Disposable Swipes

I was all set to share with you the hilariousness of my London trip, but when a man calls you a dude because you won’t sleep with him, you have to tell that story first.

I began messaging with a gentleman, we’ll call him Cray, who said he was fairly new to Miami. We appeared to have many things in common, including football, live music, and meeting strangers on the internet. Cray stated in his profile that he was looking to meet new people, and ultimately someone he could have a long-term relationship with. Where have I heard that before…

To even attempt to narrate this exchange would be impossible. I will let our wonderful text exchange speak for itself:

Cray: Send me a photo of you

Me: Is there something wrong with the photos from the app? LOL ( I have a plethora on my profile, and I hate when men do this, but I tried to keep it light)

Cray: I’m lazy

Me: Lmao. I don’t like lazy 🙂

Me (again): Hey I just noticed your profile is gone. Did you just delete it? lol

Cray: Yes

Me: Why did you do that? (Answer = girlfriend)

Cray: I needed to refresh my options

Me: Please elaborate

Cray: Please send photos. Sorry. I don’t have them of you

(this is where I would drop out of the race, but everyone says I’m too stringent, so I let it continue)

Me: You’re something else. I can send you one.

Cray: Thanks

Cray (after seeing pics): Ok I don’t remember you because we didn’t talk

Me: Yea. I sent two because one has straight hair and one curly- sometimes people get confused 🙂

Cray: I like it straight

Me: Thanks 🙂

Me: (I begin to type) So you said you were looking for…


Me: (backspace/backspace/backspace/backspace) I was just about to ask you again what you were looking for…now I know lol

Cray: See your answer is typical liberal BS. You’re on Tinder! This is why dating in the US is very stupid

(First of all, I swore this guy was from Chicago… now you’re a conservative gent from overseas?!)

Me: Wow ok. So because I’m on Tinder I shouldn’t even consider that someone would actually want to date? Trust me, I know the majority want something casual, but there are people like myself who want more. But you don’t care.

(and because I believe in transparency, I got a little feisty after this and swore a lot, so I warned you…)

Me: So go fuck yourself because I am sure no one else will, hence your anger. And thanks for the compliment they’re fucking fantastic, asshole.

Cray: Oh you mad??? Don’t be rude. See why you’re single? You’re trying to compete in Miami acting  like that? Haha

Me: (trying to redeem myself after I remembered Jesus knows my heart) Have a blessed day

Cray: Also, as you know, you’re trying to compete in Miami agains VERY pretty women. Good luck my dude.

Me: Hahaha you’re right.

SoI went from someone who had boobs you liked to a dude that you have no interest in because I’m a liberal American? Ok, cool. My unsolicited advice for everyone I know who’s married, engaged, or been with their annoying girlfriend for two years: STAY. Figure it out. Work through the fights. The fact that he watches football for 10 hours straight on a Sunday is not that serious. I know secondhand that relationships are hard work, and no one should ever stay in a relationship if they are truly not happy. But if you’re considering breaking up a seven-year marriage because she can’t stop shopping at HomeGoods, MAKE A BUDGET. Go to counseling. Start at Ross and have her work her way up. As an expert single person, I beg all my friends and loved ones to keep it together.  Because the alternative in this culture of constant gratification and the internet is so much worse. And I just thought of yet another reason why: now everyone has access to hit on you and act a fool. And they will call you a man if you don’t want to have sex with them.

Oh, and yeah, I’m on Tinder, so what? Whenever I brush across this topic of internet dating, someone always has to bring up their Captain Obvious opinion, like Mr. Liberal BS – that I’m on a dating app where most people want to hook up, so I should not be surprised that men are going to come at me and inquire on what my body parts look like in person. Reiterated newsflash: I know this. I know many, if not the majority of people on Tinder want to hook up, and I can respect that, but it’s ultimately not what I want. Guess what? Those same people are also lurking on OkCupid, Fishbowl (or whatever it’s called), Hinge, Bumble, Coffee Meets Bagel, and 100% of Grindr. But I know of people who have met girlfriends, boyfriends, husbands, AND wives, on these same apps, and this is why a lot of people looking for relationships continue to maintain profiles: to keep their options open in hopes that they may make a similar connection. I may not be looking for a one-night stand with you, but I do expect decency. I have spoken to numerous men who tell me they want something casual, and I tell them I am not. We cordially agree to disagree, sometimes even wish each other good luck on our endeavors, and continue on to the next swipe. Unfortunately, a lot of men ( and some women) aren’t so friendly and get downright nasty with you if you dare say you don’t want to see their junk on a first date.

