MNR: Diced Pineapples
Something about her, probably can’t live without her...
If you’re under thirty, happily single, and in no way prepared to handle the complexities of a committed relationship, feel free to read along, but this wisdom isn’t applicable to you. Not yet. Shit, I encourage you to try your best to cut errthang moving that delights the stirring within your young loins. Get that body count up my nigga. Two things: if you lie on it, always lie down to seem like less of a man whore to inquiring ladies (don’t lie [up] on your dick), and just be safe. They got the science down to a single pill a day. You may very well outlive others your age who are otherwise healthy. Your levels can get low enough that they’re undetectable and you won’t pass it off to a partner. But it’s still present. It IS the monster. Be safe. Wrap that shit up or get a thorough Pussy Fax report on her. And remember, Valtrex only diminishes the frequency of herpes cycles, but don’t get it twisted. Herpes are forever. Hopefully I’ve just scared the living shit outta your dumb ass. But I was once young, dumb, and horny AF. Getting sick was always in the back of my mind (and front) but my chubby down below said fvck that (my double entendres are amazing, let me tell it), and I always got accurate Pussy Fax reports. I’m not implying I went boogums err time. I wore my prophylactics way more than I didn’t. I’m just saying...Now, back to regularly scheduled programming. For those of us who are in committed relationships and plus thirty, stop playing with her and put a ring on it. I’m not just saying this because I did it. This has been my philosophy since back when, way before I knew Brandi was my queen. I was raised in a devout Christian environment where prudent wisdom said to never shack up, or live with a woman without commitment (marriage). I was also told to “give that girl a name” if I felt that she was the one for me. I am a firm believer in both but I will say that in 2019 marrying a person before getting a fairly accurate depiction of how they live and without prior coexistence can be a big gamble. But I still believe it’s the way to go from a moral standpoint (says Mr. Morals himself). I know, I know. As a nigga, you prolly feel like why should I have to marry her if she already knows I love her, that she’s the one for me, and we already holding shit down? Because it’s about her, dumbass. End of the day, it’s because she deserves it. She holds it down. In every way. She stuck by a nigga through it all. And she loves you unconditionally. Since she was a child the idea of marriage has been drilled into her mental whether at home, in culture, society, or on the screen. The sad part is that in every other culture marriage is a given. It’s a definite part of the plan, if for nothing more than tradition or as a “beard”. You can get diverse groups of ten random men per race other than the asiatic Black man in a room, each age 35 or better, and I guarantee eight out of ten are married or have been married at least once, kids or no. But for reasons of familial separation that (of course) date back to slavery, a lot of our views on commitment and matrimony are extremely fvcked up, from the Rolling Stone Theory to the idea of the player and his sexual conquest of the female species. It basically boils down from not really or never knowing pops to only seeing him in the streets or wherever he lives from time to time. Both suck, and paternal separation has far reaching consequences. It fvcks a kid’s head up forever, both male and female. A lotta of us know exactly how that feels. Some of us triumph, through it all. Some don’t. Either we we all gotta live with it. But many of us men pick up the same damn habit our pops had and do the exact same abandonment shit to our chirren. Anyway, they’re not the only group of us at fault. A lot of us get everything right except for the ring. We hold shit down. Her, the kids, errthang. I’m saying. Yes. Y’all good niggas for that. Damn good niggas. I salute y’all err day. But make her great. Give that woman a name. Let her shine on these bird ass bitches outchea and inspire her sisters. I hate the term baby mama when it’s not applicable. If you lay with her and she holding it down she’s your wife. Give her the precious gem and the piece of paper to confirm it. And if you can, let her walk that isle like Ric Flair in Starcade ‘86. She’s the main event. She’s your everything. Besides, it’s an excellent way to get a new tux, a bunch of gifts and a bomb ass after party. Not to mention a trip somewhere for a week with nothing to do but have brilliant (raw) sex, wine and dine, and enjoy the town. Black excellence is what I’m talking. Ossie and Ruby Dee. Archie and Mary (my maternal grandparents). Barack and Michelle. George and Weezy. Martin and Gina. It’s my time, y’all. Catch me at the intersection of Ebony Junction and Cheeba Avenue. Water.