I'm back in motion, honeybees, but not running at full capacity. I still have an intermittent cough and when I'm not at work I've been keeping myself on bedrest so that I can recover sooner than later. You'd think with all this resting, I'd be able to get some new blogs going but the lack of interaction with the outside world has slowed my creativity to a crawl. Luckily (depending on your perspective), I met up with He, a man I've heard about before and read about in Essence but never experienced for myself. My conversation with He is the source of today's blog.
He is a black man who doesn't date black women. Like Santa said in the M&M commercial when he discovered talking, melt-in-your-mouth-but-not-in-your-hands candy was real, "they do exist!"
As some of you know, I've been working on a book for ... well, a long, long time (finishing it is how most of my bedrest has been spent). I met with an old acquaintance I've crossed paths with several times to discuss some new possibilities related to that project.** He's an amazingly resourceful college grad with a newly minted Ivy degree. His favorite show is about a white radio psychiatrist and his family and He prefers rock to hip-hop (it's all about money, gunplay and hoes, according to He). In rock, it seems every song tells a story. He is from Uptown and in his mid-twenties. He is tall, witty, decidely attractive, crisply attired the times I've encountered him, but alas, not my type. Aside from our conversations never escalating beyond pleasantries, that's why I never hit on him. And well, now I know why he never hit on me.
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