Internet dating is a gift and a curse, but mostly a curse. My closest friends in the universe have dating apps to thank for their spouses and partners, and for that I am grateful. I have also dated several people I met online, some I’m still close to. But I’ve also been hit on from prison, from the living room of a man who shared said living room with his wife, and around 72 men who have eagerly mentioned that they’ve never been with a “black chick”, and oh, would I like a unsolicited picture of their penis? Yes, please.

When getting to know a man or a woman was restricted to in-person, random encounters in the local sports bar, you could get a good first impression of someone, that influenced whether you wanted to go out with them or not. Let’s say you actually meet someone at said bar who’s cute, funny, and is clearly into you. You then would make a smart decision to ask them out, and hope all goes well. You may very well go on 1st dates with other people, but if you have a connection, you might make the smart decision to see how things develop.

Today? I, along with everyone else, can just swipe right on 30 people straight, maybe match with 15, actually exchange messages with 7, and attempt to go out with 2. Can’t do that in a bar. I wish I could walk around Buffalo Wild Wings and just tap 30 dudes on the shoulder, and talk to 20 of them, and go out with 5. Actually I probably wouldn’t, because it sounds exhausting. And of those 30 men, I assume not all are even remotely a good match for me, so I likely wouldn’t even have conversations with all of them. I hate to say it, but “back in the day”, you made your connections count. Now I’m stuck talking to all 30 people, 27 of which I would never give them time of day if I met them on the street. I will never be one  to say that there are no good people out in the world to date. I know there are, I might unearth one for myself. I just have to weed through a bunch of questionable photographs and propositions to meet him.


You Should NOT be an Uber Driver: A Rant on Lateness

The only thing I’ve ever been late to is the decision to write this post about my seething hatred for tardiness.

That may seem a bit dramatic, but ask anyone who’s ever been to a movie with me. Or the airport. Or on a lunch break. Or at a train station. Or a concert. Or in line at the grocery store. Or waiting for the referee to reverse the call at a football game for targeting. I don’t like waiting for shit.

When I was in college, I was introduced to my life-long mantra from a wonderful woman who was always on time. She said “5 minutes early is on time. On time is late. And 5 minutes late is unacceptable.” Ever since then, I have tried to live by that motto in my life. But my high-strung, anxious, emotional self has taken loathing lateness to the highest level. If someone or something is late, makes ME late, or takes too long to do something, I don’t casually let it slide. There is no “oh well”, or sigh of relief when said late person finally arrives. I get annoyed, then angry, and have even started talking to myself. My heart rate shoots through the roof, my body gets warm, and I get frustrated beyond belief. And that’s only when I’m waiting for a grandma take her $20 out of the ATM. I really can’t explain why I become enraged other than the simple fact that I hate being late ( I wish I hated being fat this much. Or bread.). I’m even upset at this very moment because I can’t tell you that I’ve never been late- it’s a legit gripe I have with myself that I plan on taking to the grave. Several of my close friends are always late, and don’t get me started on my mom “putting her face on.” They say that I should just accept it, because they’re never going to change. Well, neither am I. I have just come to the realization that those I love will never care about my late rage. I still love them and will continue to go places with 25% of these people, but that doesn’t mean I won’t complain forever.

