I'd like to bring your attention to the following email, which was waiting in my inbox when I returned home from my date with the Photographer last night (which did NOT go well, by the way--I think he found me about as interesting as an SAT textbook...I don't think he'll call. But, if he happens to read this, he SHOULD call, and I'll bake him a granny Smith apple pie).
This email comes from a man who I've referred to as "cum-face." Um....that's all you need to know. We went on two dates back in September, and that was the end of that. As you know, I never put a guy's number in my cell phone until he deserves it, so the process of erasing was pretty easy with this one--though the nickname he earned left me traumatized.
Anyway, I get this email from him in my alias account. As you read, keep in mind two things:
1. I never gave him either of my email addresses.
2. We HAVE NOT SPOKEN OR INTERACTED SINCE SEPTEMBER 2007.
Naomi.
How are you? Happy 2008.
I guess it's been a while. I left my record company in October. Been starting a company on my own, so I've been laying low.
It was great hanging out with you and you're a big part of why 2007 was so good. For what that's worth. Will never forget that sweater skirt your wore that night
chrz/douglas
Um, what? We went on two dates and then I was degraded--I didn't even LET him cum on my face. How could I make 2007 great?
And, ironically, I wore the "sweater skirt" to which he is referring on my date with the Photographer last night (and it is a sweater dress, for the record). Unfortunately, it didn't seem to have the same affect on him.
::Sigh::
Showing posts with label The Giver. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Giver. Show all posts
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
can you TOP THAT?!
I bet some of you are wondering about the status of the Photographer/The Giver. Despite my word vomit and awkwardness, it seems this fellow is still feeling the blacktress. I have been reluctant to go into detail because he may still be reading the blog, and I don’t want him knowing all of Sojourner’s truths just yet. However, I feel the need to share this relationship’s progress as it works toward becoming a REALationship (you know the difference—holla!)
So, last Friday was a low key night, where we attended an art opening that I’d be invited to through work. I thought that the event’s open bar and hip downtown artists would show him how important and with-it I am. Plus, being a photographer, I thought he’d be all into the art scene.
For moral support, I asked my homegirl Karisa to show up an hour earlier.
“SoTru, why would you show up an hour early for a date?” You may be wondering. I know this seems strange. However, I find an early arrival decreases later awkwardness. By scoping out the area before my date, I am able to check my face to see if there were any issues while in transit, make note of all the nearest exits (in case he turns out to be cray), and know where things are to make it seem like I come to said establishment regularly. When my date arrives and I am already waiting, I have what I like to call “the upper hand,” as he wonders if he’s late and tries to placate me with compliments.
Anyway, after checking out some art and having some free dranks, we headed back to the BK to kick it old school. We had a college-style date—you know, sitting in a room and watching a movie. While many of my lady friends wondered why I wouldn’t demand lobster tails and a Broadway show, I stand by my choice of a low key date. First of all, such interactions are the main reason I look for a winter spoon; it’s too damn cold to be hittin’ the streets! Point number two: Do not wine me and dine me just to end up lyin’ to me! I don’t need all the bells and whistles and distraction—let me see what YOU are about, you know? How many times have I giggled and cooed in a tipsy state as a man said things that were clearly red flags? For instance, when I'm at the club and he goes:
I’ve always wanted to kiss a black girl. (WARNING: You have a fetishizer on your hands!)
OR
Oh my god, you’re, like, actually funny. That’s so rare. (Reverse compliments mean you are with a level-one emotional abuser. Back away).
With simply a bottle of Cabernet and X-Men 2 on the boob tube, I could really get to the root of this photog—go “behind the lens” if you will (will you?).
After getting all hot and bothered by the sight of sweaty, bulging Hugh Jackman—aka HUGE JACKED MAN!—I had to assess my desires…and the Giver’s. Was he a slut? A ho? A freak? Did he have a different girl every day of the week?
I told him it was cool, I’m not trying to put a rush on you—but I gotta let you know that I got a crush on you.
After wondering why I was quoting Lil’ Kim, he responded in kind, and I think we reached an understanding. Being deep in the BK after midnight, the logical choice was to spend the night…right? After physically expressing our emotions, we had a little pillow talk. We started talking about movies, and somehow the film Teen Witch came up.
Again, this would be a prime example of my awkwardness and word vomit. I don’t know if any of you have seen it, but Teen Witch is a 1989 classic about a girl who discovers she is a witch on her 16th birthday. Mousy Louise then uses her new powers to make herself hot, popular, and win the man of her dreams, only to realize, she doesn’t need magic after all.
Oh, did I mention it’s sort of a musical with songs such as “I like Boys,” and “I Wanna Be the Most Popular Girl”?
