Her wit is razor sharp and her writing style is engaging.
He’s the Nigerian E-mail Scam of ex-sorta-boyfriends, trying to seduce me over cyberspace with promises of riches in the real world. Problem is, I’m black and I have a vagina, so my Waiting to Exhale intuition tells me this shit ain’t for real.
Her mother is awesome.
See, Frances does this. We’ll be talking about something FCC-approved for mothers and daughters, like, say, vaginal itch, and she’ll bust in like the emergency broadcasting system with a ‘What kind of birth control do you use’ or and ‘I’ve been celibate for almost a decade’ or an ‘Oh, so you two are just fuck buddies then. Beeeeeeep goes the filial flat line. Dead. She’s got mommy Tourette’s.
She’s me. At the very least, she’s like my BFF.
I don’t feel almost twenty-eight. Not an actual adult, I’m more adult-ish. See, I’m just a girl. An awesome one, of course, but just one. And like so many other little brown girls my age, I believe the problem of loving, lusting, or even “liking liking" someone can be solved with a simple equation: x + y = gtfohwtbs (if “x” ≥ 28 years old and “y” = socially retarded men).
It was so exhilarating for me to read a candid and completely relatable memoir written by someone not much older than me. It’s like being in eighth grade and listening to the older kids talk about their daily lives, both in junior high and high school. You listen to the joys, the heartache, the triumphs with excitement for times to come while wondering how to avoid the future heartbreaks that are inevitable.
She and her best friend are hilarious.
‘Dude, what is your life about!?’ quizzes Gina every morning over IM like the opening bell of a boxing match, startling me into the ring of another Monday. The alarm to starting the day off single.
I don't think Michelle [Obama:] minds bein our new muse. I think she gets it. We little brown girls - drunk off The Cosby Show, sobered up by life, and a little suicidal - we need her.