While it’s pretty clear by now that I don’t like lateness in any situation, there are a few scenarios that hurt/bother/annoy me more than others. Do I get equally upset over missing a flight and arriving late for a dinner reservation?  Well, yes, but you get the point. Being tardy for anything makes me very upset. But being late in the scenarios below make me upsetter… (I know it’s not a word, calm down)…


Let’s hear the story of Pearl, who I can assume is only doing ride-sharing on the side to pay for a plethora of wigs, because she was a straight up auntie, complete with a 1970s moniker. But in case she sees this when I get famous, I’m going to give her an alias, so let’s call her Pearl. You see, Pearl was supposed to take me to the movies earlier this week, because I didn’t feel like walking or getting murdered on a Tuesday. The show started at 8:30pm, at a theatre that was 5 minutes away by car. Against my better judgement, I decided to call for the car at 8:00pm, and my ETA was going to be 8:17pm. Ooh, cutting it close, but it was acceptable. Mind you, this is a reserved-seat venue (a time-crazy person’s dream!), and a waiter comes to your seat, but my anxiety had already kicked in. I’m watching Pearl’s car on the map drive around in an endless square, like ‘effing Pacman, eating up every minute of my pre-movie ritual. She calls me, asking me where I am. I’M AT MY BUILDING, WOMAN! She says she’s all confused, and I told her I can’t tel her how to rework her GPS. She ends the call, saying she was going to “try one more time.” WTF?! I then proceed to start pacing back and forth, walking from the lobby to outside, to back inside. Mind you, my home girl and the concierge are at the front desk laughing at me, watching me turn from a Mogwai to a Gremlin over an Uber ride. I ended up asking through a clenched jaw for my friend to call a ride on her phone and off we went 2 minutes later. By the time we get to the theatre, it’s 8:29pm. And we have to go up to the 5th floor. And we took the escalator instead of the elevator. And another friend had on a boot. And I missed the first preview. I still haven’t recovered. Go see “Joker”, though…


Let’s say I’m supposed to be in the office at 9:30 a.m. If I’m not there before 9:20 a.m., I’m already getting antsy. I have sent messages to more than one boss in my lifetime, letting them know I might get there at 9:35 a.m. – even before I’m even actually late. Yes, you heard me right: I warn people that I might be late, when 95% of the time it never happens. Most of them have humored me, but secretly do not care as much as I do. Honorable Mention at Work: I also like to come back to lunch on time. Always. Even when my boss has literally NEVER asked me why I wasn’t back within 60 minutes- I thoroughly enjoy creating  my own paranoia.


Since I have accepted that other humans do not appreciate promptness the way I do, I know I’ll run into people who aren’t on time. And by run into, I mean date and hug and stuff. Sir, you can certainly be late for a date, but only if you tell me first. That’s what we all want, right, a bit of consideration? It needs to be communicated that you won’t be on time, and not 5 minutes before we hit up Applebee’s. If I know about the lateness, there are breathing techniques I can use to calm my nerves and squash my desire give you side eye the rest of the night. But if you have me waiting, and worse, don’t tell me why I’m waiting? Oh my word, you’re in trouble, no matter how cute you are. I once left a guy outside of Hard Rock Stadium when he took to long to get to our football date. Which leads me to my next point…

Concerts/Sporting Events

What if I miss an opening-drive touchdown because of you? Or worse, traffic that I couldn’t control or swear my way out of? This is why I only go to football games with one person, who knows exactly when I’m picking her up every Saturday, because OF COURSE I’m driving. Concerts? Don’t even get me started. I go to 6-10 concerts a year, and sometimes I let friends join in on the fun. But we’re getting there early. Even to see the opening act who has one dancer and a strobe light. I was once late for a Lady Gaga concert and missed the first few chords of the intro song, and I think I may have cried. Mostly because it could have been prevented. If I just had left 10 minutes earlier. Or didn’t have to wait for the elevator. If my friend had never gone to the emergency room, I could have heard the opening lines of “Dance in the Dark.”


There once was a woman who was scheduled to arrive at the airport on time for a 12:30 p.m. flight. In a perfect world, she would have been there at 10:30 a.m., to allow time to digest the fact that she just paid $17.47 for a croissant, plastic-wrapped banana, and a Mocha Whatever. But in this tale, time was not on her side. She had evil working against her in the form of other people that were traveling with her. People who fly by the seat of their pants. Individuals who don’t worry about time, and think that everything is going to be “just fine.” These psychopaths were completely content in arriving at the beginning of the boarding process. The woman wished with all her might that she would not Hulk-out on these not-so-innocent bystanders on the car ride to the airport. As they arrived, she knew what she had to do – LEAVE THEM. She didn’t even let the words “go ahead” completely leave her friend’s lips as she pushed past all the people who didn’t have priority boarding, and luckily arrived at her gate as they filed into the aircraft. After the rest of her crew finally arrived, she let out another breath. Not because they had made the flight, but at the thought that she would have been okay if she had to leave them. All is fair in love and lateness.


