I am Danny Glover.

Have you ever seen the movie Lethal Weapon? One of the great buddy-cop comedies of the 20th century, it stars Mel “Before I Went Crazy and Started Slamming Jews” Gibson and Danny “Proud to be a Brother” Glover. Mel plays Riggs, a young homicidal cop all bent out of shape after the untimely death of his wife, and Danny is veteran cop Murtaugh, who’s just looking to retire and get off the mean streets. Throughout the film, as cars flip over, bullets graze their heads, and they fight for justice—and their lives—Murtaugh says “I’m too old for this shit.”

This line is repeated throughout Lethal Weapons 1, 2, 3, and 4.

I can currently relate to this line like no other.

As you know, Sojourner’s no spring chicken. And as you know if you’ve been following this blog, I can’t keep a sane, straight man to save my life. From Australia to Astoria to the depths of Brooklyn, these dudes are not treating me right. The latest blow comes from a “man” I thought was a tender gentleman caller, who spent the last month calling, texting, and wooing Sojourner with invitations to 8th grade prom and other classy dates. After asking me to spend the night on a weeknight (for the second week in a row), and speaking in more future tenses than a confused ESL student, I asked him what was going on with us.
You know, a simple state-of-the-union address.
You know, perhaps a little reassurance that this was more than a hook-up thing.
It had been a month.
There was constant texting—initiated by him. He even went so far as to respond to my telephone message with a text when he was unable to answer the phone, and then promised to call the next day.
AND HE DID.

So, you can imagine my surprise when he said I seemed to want more than he wanted, as though I was the crazy one.
And he did this an hour before we were supposed to go see a friend's improv show, meaning that not only was I left depressed and jilted, I had no Friday night plans while he got to scamper off and laugh at comedic improvisation.
One of my first thoughts (after "Why is this happening again?" and "What is wrong with me?") was "I am sick and tired of this shit"--much like Murtaugh throughout the Lethal Weapon quadrilogy (is that a word? Probably not). Like him, I just want to settle down, get out of the crossfire of single life in NYC, and retire from this dangerous game before I become a walking STD with a heart made of stone.


(remember this?)

As I lick my wounds in solitary confinement, here is a handy list that should help anyone who tries to reach out to me during this dark time.

Words and Phrases That Will Make Me Cry and Make You Feel Awkward
(Please Omit From All Sentences/Conversations/Email):

Date
Boyfriend
Happy/Happiness (also: Future Happiness)
The Bible (also: King James Version)
Television actor Dean Cain
Able-bodied
Lucky
Sex
Coitus
Relations
Relationship
Battleship (including Russian Montage film “Battleship Potemkin”)
Barren Womb
Nice Guy
Bears
8th grade
Prom
Massachusetts
“Sex and the City” Movie(who takes a girl to see that WILLINGLY, then says she’s being too much?!)
Intense
“I don’t think we should do this.”
Teach for America (also: NYC Teaching Fellows, teaching in general, or "school")
Brooklyn
Q Train
Self-respect
“I don’t know.” (Please be completely certain when we speak. I won’t take it well.)

Friday Night (Amstel) Lights

So I woke up at 10 am Saturday morning.

In a bed that wasn't mine own.

And I wasn't wearing any pants.

I jumped up and turned over to find Litsa, my ultimate savior and soul sister, asleep next to me. Of all the beds to wake up in, I can only thank my lucky stars that I wasn't next to some strange clergyman feeling oddly violated.

The last thing I remember is using the restroom with Colin's boyfriend, Jon, around 1 am. Prior to that, a bald man in a suit bought me a drank, much in the style of T-Pain.

Wait, does this sound like a bad Lifetime movie? No, I don't think it was. Though blacking out-- wait, no WHITING OUT*-- was uncharacteristic, I don't think he raised the roofie. Recounting my evening, I had about 9 dranks. 9! And I don't play football and I'm a dainty lady.

So, I woke up to find that my pants were in a pile on the floor and they were soaking wet. Why? Litsa and I don't know. What she was able to tell me was this:

1. We left the bar around 1:30, where the bald man told her not to let me leave, as I was the prettiest girl there. She then asked him if we were related-- which wouldn't be surprising given my week.

2. Apparently, instead of being put in a cab home (as we should have been), a friend took us to another bar, where he bought us two Amstel lights and sat us down while he hung out with a group of his friends. Yep-- we were "those girls." Now, when I discovered this, I knew I must have been out of my mind-- an Amstel... light?! Not only do I not drink beer, I do not believe in light beer as a concept. I asked Litsa if I actually consumed said "beverage," and she said yes. This is when I should have been given smelling salts.

3. There was a box of instant macaroni and cheese on her dresser. We had purchased this around 3 am at a bodega. Why, I do not know. We can only be thankful we did not attempt to cook this macaroni and cheese.

4. As I walk around her apt, searching in vain for my wallet, I notice my right calf and left hip are swollen and sore. Apparently, I fell.... several times.

5. Luckily, I have my house keys and cell phone. I look in my phone and see several text messages from a tall man I'd met earlier, asking me where I was. Apparently, I had texted him and we were scheduled to meet up.
Who am I?

Litsa then tells me I called him in the cab on the way to her house-- what did I say? Mystery number 37 of the night.

I offer to buy Litsa brunch, and discover that my entire wallet is missing. Debit card, metrocard, license. Shoot me now.

I finally make it home, after dealing with Bank of America (well, when you're on 125th street, it's Bank of African America) about a new card, and see the following text message from Litsa: "Mystery #50 of the night.... blood on my tv."

Did we kill a man just to watch him die?

I have no idea what the hell went on.

I then get a call on Saturday evening from a Turkish man named Onur who doesn't speak much English. He wants to hang out with me.

Um..... help?

I also get a text message from a unidentified number:
"Sorry about last night and for calling so late."
I write back: "It's okay, who is this?"
The sender replies: "Dan."

Dan is someone I kissed about 2.5 weeks ago at a club on the Lower East Side. What he said to me at 1:45 am Friday night is, of course, another unknown.

In an attempt to take Saturday night slowly and soberly, I prepare to head home early from a club. Who do I pass on my way out but my EX BOYFRIEND, who I haven't seen in 7 months. He is an Israeli, vegan, investment banker who did a semester at a black college.

Needless to say, I'm a hot mess. It's 9:30 am and I'm blogging because I am unable to sleep.

And my Australian lover hasn't emailed me back. It's been 4 days. He works as a web designer, so we all know he's on the computer/internet all the live-long day!
Apparently, SoTru got a little too truthful in her last email.

If anyone wants to hug me, I would greatly appreciate it. I need a tender touch.



*that's what SoTru's calling it now-- I'm boycotting the association of blackness with bad things. Besides, it's like someone covered up the last three hours of my night, much in the way White Out covers penmanship errors.