Yes, it IS the greatest film of our time.
But I wouldn’t necessarily recommend sharing this information with a man in his bed….unless he’s REALLY AWESOME (like the Photographer)—or gay (like my besties). One mention of the film, and the photog begins the first few lines of the film’s best track: “Top That.” It’s a great rap in which Louise’s equally mousy friend Polly is magically given the gift of street cred and approaches her far-off crush (Rhett Cappalletti) in fierce urban poetry.
Wait, I don’t think my description is doing the scene justice. See for yourself.
AAAHHH!!!! HOW GOOD IS THIS?!?!?!?!?! CAN YOU TOP THAT?????????
I find myself to be as awkward as Polly, and I guess you could call the Photographer my Rhett Cappelletti--only without the tight stonewashed jeans. But they both have the same street flava.
As you can imagine, the Photog’s knowledge of this great film and its music sparked much delight in the heart of the blacktress. As I fought the urge to propose marriage on the spot, he told me it was “quiet time” as I squealed with excitement at 3 am. Of course, his pop culture knowledge coupled with his no-nonsense manliness only fanned the love fires.
In honor of the role of musical films in our lives, he and I are going to see Sweeney Todd tonight.
And then I’m going to come home and Photoshop our heads together to see what our offspring will look like.
JK (Rowling)!!!!
Or am I???????
So, last Friday was a low key night, where we attended an art opening that I’d be invited to through work. I thought that the event’s open bar and hip downtown artists would show him how important and with-it I am. Plus, being a photographer, I thought he’d be all into the art scene.
For moral support, I asked my homegirl Karisa to show up an hour earlier.
“SoTru, why would you show up an hour early for a date?” You may be wondering. I know this seems strange. However, I find an early arrival decreases later awkwardness. By scoping out the area before my date, I am able to check my face to see if there were any issues while in transit, make note of all the nearest exits (in case he turns out to be cray), and know where things are to make it seem like I come to said establishment regularly. When my date arrives and I am already waiting, I have what I like to call “the upper hand,” as he wonders if he’s late and tries to placate me with compliments.
Anyway, after checking out some art and having some free dranks, we headed back to the BK to kick it old school. We had a college-style date—you know, sitting in a room and watching a movie. While many of my lady friends wondered why I wouldn’t demand lobster tails and a Broadway show, I stand by my choice of a low key date. First of all, such interactions are the main reason I look for a winter spoon; it’s too damn cold to be hittin’ the streets! Point number two: Do not wine me and dine me just to end up lyin’ to me! I don’t need all the bells and whistles and distraction—let me see what YOU are about, you know? How many times have I giggled and cooed in a tipsy state as a man said things that were clearly red flags? For instance, when I'm at the club and he goes:
I’ve always wanted to kiss a black girl. (WARNING: You have a fetishizer on your hands!)
OR
Oh my god, you’re, like, actually funny. That’s so rare. (Reverse compliments mean you are with a level-one emotional abuser. Back away).
With simply a bottle of Cabernet and X-Men 2 on the boob tube, I could really get to the root of this photog—go “behind the lens” if you will (will you?).
After getting all hot and bothered by the sight of sweaty, bulging Hugh Jackman—aka HUGE JACKED MAN!—I had to assess my desires…and the Giver’s. Was he a slut? A ho? A freak? Did he have a different girl every day of the week?
I told him it was cool, I’m not trying to put a rush on you—but I gotta let you know that I got a crush on you.
After wondering why I was quoting Lil’ Kim, he responded in kind, and I think we reached an understanding. Being deep in the BK after midnight, the logical choice was to spend the night…right? After physically expressing our emotions, we had a little pillow talk. We started talking about movies, and somehow the film Teen Witch came up.
Again, this would be a prime example of my awkwardness and word vomit. I don’t know if any of you have seen it, but Teen Witch is a 1989 classic about a girl who discovers she is a witch on her 16th birthday. Mousy Louise then uses her new powers to make herself hot, popular, and win the man of her dreams, only to realize, she doesn’t need magic after all.
Oh, did I mention it’s sort of a musical with songs such as “I like Boys,” and “I Wanna Be the Most Popular Girl”?
Yes, it IS the greatest film of our time.
But I wouldn’t necessarily recommend sharing this information with a man in his bed….unless he’s REALLY AWESOME (like the Photographer)—or gay (like my besties). One mention of the film, and the photog begins the first few lines of the film’s best track: “Top That.” It’s a great rap in which Louise’s equally mousy friend Polly is magically given the gift of street cred and approaches her far-off crush (Rhett Cappalletti) in fierce urban poetry.
