I don’t care if I say, “I just wrote a blog post about the migratory habits of sea snails with hip dysplasia.” There are only two acceptable responses:
- I can’t wait to read your blog post.
- I’m dumb as a box of rocks and only read ice cream labels while sitting on the toilet, but I can’t wait to read your blog post.
Keywords: “I can’t wait to read your blog post.”
Never mind that the blog post might be poorly written. Never mind that you don’t give a damn about sea snails … you best give a damn about the things I do. Caring about that is caring about me.
And if you do not care about me, you are not for me in any capacity beyond casual acquaintance. This applies to everybody. My woman. My doctor. My homie. My mother. My father.
I didn’t always think like this. Especially not about women. Hoe was life. I just wanted what looked good, and kudos if what looked good didn’t want me. Changing somebody’s mind was the greatest accomplishment of all. It didn’t matter if what I got didn’t last, I just wanted to win … something. Basically I was on some other shit. I wouldn’t have even SEEN what I have today.
But ever since I started thinking this way (Shout out to my therapist!), I’ve expected to be treated this way, and damn if my expectations aren’t being met (Besos!). I’m starting to feel astounded I was ever any different. Seems like hoe was life because I had so many empty spaces to fill.
Now, I’m not saying I regret anything I’ve done. At one point, I was having a great deal of fun. I highly doubt I’d have gotten as far in life as I have without those experiences. No pain, no gain, right?
I’m just writing this to share with my 12 readers (okay, maybe six) that I’m really glad I’m no longer empty.
And I’m betting yall are really happy for me. And ecstatic this shit aint about sea snails.
You know a mufucka LOVE you if they read something you wrote about sea snails.