If I could, I would climb under a rock. That's the only logical way I can think of to avoid the onslaught of articles, primetime TV segments, books, and countless blog discussions lamenting "The Black Man Shortage." (TBMS)TBMS is something like the black girl equivalent of those end of the world movies that come trotting out every three-day weekend to thrill us with CGI effects, remind us of the importance of family, and most importantly, churn out hundred million dollar returns for a big studio. Whenever anyone in media needs some sort of ratings bonanza or send their website's comments section into a frenzy, they-- the most recent being Nightline-- trot out a story about TBMS, a horrific tale of no love and lots of loss that depicts a single Black woman from [insert any urban center here] clinging to a half-empty apple martini, a Louis Vuitton Damier Speedy or a perfectly-coiffed girlfriends.
I watched the Nightline segment on single Black women on YouTube the day after it aired (I was trying to avoid it, but my Belleberry inbox blew up with emails titled "Have you seen this?") I yawned my way through all the stats that I've heard so often they run through my head like a CNN ticker:
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