The Last Unicorn

Ladies, Gentlemen, Friends, Foes, and Hos:

Today is a sad day. Another one bites the dust.

It is currently day 5 of “OPERATION: Why won’t he call me? WHY?! WHY?!” and still no word. Not one to roll over and play dead (I did free myself from the shackles of slavery, didn’t I?) I even called the wandering minstrel last night, just to put out there—this body ain’t getting any younger, people!!!

As of now, I have received no return call.

This, coming from a man who said I was “Excrutiatingly attractive”—when ‘excrutiatingly’ isn’t even a word! I mean, when you’re altering the dictionary to find the right compliment, it has to be for real, right?

This, coming from a man who had a moment in the Nubian sunshine, and came all the way to Harlem to attend a gathering hosted by Sojo when he didn’t know a single soul in attendance.

This, from a fellow who cleaned the red wine I spilled all over the couch and still wanted to make out with me.

I am seriously lost and delirious.

Let me tell you some things I like about my crush:

He is a 6-foot 3-inch tall glass of milk—Sojourner's not getting osteoporosis on his watch!

He has curly hair—it's like white people's version of nappiness!

He plays magic cards—which clearly means he is smart, has an nerdy past, and won't be scared off by my Harry Potter fetish.

And, most importantly:

He was recently on The Tyra Banks Show.

Um, need a say more???

Ok, I will!!!!!!!!!

A tall hot nerd who doesn’t know he’s hot is an urban legend—like razor-blades in apples, and getting AIDS from a toilet seat—only he’s more fun than those. A hot nerd who wants a blacktress is simply magical—the male equivalent of a unicorn. Like an audience member at his Las Vegas run of Cirque du Soleil, I thought I’d hit the jackpot when I dazzled him in my freakum dress and my gays said my “tats looked great.” Our interactions were effortless, and it felt like I’d known him way more than a hot minute. I thought I could finally stop kissing frogs and end up with a prince.

Apparently, that’s not in the (magic) cards for a blacktress.

My beeper has not beeped and my phone has not phoned, and I feel like an ugly normal person who no one wants to spend time with—not even Jesus (and he’s everyone’s homeboy).

Possible Reasons He No Longer Has Love for the Blacktress:
1. He’s gotten with that tramp Felicia from the Tyra Show.
2. Hotter women have come out of the woodwork ever since Tyra called him sexy.
3. He’s going on tour with a wandering minstrel show.
4. He’s been stop-lossed and is going back into the trenches, like Ryan Phillippe
5. He’s racist.
6. He’s lazy and crazy.
7. My vagina dentata scared him away (JK (rowling)!!! I don’t have TEETH)
8. Perhaps it’s because I told him I wouldn’t sleep with him til EL CINCO DE MAYO (Mexican Independence Day)?
9. Because I asked him to teach me to play magic cards because I wanted to “know his world.” (which I personally think is endearing as shit, and should have made him swoon with delight)

So, today, we self-soothe with episodes of "The Office" online. We shed a tear for the pretty, tall, mixie babies that would have been. We light a candle for the mocha acting troupe we would have undoubtedly started. We pour 1/5 of gin on the ground for our dead minstrel, and just praise White Jesus that he didn’t put his p in my v without a c.