Tag Archives: Romance

A Dream Come True: Robyn’s Song

We’re never all good…or all bad.

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Rihanna’s been on my mind a lot lately.  I mean, it’s been kinda hard to escape her during these last couple of months and…OK, it’s been hard to escape her during these last couple of YEARS, but lately it seems as if Robyn Fenty is one of only five celebrities that any media outlet wants to talk about.  And matter of fact, her name is still all up in the muphuckin’ mix when they’re talking about two of the other godsdamned four.  So yeah, currently 60% of all pop culture news (read: garbage) is about Rihanna.  Shit, a lot of regular news is about Rihanna right now.  On the real, I heard on NPR that if the Supreme Court had struck down the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act that the president was gonna talk that talk, repackage the shit as RihannaCare, and push it right on through Congress.  Yep.

Now properly contextualized, it certainly should not come as a shock that the woman who dominates any media vehicle capable of showcasing an image would also be occupying a lot of real estate in my brain, even without me knowing it.  I mean, that’s the only explanation that I can think of for why she would show up in my dreams, engaged in a loving, committed, and playfully affectionate romance with yours truly.  Well, there’s the fact that she’s a terrifyingly fine ass woman with more sex appeal in her left nostril than most women have in the midst of their most powerful, self-induced orgasms (yep, I’m on to THAT shit), but that’s beside the point.  I am absolutely not a Rihanna stan.  I appreciate her as an artist, as a personality, and as a beauty, but I in no way suffer from the illusion that I possess some kind of personal relationship with Ms. Fenty.

Still, the mental experience of having said relationship felt AMAZESAUCE.  It seemed so real in fact that I decided to write a song about it…kinda.  Actually, “Robyn’s Song” is really a dedication to Rihanna from a dude who has the same experience that I did, but ends up affected in a fundamentally different way.  Instead of saying, “Wow, that was fantastic.  How sad that my real dating life is somewhat less interesting, but I should really get out of bed now,” he wakes up with a heavy heart and a profound longing for a lost love that never was.  He feels deeply for her, wishes nothing but the best for her, and in his heart and mind, he’s truly linked to this unattainable star.  Meanwhile, she’ll remain the object of his unrequited affection from now until Rihanna turns good again, AKA forever.  Ahhh, love: you gorgeous, horrible, heartbreaking thing.

Here’s hoping that you listen to this with the object of your stalking in mind.  Enjoy, and devil fingers salute!

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F*ck Girls’ Night Out: Part II

Were you listening to me, or were you looking at the woman in the red dress?

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Last time around, I wrote about the stresses of navigating the choppy seas and treacherous winds of the infamous Girls’ Night Out.  If you’ll recall, I made mention of the darkness that is the dreaded Circle of Death, a terrifying feminine fortress that has dashed more men’s hopes than Obama’s first term.  Oh, that circle may look harmless enough, but be ye not fooled.  These sirens‘ greatest joy is to toy with a man, leading him ever closer to their shores until, before he knows it, his ship is splintered on their estrogen encrusted rocks.

Even if you’ve got Travolta’s moves, look like that kid Eggs from Trueblood, and are a certified mack daddy, you might still get totally crossed out.  This leaves a lot of us handsome, skilled dancer types scratching our heads.  “I was polite.  I smiled.  I didn’t stare at her breasts (that much).  Why did she diss me?”

To fully grasp what’s going on here, you’ve got to understand the basic structure of female social group dynamics.  Surprise, surprise, they’re strikingly different from those of males.

Male social groups are organized pretty much like fighter squadrons.  They can execute coordinated attacks, but are completely willing and able to break apart as necessary to accomplish the current mission.  On the other hand, female social groups operate using a totally different configuration.  More often than not, they’re arranged like teams of escort fighters aligned with a single bomber.  Those escorts will fight tooth and nail to protect that bomber, and would rather crash and burn than lose it to the testicularly endowed enemy.

Each group member has a role to play in the sociosexual war, and though the lyrics change from crew to crew, the song remains the same.  Here’s a quick rundown of the usual cast of characters:

  1. Prom Queen –She’s fine and errrbody knows it (including her).  She’s been showered with male attention since junior high and getting hit on is as common for her as misspelled signs are at a Tea Party rally.
  2. Big Mama – Who run it?  Yep, you guessed it.  Big Mama is the matriarch of the group, and while she may not have absolute authority, her opinion is so influential that it’s de facto law.  Basically, she’s the U.S. and her crew is like the U.N.  They can do whatever they wanna do…but there will be consequences.
  3. Runner-Up – She’s kinda cute.  She’s got spunk.  Still, line her up next to Prom Queen and Big Mama, and she’s just not quite there.  Maybe it’s something really small, like her left eye is kinda sleepy.  Or perhaps it’s a glaring deficiency, like a chest so flat its freakin’ concave.  At the same time, she always manages to come up short in battles for leadership: Big Mama’s beak just keeps on pecking the bird shit out of her.
  4. Gotta Man – Who cares.  Kidding.  Her relationship status makes her a wildcard.  She could be your best friend, encouraging her girls to enjoy life to the fullest, living vicariously through them.  Or she could be a spiteful ass hater whose unhappy relationship causes her to view all men through shit colored spectacles.  Dicey.
  5. Ugly Betty – Yeah, so…the name pretty much says it all.  She may be a straight sweetheart, or an acid spewing bitch, but regardless of the multifaceted and richly textured personality within her, we know one thing for certain: babygirl is as ugly as the black unemployment rate.

Wherever she goes, Prom Queen is the center of attention.  When she’s around, heads turn, eyes widen, tongues wag.  The spotlight shines steadily on this scion of Venus and more than a little on anyone around her…which is why her friends are so fiercely protective.  She’s one bangin’ ass bomber and they’re her zealously protective escorts.

