And now for your reading pleasure, an open letter to a dude I am no longer dating as of Friday night… yes, another one.
It's me. The girl you texted "Happy Thanksgiving, boo" to on Thursday even knowing how much I hate to be called boo. Very minor. Not an eject-from-the-game infraction though fringing on side-eye worthy behavior.
Yet and still, we were all well and good until Friday evening's dreadful text. Yessir, right up to the moment I received that unfortunate communiqué, you were still in the top three on the PSO (Potential Significant Other) candidate list. I wrote this post right after our interaction so as not to misquote or misrepresent you in any way. It was 8:52 p.m. when I received your first test:
You: What are you up to?
Me: Hanging at home with family. What's up?
You: Do you want to come over and Lewinsky me?
Me, reading twice to make sure that's really what I read. Among other (many) issues with this text, it's just not everyday you see the word Lewinsky used as a verb.: Um, no. Has ANYTHING about me indicated that I'm THAT chick?
You: No, but no harm in asking, right?
Me: Plenty of harm, actually.
You: Lighten up. Take it as a joke then.
Me: **crickets** (meaning I sent no reply to that)
You: Problem??? I know you're working out, I wanted to help with your protein intake. J
Eww and ick. Too much to say for text, I hit the dial button: You've lost your mind, huh?
You: Get a sense of humor.
Me: And you're quickly losing whatever shot you had with me.
You: Take it as a compliment.
Me: Getting an offer to be your chickenhead du jour is a compliment?
You: Hey girl, I called you first!
Me (short-tempered): You #@$% called me first?!
You: Ya mad?
Me: There are women you date and women you text on Friday night to get Lewinskied. You put me in the wrong #@$* category!
You: Just for tonight, we can date tomorrow.
Me (incredulous): I. Am. Speechless.
You: Jeez, it's just a [tacky synonym for Lewinsky]. That's not even real sex, just an appetizer! I can speed dial one of those any day of the week, sweetheart. Don't even sweat it.
Me (after strategic pause): Good to know. Listen, [insert Shaniqua-style invective-laden rant with really shameful abuse of the English language here]. And you may lose my number. CLICK.
So, after reviewing the nonsense you said/typed this evening can you think of any reason why I should continue any flavor of relationship with you? Take your time, I'll wait. Hmm, what's that? No, you really can't. Me either. You sir, may kick rocks.
Peace Out, homie. ~OneChizzle [yeah, I had to go old school]
As any good blogger would, I typed up this post immediately and sent out a tweet: "Dear Lord, please forgive me for the cussing I broke off on this man this evening. I will attend church on Sunday and blog it on Monday. AMEN." There followed a lively Twitter exchange about timely blogposts, spoiler alerts and nunneries. (You had to be there) Thanks to LeonX, TiffanyinHouston and ASmith86 for talking me down.
POSTSCRIPT: At 5:14 a.m. (the HELL?!), my cell phone started ringing. I reached over and pressed ignore. Then it started buzzing. I ignored it. And then it beeped three times signaling an urgent text (yes, from now on I will be turning off my cell at night. If you don't have my home number, we're not that close). I picked up the phone and squinted at the screen, it was old boy: "Couldn't sleep at all tonight. Don't know why I said what I said. My bad. Did I blow it with you?" I flung the phone to the side and turned back over. Five hours later after his SIXTH text, I wrote back: Why don't we just say we are not what the other is looking for and leave it at that? Haven't heard back from him.
So here's what's up. OneChele is officially on dating hiatus (again). I actually do have two other gentlemen (I'm assuming they're gentlemen) auditioning for the role of PSO right now but I'z tired and weary. Need a little recharge-Chele-time cuz my bouge is sagging to the left and the right. Maxwell's clone could show up at the door singing about taking me away to Aruba and I'd have to respectfully decline right now. [Yes, I'm side-eyeing my damn self on that one].
But never fear, BougieLand… I still have years and years of drama-filled BougieTales yet to share. And on that note, come on now – any man over the age of 35 sending random-ridiculous texts like that deserves the swift kick. Am I right or am I right?