Wait, I don’t think my description is doing the scene justice. See for yourself.
AAAHHH!!!! HOW GOOD IS THIS?!?!?!?!?! CAN YOU TOP THAT?????????
I find myself to be as awkward as Polly, and I guess you could call the Photographer my Rhett Cappelletti--only without the tight stonewashed jeans. But they both have the same street flava.
As you can imagine, the Photog’s knowledge of this great film and its music sparked much delight in the heart of the blacktress. As I fought the urge to propose marriage on the spot, he told me it was “quiet time” as I squealed with excitement at 3 am. Of course, his pop culture knowledge coupled with his no-nonsense manliness only fanned the love fires.
In honor of the role of musical films in our lives, he and I are going to see Sweeney Todd tonight.
And then I’m going to come home and Photoshop our heads together to see what our offspring will look like.
JK (Rowling)!!!!
Or am I???????
Monday, December 24, 2007
Tailor-Made...for ME?!
Y'all, I am on the plantation on Christmas Eve? I don't think this is what the baby Jesus would have wanted.
Luckily, I'm the only one here, so I can blog with abandon. It's funny how I tend to handle more personal biz-nass on office time than I do when I'm not here. I actually plan to come back later in the week to get some essential photocopying done. Is that wrong?
Anyway, I'm sure you're all wondering about the status of THE GIVER. Unfortch, I may be briefly silenced, for it turns out he is indeed a savvy internet stalker. Apparently, a name like Sojourner "you can't handle the" Truth is very "funny and interesting," and something, "you don't forget when told of it in passing." The Giver has found the blog. He has read the tales (luckily, not the the tale of how he earned his nickname), and I think the blacktress may have to silence her voice. It's just like a white male to keep me down.
Here's what I can let you know: the date went well....I think. It began with me getting him good and tipsy at Butai, where Special K pours dranks with abandon. Butai is my Saturday tradition, beginning around 5pm and ending whenever I have a good enough reason to leave. During our idle chat, I received a text about a party in Brooklyn. While this was not planned, I was thankful for it, as it made me out to be very popular and important.
We then went to try and see Juno, because nothing sets the mood like a story of teen pregnancy. Surprisingly, other people had the same idea, because it was too crowded and we had to see a later show. As we walked out, I explained how awkward I was (this was during one of my many ramblings that began due to nervousness), and he said, "I know.... I read your blog."
As Scooby Doo would say, "Ruh-Roh!" He found me out! He knows I'm slightly insane, mildly militant, and have gone out with randoms!
Cue more incessant babbling. I swear, he made a black girl blush several times-- which you know is tough with this blacktress.
We then went to Crocodile Lounge (I think you all know my feelings on pizza and skee ball), where I drank red wine (cause I'm classy) and flirted like the shameless schoolgirl I am. It seemed for some strange reason he was still drawn to me, so I figured I wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. We found seats in the theater, trying to avoid sitting next to unattractive people (you know ugly is contagious!), and I made my smooch move. I mean, I was thinking about it and I figured if I just got in there I'd feel slightly less cray.
It worked.
We then tucked in to watch the movie, which ended up being the bestest thing ever. Actually, while I'm singing male praises, let me address one man in particular:
Dear Michael Cera, you awkward, gangly teen-- I am so drawn to your confusion. I identify with your loss for words and statement of the obvious. You ask if you can makeout with people, much in the way I do. You wear short-shorts, and I can almost see your junk, but I try not to look because you're too young for me...and because I'm waiting for Harry Potter to cross these shores. If, for some reason, HP and I end up having trouble with immigration services, it's you and me, boo.
Anyway, The Giver gave me a little hand-on-leg action during the film, which I turned into hand-holding action, and for the next 90 minutes I was totally swooning over the romantic subplot, my girl-crush Jennifer Garner, and the Giver beside me. We then hit up Chickpea for some vegemetarianish* delights. He got me some hummus-- holla at a middle-eastern playa-- and we chatted as he enjoyed his first falafel! Tenderness! You know blacktresses just bring out the "adventurous side" in white men.
We hit up another random bar--where I just had water!-- and talked a bit. While shooting the shit, he said, "Yeah, I tried dating two girls at once, but that was drama. I'm all about monogamous relationships."
He dropped the M-bomb. Granted, it was in no way connected to me, and probably means he's missing his ex-GF or something else unsavory, but the word itself just makes me tingly....down there. I mean, drop an M-bomb, and I am done and done. If this blog has shown one thing, it's that it's not only hard out there for a pimp, but it's hard out there for a blacktress trying to find a winter spoon! It's been a rough 007, and it's time shit stopped being cray and started getting real. This body ain't getting any younger, people!!!