Sharing is Not Caring

As my dating experiences continue to grow, I’ve sharpened my sense of picking up relationship red flags. You always want to give people a chance, but when people show you who they are, believe them.

Whether it’s going in the other room to take a phone call, always insisting on coming to your apartment, or telling you there’s no issue with their ex-wife calling after 10pm – you should always be on the look out for warning signs of relationship woes. Secretive behavior, burst of angers, or even worse, when they ask to share food.

I was a bit excited for a recent first date , and the pre-meet chemistry had been great. We discussed taking part in Miami Spice Month, when the government allows poor people to make reservations at fancy restaurants. He suggested a place for dinner, so naturally I took the rest of the week to investigate the menu. As we got closer to date night, he casually threw out a “we should order different items so we can try a little bit of everything. Is that ok?” I’ve never been good on the spot, so a “Sure?” slipped through my lips. I can only assume my response appeared more like a question, but I had temporary hearing loss at the thought of sharing my morsels to even hear any possible retort. Why would he try to ruin the date before we even met? Why would he want to diminish my culinary experience? Perhaps he was kidding, but sadly he was not, as when the night finally came, he immediately began to deliberate on whether he should get the NY strip or the salmon. Women already don’t know what we want to eat, EVER- so why would you force me to give you half? This is not a divorce! A few other things to note:

  • We ordered the same salad, because he said soup was too hard to split. Weird, I got to eat my own wedge in peace:  +5 POINTS
  • He ordered the preferable steak choice, and did it wrong. So I was forced under duress to share my perfectly medium filet with a man who ordered the aged N.Y. Strip in accordance to the Black People’s Guide to Not Eating Food That’s Pink, Ever: – 45 POINTS
  • The dessert division was touch-n-go, as he questioned his portion of MY espresso cake: -3 POINTS

Although every other aspect of the night was great, I couldn’t shake this sickening feeling that this sharing bullshit was not going to end. Total disclosure: I am not a sharer of the foods. Never have been, and I’m sure I’ll be at Shady Pines not letting Brenda have any of my confiscated fruit cups. I like what I like. I like it so much, I want to eat all of it. When people as if they can “have some”, I immediately question how they were raised.

With this fella, I had set an early precedent for sharing- have I set myself up for a future of eating with one eye always open? Will he always expect to have a “piece” of everything? I have heard of this phenomenon of letting go of one’s standards as you get older, but am I that desperate for love that I’m willing to enter into a relationship with a psychopath?

And where does the sharing end, ladies and gentleman? Will there be an expectation of shared food for life? What else will I be expected to share – thoughts? Feelings? Netflix passwords? If we go to the movies, will I be expected to share my popcorn laced with butter grease? And that’s the thing with food – you know how you like it, and don’t expect anyone else to understand. Yeah, you might have diabetes, but if you want to dump a couple ounces of margarine juice on some corn in a theater, that’s your business.

There is nothing better in life, that you can do in public, than eating your favorite meal. Relishing every bite, every taste, every last drop- and now you want me to turn around and give you one of my 16 bites? I may share my biased opinions, my emotions ( I will cry on you), my hopes, but not my dreams. And we all know I will overshare the shit about my everyday life. But asking me to split my food? You mean like, DIVIDE? Oh, hell no. Sharing is not caring, it’s giving up.




Permission to Feel

Hot Mess Life Blog

One of my fake best friends asked the other day why I haven’t written anything in quite some time. I tried to tell her I was depressed, and she said it was the best time to write – how dare she make sense and not take my lame excuse?

I haven’t been able to find a way to justify how I can pour my heart out to my 12 rabid fans and a few creepers on Instagram, when I often feel like I shouldn’t get to laugh at my own pain. How dare I try to be hilariously honest, which apparently you all have grown to love and actually seek out? I need to be 100% focused on fixing the hot mess shit in my life, not blogging.  Where does it make sense to take time out of my busy life of having anxiety to click-clack away on this Mac…

View original post 855 more words

Permission to Feel

One of my fake best friends asked the other day why I haven’t written anything in quite some time. I tried to tell her I was depressed, and she said it was the best time to write – how dare she make sense and not take my lame excuse?

