’m sorry. Was I supposed to be flattered? Not only is the stupidest man in the room trying to talk to me, but he also thinks that he should win an award for it, too! I do not give even an eighth of fuck that you haven’t had whatever experience with my race before. What makes you real dumb is the fact that you assume it would be so different from whatever the fuck you’ve experienced that you couldn’t keep your lips firmly pressed together. You just had to blab away and ruin it with, “I don’t have the credentials.” Well, then peace out, motherfucker! I’ll find someone who does. I assume dating human beings still counts as having the full credentials. If not, I don’t know what the fuck kind of weirdness you’ve been up to.

As for the fedora guy, I should have hijacked his hat.

Disclaimer

I figured that the “Shit People Say to Me Because I Am Black” section could get “controversial” so I would like to make one thing clear: this is NOT written with the intent of making any sort of impact on racial and social hierarchies in my community or in others. In fact, I have no interest in arguing with anyone about “injustices”. This does not mean that I do not welcome intelligent and thoughtful comments. By all means, tell me how you feel! However, this does mean that I do not give a single fuck if you think I am a racist. I lack the energy for the bullshit that is attacking others for things about themselves they cannot change.

Now you, dear reader, might wonder why I’m even talking about my ethnicity if it “doesn’t really matter anyway”; why attract more attention to the bull in the china shop? I have realised over the course of my very short 21 years that people’s curiosity, ignorance, lack of goddamn sense have inadvertently introduced me to awkward and highly inappropriate racial conversations. I first noticed in high school when other students began calling me “Oreo” and thought they were paying me a compliment with fuckery like, “I really like you because you’re not like other black people.” Then it finally dawned on me: “God Almighty, I am surrounded by great minds who have learned first-hand that black is a personality type.” Of course! It all makes sense now! How presumptuous of me to have thought it was within my racial boundaries to attend university, employ words with more than two syllables, enjoy music other than hip-hop and rap, and not like watermelon (too many seeds…)! Clearly, all this makes me less black and, therefore, more likeable to non-blacks. In fact, I’m so keen on not being black that I’m going to go out and bleach my skin tomorrow!

For anyone who still wants to believe this is an “angry black woman” attack on white people/ search for racism, I’d like to take the time to address that I was adopted by a very loving, white Canadian family. So if you’re an idiot and let me know it, don’t be surprised when a story about you is published on the blog.

Cheers =)