My face has a certain "look"...

I’ve been told that I have a look that says, “I like black guys.” So does my best friend…and don’t get me wrong... we do…we really do.

But it’s a weird thing to hear from random passersby, “You like black guys don’t you?”

Granted, it probably doesn’t help that I’m usually screaming, “Yeah…uh huh… you want it!” to these random passersby as I grab my love junk, which is either my boobs/ass/belly or a combination of the three, depending on my level of intoxication.

And for the record, I’m usually joking when I say that…usually.

Now the real question is: what is the “look?” What exactly is it about me that says “I am a lover of dark chocolate/fried chicken/majority of the Waynes brothers?”

Can strangers just tell that I’ve been watching “In Living Color” since I was seven? Or that my panties get all in a twist when someone buys me a 40? (Preferably a Hurricane.) Or the fact that I have a preference when it comes to 40’s, which means one could safely assume that I’ve consumed more than type of malt liquor on multiple occasions? Preferable when I’m watching “Intervention.”

… I’m sorry but there is no other way to watch “Intervention” than a 40 in one hand, and a crack pipe in the other… it’s better than porn…ha, who am I kidding there is nothing better than porn…nothing.

And why is it that I cannot see the “look” within myself, yet I can see the “look” in others? However, I can see the black guy in me… actually that’s a lie… it’s usually too dark for me to tell.

My best friend and I have deduced that it is more of an essence than a look. An essence of sass one could say. It cannot be seen, only felt… and it feels oh so good.

There are three types of men that like obnoxiously sassy girls: 1. The hobo on uppers down the street, 2. Gay guys, and 3. Black men. And um, I’m a little obnoxious (if you haven’t already noticed) so why wouldn’t I love all three? They are FABULOUS!

White guys like obnoxiously sassy girls too, it’s just the majority of white dudes don't know how to handle them. Probably because we are wild and free, like the unicorns running rampant in your minds.

Hence, the “I look like I like black guys” look.

This better become a real fucking show.

I've never laughed so hard in my life.

I'm digusting...but you should be too, asshole.

My parents think I’m disgusting. I don’t know why though.

However, I will say this: if it was socially acceptable to not brush my teeth on a regular basis…I so wouldn’t.

Gah. It’s just so fucking annoying, and you have to do it like what? Four days a week? Jesus Christ, it’s like a fucking full-time job.

Next thing you’ll tell me, I’m supposed to lather, rinse and REPEAT. Um, fuck that noise.

And don’t even get me started on deodorant. Am I right McConaughey? Am I right? It’s a biological fact that we all have a specific scent, and we are thus attracted to other people’s specific scents.

By covering our body with unnatural scents like cologne/ perfume/ febreeze we have unintentionally continued the vicious cycle of divorce/failure/Jenny Craig.

You can fake happiness all you want, but in god’s name, you better not fake your own goddamn scent.

Doesn’t the percentage of marriages that end in divorce make so much more sense now? Lying about our scents has forced us to lie to our significant others about monogamy/your late night trip to Quiznos /your penis size, until we wake up one morning to the musty smell of lies and flatulence.

“I think we need a divorce.”

“What? Why?”

“You smell like dick.”

All weather is lie-related. Don’t you get it? Denial causes lightning; masking a scent causes humidity. Just look at the world you’ve creating by just applying deodorant once a day. Can you live with yourself? I sure hell hope you can’t.

Don’t act like you’re so surprised, you knew what you were doing every time you sprayed your cologne/perfume you fascist bastard. Complaining about this heat wave? Oh wait; it’s your fucking fault.

I just blew your mind didn’t I?

Good.

I'm not that much of a heartless bitch...

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Obsessed with this dude...

Sexually that is.

It's going to happen, I swear...

I can’t wait until religious channels sell their souls and start producing reality TV…let’s be honest it’s only a matter a months before you’re flipping through your TV guide when this gem of a show pops up….

Check it.

“Pregnant Sister with No Mister.”

The show opens with a balding British man staring ominously into camera, “Is this nun bearing Jesus Christ? Or is she just a whore in a habit…tune in next week to find out if Sister Mary Lisa is in fact the next mother of God….or if she is just another statistic.”

Oh god…I just peed a little.

Or what about… “Joseph and His 12 Under-Aged Wives Idol”?

It would be the Mormon polygamist version of American Idol. The 12 girls have to compete with each other to be the number one wife (out of the 12)….and our votes decide the winner.

Ryan Seacrest or as I like to call him…El Diablo… saunters onto the stage only to giggle and announce the next contestant.

“He married 12 girls and you, America, decides these poor unwilling contestants fate.…Up next, Mary Sue, 16, whose going to sing a little diddie by a girl named Taylor Swift.”

Only for you to roll your eyes and turn to your best friend/mom/cellmate and exclaim…

“I can’t believe that bitch thinks she can sing….Jesus Christ… I’m voting for Eunice.”

WAIT! WAIT! WAIT!

What about….”What Would Jesus Do…on drugs?”

Except Jesus isn’t really Jesus but… some illegal immigrant named Jesus (pronounced Hey-Suce)…and someone just follows him with a camera while he does drugs/stupid things/eats pickles….kind of the male version of Snooki.

And for the Jews!

Temptation Synagogue.

Ten Jewish Bachelorettes fight to the death for the love and prestige of marrying their local…and exceptionally hot Rabbi.

“Oi…I like my men jewie, circumcised and slightly smaller than average…those bitches better watch out or I’ll go all Fran Drescher on their asses…fucking whores.”

Oh god…I need a life.

Yes, I know... something is wrong with me...

I sometimes have to wonder whether or not if I actually do have a stage-5 clinger on my hands…or is this just some nightmare I’ve concocted in my head to avoid any level of commitment (with the opposite sex) yet again.

I have said it once….and I’ll sure as hell say it again…commitment makes me want to vomit. I just can’t jump on that commitment boat… it ‘s just to icky…

But I have to admit, my “love” life follows a very specific pattern:

Girl meets Boy. Boy is enchanted by the amount of racial slurs Girl is able to spew out in one hour. Girl is equally impressed by Boy constantly buying her drinks. Boy and Girl hook up. Girl says she only wants something casual. Boy agrees. Boy then says he can see this turning into a relationship. Girl excuses herself from the room. Boy reaches out constantly to Girl via text/phone calls/emoticons. Girl blatantly ignores texts/phone calls/emoticons. Boy is forced to give up. Girl is happy, once again.

There is something wrong with me and I wholeheartedly admit that. As soon as guys start saying shit like, “You’re so pretty”… “You’re so beautiful”… “I’m kind of kinky.” I bounce the fuck out of that situation. And I bounce the fuck out real quick.

It’s not that I see relationships as a bad thing…well actually that’s total horse shit…I definitely see them as a bad thing, for myself that is.

And don’t give me that, “You have to love yourself, before you can allow yourself to be loved” bullshit. Because believe me…I love myself… a lot. I think I’m awesome. And cute as a mother fucking button and quite honestly I don’t need a dude constantly telling me that.

…and seeing as I have the maturity level of a 5 year-old…a boy constantly telling you that you’re pretty is my definition of a “mature relationship.”

Will I ever grow up? Will I ever want to be “loved?” Did writing “loved” make me vomit?

Who knows…except for the last question…which was a resounding “yes.”