Anyway, I clearly went back to his house, to get in the spirit of giving--holla! And I think he had me at morning eggs and bagels. I mean, a can-do man who will hook up some protein on a chilly winter's morning is one to callback, you know?
He is now off in his homeland for the holidays....where one can only hope the white fields of Ohio (in more ways than one) make him long for the blacktress. Until then, I will just have to entertain myself with my gays and my gals.
Um, guys, if I don't hear from him while he's gone does this mean the whole thing was in my head?
* I know that's not a word.
Luckily, I'm the only one here, so I can blog with abandon. It's funny how I tend to handle more personal biz-nass on office time than I do when I'm not here. I actually plan to come back later in the week to get some essential photocopying done. Is that wrong?
Anyway, I'm sure you're all wondering about the status of THE GIVER. Unfortch, I may be briefly silenced, for it turns out he is indeed a savvy internet stalker. Apparently, a name like Sojourner "you can't handle the" Truth is very "funny and interesting," and something, "you don't forget when told of it in passing." The Giver has found the blog. He has read the tales (luckily, not the the tale of how he earned his nickname), and I think the blacktress may have to silence her voice. It's just like a white male to keep me down.
Here's what I can let you know: the date went well....I think. It began with me getting him good and tipsy at Butai, where Special K pours dranks with abandon. Butai is my Saturday tradition, beginning around 5pm and ending whenever I have a good enough reason to leave. During our idle chat, I received a text about a party in Brooklyn. While this was not planned, I was thankful for it, as it made me out to be very popular and important.
We then went to try and see Juno, because nothing sets the mood like a story of teen pregnancy. Surprisingly, other people had the same idea, because it was too crowded and we had to see a later show. As we walked out, I explained how awkward I was (this was during one of my many ramblings that began due to nervousness), and he said, "I know.... I read your blog."
As Scooby Doo would say, "Ruh-Roh!" He found me out! He knows I'm slightly insane, mildly militant, and have gone out with randoms!
Cue more incessant babbling. I swear, he made a black girl blush several times-- which you know is tough with this blacktress.
We then went to Crocodile Lounge (I think you all know my feelings on pizza and skee ball), where I drank red wine (cause I'm classy) and flirted like the shameless schoolgirl I am. It seemed for some strange reason he was still drawn to me, so I figured I wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. We found seats in the theater, trying to avoid sitting next to unattractive people (you know ugly is contagious!), and I made my smooch move. I mean, I was thinking about it and I figured if I just got in there I'd feel slightly less cray.
It worked.
We then tucked in to watch the movie, which ended up being the bestest thing ever. Actually, while I'm singing male praises, let me address one man in particular:
Dear Michael Cera, you awkward, gangly teen-- I am so drawn to your confusion. I identify with your loss for words and statement of the obvious. You ask if you can makeout with people, much in the way I do. You wear short-shorts, and I can almost see your junk, but I try not to look because you're too young for me...and because I'm waiting for Harry Potter to cross these shores. If, for some reason, HP and I end up having trouble with immigration services, it's you and me, boo.
Anyway, The Giver gave me a little hand-on-leg action during the film, which I turned into hand-holding action, and for the next 90 minutes I was totally swooning over the romantic subplot, my girl-crush Jennifer Garner, and the Giver beside me. We then hit up Chickpea for some vegemetarianish* delights. He got me some hummus-- holla at a middle-eastern playa-- and we chatted as he enjoyed his first falafel! Tenderness! You know blacktresses just bring out the "adventurous side" in white men.
We hit up another random bar--where I just had water!-- and talked a bit. While shooting the shit, he said, "Yeah, I tried dating two girls at once, but that was drama. I'm all about monogamous relationships."
He dropped the M-bomb. Granted, it was in no way connected to me, and probably means he's missing his ex-GF or something else unsavory, but the word itself just makes me tingly....down there. I mean, drop an M-bomb, and I am done and done. If this blog has shown one thing, it's that it's not only hard out there for a pimp, but it's hard out there for a blacktress trying to find a winter spoon! It's been a rough 007, and it's time shit stopped being cray and started getting real. This body ain't getting any younger, people!!!
Anyway, I clearly went back to his house, to get in the spirit of giving--holla! And I think he had me at morning eggs and bagels. I mean, a can-do man who will hook up some protein on a chilly winter's morning is one to callback, you know?
He is now off in his homeland for the holidays....where one can only hope the white fields of Ohio (in more ways than one) make him long for the blacktress. Until then, I will just have to entertain myself with my gays and my gals.
Um, guys, if I don't hear from him while he's gone does this mean the whole thing was in my head?
* I know that's not a word.
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