Yesterday, I finally got around to watching Akilah Hughes' Youtube career-catapulting video, “Meet Your First Black Girlfriend”. The video is short and sweet at just under two minutes but I suppose I have to be in the mood for racial “conversation” even if it comes in a comedic package. Akilah’s approach is much like that of Chescaleigh who saw her fame rise after “Shit White Girls Say To Black Girls”, which has now been viewed over ten million times. She’s funny, likable and apparently smart and those qualities draw me in more-so than Black Girlfriend, which I found much less funny than “Olivia Pope Goes Grocery Shopping”, for example. After viewing a fair number of her videos, I moved on to lurking both of her Tumblrs, Twitter and Instagram feed and she seems like a good follow for those interested in beauty and hair care tips as well as ice cream recommendations and general comedic relief. I think we’ll continue seeing smart, funny work from this chick and her being cute and black and a “her” are all cherries on top for me.
In the age of social media (Pinterest, Instagram and Facebook to be more specific) the rules have indeed changed. Back in the early days of the internet, when I was still using free trial AOL software that came with the Sunday Tribune, the images you wished to share never quite made it to the “world” part of the world wide web —maybe a few email inboxes or a message board if you were really savvy. With the progression of the internet came more people wanting to share more of themselves with more of the world. Even still, there was a time when only photographers were photographers. You remember that? It was during that same time that only artsy people took “Look at my nearly-naked wife” maternity photos. I remember this time vividly because I actually enjoyed the pictures—some painter or poet or photographers wife laying gently in the grass or on perfectly disheveled white bed sheets with her blessing laid bare for the world to see. It was tear-jerking shit and we all loved it because the girl looked as if she spent nine months out of the year nearly-naked or in a maxi skirt anyway so, ya know, things added up.
She’s not officially my girlfriend, but she damn sure acts like it. How do I officially seal the deal, and at what point should I walk away?
You should ask her to be your girlfriend. The smart thing to do is walk away if she says no, but we’re all dumb when it comes to these things. You’ll tell yourself you can handle it or that she really does want you but doesn’t know it yet. The longer you let it linger the more complicated shit becomes. If it’s going to continue being a grey area, almost-relationship, at least do yourself the favor of knowing for sure and bracing yourself for the fall (when she meets the guy she actually wants).
So I’m talking to this guy. I’m 22. He’s 25 he lives with his mom he doesn’t have a car & he has a job off & on. He doesn’t have his life together but he’s sweet to me. I wanna ride his brains out sighhh but my common sense is saying don’t get involved bc he doesn’t even have his sht together. I’m conflicted. What would you do?
The art of the webseries seems to be the new wave post Awkward Black Girl fame and fortune and I’m enjoying every bit of it. My latest discovery, Smoke and Mirrors, follows the mishaps and triumphs of a twenty-something man post-break-up. The shows creators, Artemus Jenkins and KarynRose Bruyning, manage to develop a world that is very believable, seating us front row as the lead character, Dixon, trolls for pussy, wallows in post break-up pseudo-sadness and searches tirelessly to find a replacement girlfriend all while ignoring the issues within himself that landed him in his current situation. The one argument I have about the show is my own personal distaste for Jenkins as the lead. In my opinion he isn’t believable as a leading man but I suppose that fact adds to the authenticity of the series. For some, he’s a leading man while for others he’s easier to imagine as the friend of a leading man. At either rate, the story is still one that needs to be told (from a male perspective) and it’s still, at it’s core, one that we can all relate to. As an added bonus we get to enjoy stripper (or ex stripper?), Cali, from Jenkins’ 2012 Magic City documentary, P.O.P. She plays his ex-girlfriend and is without a doubt my favorite thing about the show. I wanna have strawberry milkshakes and talk shit about men with her so bad.
Enjoy the show at your leisure and PLEASE tweet me during the second episode when you meet Cali and fall in love too!
One of the slight ways in which men slowly chip away at the logical female mind.
In the age of the iPhone, a lot of us know what it feels like to have our phones stolen. When you call upon first realizing it’s missing, the last thing you wanna hear is your voicemail because at that point, old faithful is nothing more than a Craigslist posting.
As of 2014, I have been in the possession of a cell phone for ten years and have a fairly good understanding as to how they work. When a phone is turned off or the battery dies, it goes to voicemail. This is a fact. 2+2 = 4. The sky is blue. The grass is green. When your phone dies it doesn’t ring.
Why then will a man look you in the eye with a straight face and tell you that his phone died last night when you tried calling? No, sir. If your phone died, we wouldn’t be having this conversation because if your phone died I would’ve known it died because it wouldn’t have rung. But now I sound petty. I sound petty because you’re trying to convince me 2+2 is 6 and it’s just fucking not.