If some dude comes along and snatches her up, they’re afraid that they’ll have to kiss the attention leftovers goodbye and prepare for a long, cold winter.  That ain’t about to go down, at least not without a fight.

When a dude enters Prom Queen’s airspace, the escorts immediately fly into defensive formation.  Instead of clearing out to give you room, they remain half an arm’s length away, shooting mind bullets indiscriminately and hoping that the initial barrage alone is enough to dissuade you.  Assuming you bravely continue, they’ll move on to such battle-tested tactics as Intermittent Interruption, in which they make excuses to fuck up the flow of your conversation with crap that not even their nosy ass mother would care to hear.  “I think I found a new spin instructor.  Cortez is fabulous!”  What?!  The fuck outta here with that buuuhlshit!

Anyway, if all else fails, they bring out the big guns.  That’s when someone nonchalantly says, “It’s corny in here.  Let’s go.”  That person is usually Big Mama, and Runner-Up and Ugly Betty are almost always down to follow her nut-crunching lead.  At that point, you can only hope that you’ve fired enough well-placed shots to disrupt communications between Prom Queen and her escorts, enabling you to separate her from her crew and finish the job.  If not, you may as well say your prayers.  ‘Cause you’re gonna die.  When your plane crashes.  Metaphorically.

And that’s too bad.  I really wish women would understand that their pretty friend need not be their only path to attention from the opposite sex.

  • Big Mama, channel all that aggression toward the man at the bar who you’ve been eyeing all night.  Use those huge balls of yours for good, not evil!
  • Runner-Up, realize that to somebody in the room, you’re actually a Prom Queen.  Stop doubting and own your strength and beauty.
  • Gotta Man, let somebody else grab a little piece of happiness, even if you fucked yours all the way up the wrong end.  Be a cockbooster, not a cockblocker!
  • Ugly Betty, I’ll level with you.  Yours is not an angel’s face, but maybe you do have an angel’s heart.  Let it show.  Oh, and usually the ugly girls get like at least one freakishly dope body part, so accentuate the hell outta them breastesses and/or that derriere.  It won’t hurt.

Feel like I missed something?  Want the conversation to continue?  Drop a comment below, hit me up on Facebook, or follow @scissorspeaks on Twitter.

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Always Will?

The Southern Hummingbird

Ever heard Tweet’s “Always Will”?  It popped up on my iPod yesterday and I couldn’t help but play it ’bout fifty-leven times.  The sparse, acoustic guitar-heavy instrumentation combined with the smooth, almost celestial background vocals and Tweet’s heartfelt delivery are guaranteed to get me every time.

Not familiar with it? Here’s the basic gist:

Tweet loves someone, and she believes that this someone loves her.  In fact, she loves this someone so much that she declares that no matter the obstacles in their way, even if the distance between them is literally cosmic in scope, she bets that she “always will.”  And she ratchets the wager up a notch by proclaiming that this someone “always will” love her just as much.  It’s quite touching.  Really.

It’s too bad that it’s probably not true.  I mean, when you really think about it, to how many people have you personally said, “I’ll always love you,” or something similar?  C’mon, be honest.  I’ll wait.  Now how many of those promises rang true like, by the time you finished first semester in b-school?

Exactly.  Even if you meant it with all your heart and soul and being at that time, chances are that by now you’d cringe if you could do a Marty McFly and stand next to yourself when you lovingly whispered that sweet nothing in the ear of your boyfriend of four month’s time on a Holiday Inn couch after Senior Prom in 199X.  Crap, you’d probably even grimace when you think about the last time you said it.  When was that?  Last Valentine’s Day?  New Year’s Eve after that last shot of Henny (or Vodka Redbull for all my white folks)?  Your wedding day?

It’s OK though.  You can’t help it.  Human beings have an unrestrainable need to feel as though they have control over their own futures.  That’s why millions of us faithfully read horoscopes, wear lucky underwear before a big game, and (gasp!) say our prayers.  They’re all just as futile as trying to end interracial dating in Minneapolis or Seattle, but that doesn’t stop us from doing it.  There’s just so much in the world that’s out of our control, whatever little bit we can do to feel that we’ve taken some power back from the Lords of Chaos does our pitiful little souls good.

So we try to will ourselves into infinite romantic love.  I mean, what human condition is a better target for our self-protective efforts than the steamy, shivers-up-the-spine, daydreamy emotion that drives everything we do in our waking moments?  Yeah, I said it.  When we’ve got it, we can dance under water and not get wet, and when we lose it, a lot of us just drown in tears.  Who wants to deal with the latter?  I don’t.  Hell-to-the-damn no!  I saw “The Secret”!  Let’s just speak our love into perpetual existence!  If only it were that simple.

Wish on a star, wish on a full moon—crap, wish me love a wishing well—but love can no more be controlled than thunderstorms, or heat waves, or tectonic plate movements, or [insert force of nature here for dramatic effect].  Even R&B, for all of its syrupy, hyper-optimistic expositions on the subject, grudgingly recognizes this as the truth.  Think “I Keep Forgettin,'” “I Miss You” (Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes, not Aaron Hall) and the best example: “Love Don’t Love Nobody”.  In the end, when it’s over, it’s over…and more often than not, it doesn’t take death to part you from your lover.  A nice smile or a nice fatty can work just as well, let alone the thousands of miles Tweet was singing about.

Did I convince you?  No?  I doubted that I would.  See, you believe that “real” love is eternal, despite the fact that 50% of U.S. marriages end in divorce and 75% of those who don’t are mostly unhappy.  You believe that sheer will power will keep you in love indefinitely.  You believe that you needn’t worry that your love could simply vanish – FOR NO REASON AT ALL.  And why not?  It feels good, don’t it?  Keep it up.

I bet you always will.

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