I haven’t been able to find a way to justify how I can pour my heart out to my 12 rabid fans and a few creepers on Instagram, when I often feel like I shouldn’t get to laugh at my own pain. How dare I try to be hilariously honest, which apparently you all have grown to love and actually seek out? I need to be 100% focused on fixing the hot mess shit in my life, not blogging.  Where does it make sense to take time out of my busy life of having anxiety to click-clack away on this Mac, trying to make you all laugh while dishing out life lessons? I’m still trying to learn that writing is the best form of therapy, especially after my freebie sessions with insurance runs out.

I am one among many of this Earth (and maybe a few stressed out aliens) that battle with how to deal with their emotions. When people get in their feelings, a myriad of cliches come to mind:

  • “Get it together, Karen”
  • “Don’t bring your baggage along with you to the next relationship”
  • “Cheer up, buttercup”
  • “Quit acting like a little bitch”
  • “Don’t let her get to you”
  • You’re overreacting”
  • “It’s not that serious”
  • “Mam, can you please stop crying? I have another Uber Pool passenger to pick up”

How many times have you held your tongue because you didn’t want to offend anyone with your opinion? What about when someone has truly hurt you and you felt hesitant to say something? Fear that they might treat you differently after learning the truth? Do you realize how detrimental it is to keep everything inside, hardly expressing your true feelings? There is a physical reaction to suppressing your emotions, and I’m not talking about a fart.   Barring scaring or scarring people and flipping out on a conference call, we need to allow ourselves to let these feelings out. It might not be best to overreact in a Trader Joe’s when they run out of blueberry goat cheese, but you get it. Now that I think about it, if you can overreact anywhere about something mundane, it would be Trader Joe’s. Seriously, those people are from another planet called Manners. I almost cried once when they were out of stir-fry cauliflower rice, and the guy didn’t think I was being obnoxious. I felt he wanted to hug me and tell me everything was going to be alright, and would text me when it was back in stock. People, I, along with Tim from TJ’s, are finally giving you permission to feel.

I’m going veer away from overreactive instances and focus on your run-of-the-mill feelings, because that’s a whole ‘nother post on its own. Historically, I have been known to hold my tongue. Call it passive, avoider of conflict, scaredy-cat, whatever – if you made me feel something that wasn’t so good, 8 times out of 10 I wasn’t going to tell you. I may have stopped speaking to you, gave you my fake smile that everyone loves, or cried about it in the car, but I would find a way to make myself get past it. I would act as if I didn’t feel anything, which is CLEARLY the best thing you can do for your peace of mind. This type of behavior kept me in a lot of toxic relationships, situationships, and friendships. Probably a few other ips as well, but they were so traumatic, I blocked them out. If someone stood me up? I found a way to excuse their behavior. Came up with a good idea at work that someone stole the credit for? I congratulated them through gritted teeth. Had a guy lie and tell me his ex was his “roommate” for the kid’s sake?  Ah, that makes perfect sense – who cares about my feelings and intuition…

Then only a few days ago, I got a backbone. As I began to express my true feelings to people, there was a slight shift in the atmosphere. When I told a guy who kept flaking on me to actually figure out what he wanted or leave me alone, he said I was being “aggressive”. Before, I would have been afraid of missing out on another chance at love, but after I spoke the truth, it was much better than the alternative. When I have been upset at work, I have tried to speak my peace, and if I have any more emotions I need to get out, there’s a special bathroom stall I have reserved just for crying. The important thing to remember here is that letting your emotions out, no matter how silly they may seem, is therapeutic and good for the soul. We need not worry what our friends, partners, or people in front of us at Home Goods think about how we feel – your feelings are just that- YOURS. The most important thing to remember is to be honest with yourself, or at least find a semi-private bathroom where you can scream later.