Now you’ve turned this inquiry about a couple missed calls into a “You must think I’m stupid” conversation because you couldn’t come up with a better lie. So I’m left with two choices: 1) call you out on your shit and turn the situation into an argument 2) essentially let you insult my intelligence by believing you AND still be left pissed because whatever I wanted the night prior, I didn’t get (probably the dick, let’s be honest).
Research suggests, these are the seeds that produce both the car keying and clothes bleaching plants.
Educated guesses at how some of our favorite rappers are in bed.
Kendrick is that really sweet guy that offers you water and a t-shirt even though chances are y’all are about to be butt naked. You accept the shirt because he’s been acting kinda non-chalant like he has no intentions on sex at all but just when you think all is lost, he puts the dick on your butt. And it’s a decent size too ‘cause what is he like, 5’6? Yea…always when ya least expect it. He’s that dude that makes you feel like you’re in a relationship too. He definitely eats the box, bites your thighs and looks up at you occasionally while doing it. And when you’re on top he gazes at you like you’re a classic painting or something. Like, “how could this be?” type shit. It’s a trick ‘cause when you wake up in the morning, he’s back to being too chill to stand, calling you a cab and kissing you on the cheek like he didn’t have his tongue half way to your fallopians last night.
To me, there is nothing inherently sexy about Drake. I don’t know what it is. I find him attractive I just think he’s that dude that kisses you awkwardly mid-sentence and tries to put his hands in the back pockets of your jeans. He single handedly ruins everything you thought you wanted like someone’s arm around you at a movie theater. The sex is fine you just can’t stand the look on his face and want it to be over. He eats the box unsuccessfully and keeps changing positions like he’s been obsessed with porn his entire life and has a book of plays in his panty drawer. Basically, you tell him you’re on your period next time he hits you up.
I discovered Eryn Allen Kane after watching her performance in the Austin Vesely directed short, Sex Tape Day. I thought the acting was natural and hilarious and clicked the link to her Twitter account expecting to see her credits as an actor or comedian. A quick scroll down her timeline landed me at the “Hollow” music video* where I literally sat watching with my mouth wide open. Her voice is rich and experienced and the lyrics pierce with the truthfulness and pain of an Amy Winehouse jam. My only complaint is that there isn’t more original work from this incredible talent. My music library is begging for it! Download “Hollow” for free on Soundcloud.
If you find that you’ve listened to this song about a million times too many on repeat but it isn’t up tempo enough for your “getting ready” or “riding to work” playlists, take a listen to the Jack Puffin’ Remix. You’re welcome.
*Unfortunately, the music video for “Hollow” has been removed due to copyright claims, but it was a beautiful piece of work inspired by the art of Alexa Meade
I can’t believe I just paid $3 for digital entertainment. The last time I was okay spending money for something on the internet was the release of Beyonce and even then I kinda had an attitude. That comparison alone should let you know that Hello Cupid is worth the watch. The web series chronicles the journey of two best friends and their online dating experiment. Whitney (Ashley Blaine Featherson) is looking for love but struggles trying to find a man that fits into her perfect mold. Her best friend, Robyn (Hayley Marie Norman), is maybe looking for love as well but recognizes cleavage-y profile pictures as a necessary means to find it. The show deals with colorism, love, friendship and genuinely captures young, stupid and twenty-something in the age of the internet. If you watch the entire first season and don’t immediately throw your wallet at the screen trying to see what’s next, I don’t want to know you.
The first episode of Season 2 premiered on Valentine’s Day and can be purchased HERE.
I often allow myself to fall into certain situations for the sole purpose of using it in my writing but find that these moments end up so shameful that I couldn’t possibly tell the full truth to anyone. This is exactly what I’ve avoided doing in the last five months since my vacation to Miami. But now this particular wild Miami night seems enough like a half-remembered dream that I’m okay reliving its gory details.
The funniest part about all of this is the reaction I got upon telling people that I was planning a trip to Miami with my sister and best friend. Folks joked about remembering to pack condoms or ditching them altogether in hopes of becoming pregnant by some fine ass latin thang but I assured everyone that I’d never had sex with a man I didn’t know and didn’t intend to. It seemed, though, that those who’d experienced Miami’s magic knew something I had yet to understand. The intense heat, constant nakedness, and people shouting “two for one margaritas” out of every restaurant make what’s impossible here in the north quite possible and I would soon find myself in between a rock and a hard place, which I now understand to mean two penises. Just right, smack dab in the middle of two penises.