Every night before bedding down in my boudoir I take time to conversate with my gentleman caller. We pass the hours with conversations about our days, struggles and all the things going on in the world, you know, the steamy shit.
I always go in with the intention that I am going to be a strong contributor, but my man is a thinker and saying he loves to talk is an understatement. This man does not stop with talking your ear off, he goes for the whole fucking face. I love this man, but I will be literally falling asleep, faceplanting on my phone and he is giving me a dissertation on the reproductive cycle of silkworms.
At some point, my brain just CHECKS THE FUCK OUT and leaves my eyes open for show. It runs the shutdown sequence— yawning, glazed eyes and incoherent speech. So much effort taken to signal closure, but it goes unnoticed. He yammers on, happy as a clam to share his views on the industrialization of the nation in the late 1800s.
It’s after midnight and my body is screaming that I have to get my ass up at 6 am to start my day. I know that if I don’t get enough sleep, I will become a demonic beast ready to bite off the head of anyone who dares even look at me. For the safety of the others, I suggest we call it a night.
“Baby I know you are tired, and I appreciate you giving me these last few hours. I just have one last quick question. Really just a simple question, won’t take but a minute to answer. OK?”
“Sure, what is it?” I ask to speed up the departure.
“It’s just really important to me” he assures me.
“Yeah, what is it?” I question again with the hope of sleep on the horizon.
“OK, super simple. How do you feel you can personally solve systematic racism? If you could just detail your strategy and specific tactics to have it solved by the end of the year, that would be great” he says with anticipation.
“You have to be fucking kidding me.” I yawn.
“What, it’s a simple question?” He proclaims confused.
“Goodnight” I declare sternly.
“Fine. Goodnight, racist” he mumbles.
That mother fucker.
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