So if your friend hurt your feelings? Tell them. Most likely, it’s big misunderstanding, and you can talk about it over mimosas later. If something isn’t feeling right in your life, it’s ok to be frustrated and shed a few tears. Bawl in the mirror, take a nap, and then reconsider that gym membership where they let you eat pizza. You have every right to feel hurt about that last relationship you were in. Take as long as you want to be in a place to move on, but then you do just that – move on. But let yourself feel that shit. I give you permission. You’re welcome.






Hot Mess (Love) Life

I was so excited with the thought that I might be boo’d up soon, that I contemplated on the future content of my blog. Now that my love life didn’t suck, what in the world would I talk about? How would I make these fools laugh at my pain, if it didn’t have to do with my Tinder nightmares? Well, I’m still single ya’ll, so lucky for you!

I thought I may have found something special, but Baby Jesus had another plan. Oddly enough, the one time I was actually with someone, I didn’t want to write about him at all. For some reason, it was as if it was sacred or something. I still have no plans to write about him, really. In a nutshell, he came, he saw, he said he was looking for a relationship, and then said “SIKE!” in the worst way possible. (Sidenote: Is it possible to be legitimately upset if you break up with your fake boyfriend? Asking for myself…). For the most part, I’m over it. It’s been a couple months now since I broke things off, which incidentally has coincided with the last time I had the cajones to post anything on this wonderful blog you all tell me you read. So you can blame him for my absence!

(This is how dense I am, and my close friends can attest to this phenomenon: I just woke up in the middle of the night to start writing this, and I’m currently using the flashlight on my phone because I’m too lazy to get out of bed and turn on the actual light. And who’s going to have to get back out of bed and turn it off? ME. Hell no, not doing it. Anyway, I’m going on another tangent because it’s 4:43am and there’s a chance I may still be asleep. The point I’m trying to make is that I looked over at the wall and saw the shadow of my hand feverishly moving the pen, got caught up emotionally in the moment of my own genius, and tried to take a picture. Yes, I actually thought this was possible. It’s amazing how someone with such an expansive vocabulary can lack the minimal amount of common sense).

The time apart from this man has given me time to realize that Baby Jesus was right. Have you ever had time away from someone and it reaffirms that you weren’t as compatible as you originally thought? You realize that you weren’t matched very well- no matter how cute both of you are and how much you laughed (at each other). As the time has gone by, I know the decisions I made were correct. Plus, the time allowed me to realize I loathed the way he ate chicken, and that put me over the edge. I still miss that fool, and he’ll always have a place in my heart. But in the back, somewhere near the circumflex artery, which is relatively small. His space is back there.

So hey, Square One, I’m back. I also want to give a shout out again to everyone who’s sick  of getting to know new people all over again and are still doing it in the name of love or whatever. I have no energy to go on in this dating world- I’m TIRED. I mean, I’m trying a bit, putting on a brave face, but I don’t wan’t to get to know people again! I thought I was good after the last six months, and when it all fell apart, I was pissed! I have to learn a whole new person? Again?? I’m not in the mood to acclimate to a new man’s eating habits at this point in my life. Or remember that he likes futbol over football (haha, spellcheck corrected futbol to the American version – he knows what’s up). I JUST started  getting used to the fact that this guy sneezed like an animal – now I have to do it all over again and eventually get accustomed to a new man’s awful sneezing?

But I’m going to do it- we all are going to do it. Do it until it hurts. Or do it until it stops hurting. We’re doing it for love. All the cliches are correct – there’s someone out there for everyone. It won’t work out until you meet the right one. Everything happens for a reason. Love is all we need. There are plenty of fish in the sea. The 32nd time is the charm. You know, all the classics. Although I’m one salacious lower body pic away from deleting all dating apps, it still provides minute hope. Hope that through all the BS and sunglass photos, someone else is looking for the same thing. Human interaction is also another avenue I’ll attempt to ramp up. Of course, I’m always out there like everyone else, but meeting people in person has proven to be so much more difficult than previous years. We still do the same things, but honey, the same people ain’t there. Eye contact has died by way of the “smartphone”, and if someone actually makes eye contact with you and it’s longer than seven seconds, you’re scared. So if you’re still out there being a champ about dating, do yourself and everyone else a favor: be nice. Be authentic. Be truthful. And don’t be staring.




