The End of Black Mystery Month

Guys, I've never been so excited for March in my life. This BHM was a real rollercoaster: We lost Don Cornelius and Whitney Houston; Viola lost, Octavia won; birth-control pills were recalled; and I'm finally getting the hang of Twitter.

To top it off, it seems that everyone's favorite Hot Mess Oompa Loompa, Snooki, is pregnant.

WHAT. THE. HELL IS HAPPENING TO THE WORLD?????

Shouldn't her ovaries be withered and her eggs pickled? Shouldn't her boyfriend's semen be 80 proof and unable to survive outside of his body? At the very least, shouldn't someone with her drinking history at the very least be getting Depo shots so as not to tax her memory? Of course, as I say this, I hear Jeff Goldblum's voice in my head, saying "Life finds a way."

Let's just hope that baby doesn't have fins. Or, better yet, that it doesn't get its own tv show--although it would probably make for a great season of Toddler & Tiaras.

This is one of those times I kinda wish The Hunger Games was real. If we had televised fights to the death, we'd be able to really separate the wheat from the discredits to the species, am I right guys????

Speaking of separating the wheat from the discredits, I must share this INSANE--albeit 5 years old and NSFWUYHH (Unless You Have Headphones)--youtube clip of local Atlanta public-access figure Alexyss K. Tylor--I kid you not, that is how her name is spelled.



I have no words.

The Vampire Slayer

So, I went on a "date" last night.

I have to use quotation marks because I'm not even sure what was going on. Do you ever find yourself in situations where you stop and ask yourself, "Am I on candid camera? Is this a bad Lifetime movie?"

I have these moments all the time, but since I relish awkward randomness (hence my love of internet dates), I do not run away from these gifts. In fact, I prefer to babble and just see exactly how tightly closed the envelope is, and how far I can push it.

For example: As I'm walking with my tall glass of milk, yoga studio-owning 38-year-old date, I casually say,

"I just don't know what to think, because of all my internet suitors, you're not obsessed with me. And I just don't get why not."

What a ridiculous thing to say. Cue laughter.

But no!!!! Apparently, this was a "crazy" thing to say-- which surprised me because he seemed to be able to handle Sojourner's truths thus far, was smoking weed on our date, and took me on a walk around the backwoods of Central Park after nightfall (where he showed me a flower garden which he described as "phallic"). If anything, I was playing the straight man. What I said was so un-humorous, that my "date" then says,

"Why do you need people to be obsessed with you? You feed on it, don't you? You have a vampiric quality."

Is this true? Am I a blood-sucking fiend out for the white male life force?

I don't think so-- I just want to get my O-face on (if you know what I mean, and I think you do...). And sometimes, my need to get my O-face on means I cut the bullshit. I want you to play your gender, woo me like the woman of your dreams, look me in the eyes and say,

"Girl, you're so beautiful, you could be a.... a waitress. No, no-- you're so beautiful, you could be an air hostess from the 1960s. No, that's not it, either. You're so beautiful, you could be a part-time model-- but you'd probably still have to keep your normal job."

Is that so wrong? So when I'm in your apartment watching tall, hot, crazy-eyed Jeff Goldblum in "The Fly," I start to get hot and bothered. And granted, I've called several friends to check on me to make sure I'm not dead in a ditch somewhere, but that's not cause I don't want to get my O-face on. It's because you haven't said the magic words. Part-time model, my friend.

I hope he calls me.