This is Not Us

One of the most anticipated movies of the year came out this past weekend, and I couldn’t find anyone to go with. After the wild success of Jordan Peele’s Get Out, he followed up with the thriller that is Us. After releasing a scary-ass trailer that makes you no longer want to listen to the Luniz, I knew I had to see it. However, I apparently know a bunch of wimps. One said he didn’t need that negative energy, my best friend said she wasn’t trying to be scared, my HH buddy decided to, well, go to HH, and even my millennial said she doesn’t “do scary.” Now, I’m not a huge fan of horror films, and still will not watch Child’s Play to this day. But I saw this film as more of a psychological thriller, and Silence of the Lambs is my favorite movie, so there you go. After pleading to my crew to join me at the movies and getting dissed 4 times over, I said F these fools and went by myself. That allowed me to exercise my right to be extremely early, watch previews, and order an excessive amount of liquid butter product on my popcorn. Plus, with reserved seating, I didn’t have to worry about scrambling for a seat. I even thought I was being clever when I purchased a solo seat  on the aisle, because I was convinced that a sensible pair of older people had purchased these seats and were going to act accordingly.

But the universe had something very special in store for my anal-retentive behind. When I arrived to my seat, I plopped myself down next to a lovely young couple, obviously excited to see the movie as well. They chatted softly during the commercials before the previews came on, and I let it go, because hey, they were surely going to zip their lips once the lights went down. They even ordered a  bottle of wine, and I thought to myself, “Oooh, they are classy”, as I snuggled into my reclining chair. But when the house lights dimmed, and I was introduced to a new horror movie starring Octavia Spencer ( WTF), I was also introduced to this guy’s incessant talking. I am not afraid to shush the hell out of somebody, and I don’t attend movies with a dear friend because she talks too much. Silence is golden to me and so is movie etiquette. As the previews continued, I took a deep breath and exhaled, saying nothing, praying that he would shut up once the actual movie started. However, the Lord decided to test both my faith and patience that night, as he allowed this man to exercise his gums DURING THE ENTIRE MOVIE. This rant is not at all about my need to watch movies in silence, but of the gut-wrenching anger in the pit of my stomach as I admit my fellow movie-goers fell victim to that awful stereotype: black people talking during movies.

Let’s get something clear: anyone who reads my stuff knows that all my tales are bathed in sarcasm, satire, and tied up in truth. I don’t believe I have the readership to warrant a legit uproar of people being offended, but there’s always something to be said about exploring certain stereotypes. Especially when they’re hilarious. So while we know that not all black people talk during movies, it is comically understood that it’s kinda true. The subject matter of race is always tricky, because in the current days of being PC and everyone being so sensitive, many never know who can say what about whom. Luckily, according to 23andMe, I’m 44.9% allowed to speak on the subject, so I’m good.

I’ve racked my brain trying to come up with a sound hypothesis  of why my African-American brothers and sisters are so inclined to be verbal during a cinematic show. Was it because we’re used to a call and response narrative, growing up in the black Baptist churches of the South? Is it because we are natural-born storytellers, so our souls are telling us to narrate the movie for the entire audience? Or was it our payback to society for not yet receiving reparations?

Granted, people of all backgrounds can be seen interrupting a flick with their words, but how did we get this reputation for disrupting movies? I wanted to believe so bad that this young man would not fall into the stereotype of talking during the movie, and I even prayed “Please stop talking, please stop talking, don’t let these people judge you!”, but my man failed me. He proceeded to ruin every penny of my $17.68. He even threw out a few expletives, to which I was positive a fight would ensue. But nothing happened, and it certainly wasn’t going to come from me.

Why was I so afraid to pull out my shush card? Well for one thing, I came to the conclusion that anyone who’s not afraid to talk through an entire movie is clearly ready to fight any and everyone. Secondly, they were drinking twist-off top MERLOT, so things could’ve gotten quite rowdy if I had decided to tell him to shut up. I can only hope that my plea does not fall on deaf ears: my people, shut up during movies. No one else can hear and no one wants to experience getting into a fight at a theatre and paying $25 for an Icee on the same day. There is no need to scream or yell back at Tom Cruise- he can’t hear you.