For far too many well-intentioned souls, New Year’s resolutions are the life-affirmation equivalent of a deadbeat dad telling his kid he’ll be right back before hightailing it to a place only an expensive private investigator can find. Some of you will indeed join a gym, but only a few of you will make it beyond Valentine’s Day. A couple of you will try your hardest to avoid the news at all cost, but ultimately, you’re going to inquire about why we are back in a recession and may have to move to a bunker to avoid being incinerated by way of nuclear blast. And we all know that there is no point in ignoring the Twitter account of President-elect Tropicana Jong-il.
To that end, I’m here to offer some suggestions on resolutions your black self can actually keep. Yes, I’m so selfless. You’re welcome.
’Cause you will be the same ol’ G. Also, this phrase is just annoying.
As novel a concept as “everyone has some good in them” is, if you are black and live in America, you should place your faith in something stronger and more certain, like Rihanna. Some people are irredeemable trash boxes—or, as the people’s champ once described them, a basket of deplorables.
The New York Times’ opinion pages have become a notable hotbed of “They ain't all racist!” folklore about supporters of our dimwitted president-elect. However, a vote for Tropicana Jong-il is either a support of various forms of bigotry or a pointed decision to recognize prejudice and proceed to vote for it anyway. In sum, those people are vile and deserve whatever horror comes their way. What they don’t deserve is nuance, sympathy and people infantilizing them.
I’m a firm believer in letting things happen at the anointed time, not the appointed time. In heathen terms, I am saying stop giving your friends false hope about your finally getting over somebody your friends have long instructed you to get over. All you’re doing is draining them. Don’t say another word about you-know-who until your final answer is “I’m done.”
Let the sexual overtones of your Instagram post speak for itself, beloveds. I’m tired of people using Buddhist quotes as captions for shots of their breasts and butt cheeks.
I don’t get anyone who managed to do this after 2006, let alone 2016, but do yourself a favor and learn to place limitations on how low you’re willing to scroll. This includes my mother, who will beat you to the white meat if you try her son under one of his articles. She legit will knock your ass out in the name of Jesus. I don’t want to bail my beloved mother out of jail, so if you're reading this, just don’t look down there, ma’am.
Two-hundred-dollar-date debates are boring, and most of the sex talk is a smooth decade behind us nonstraights. Look away.
This is more of a cry for help on my end, but seriously, can’t y’all at least try to be no more than 10 to 15 minutes late? I know so many folks who feel punished for being on time. It’s not right, it’s not OK, and though we’re gonna make it anyway, late people still need to try a lil’ harder to be less tardy to the party.
You know, you wouldn't be shocked about people who died around the same time Martin was canceled if you managed to click the link of the article and read it before sharing.
Some people deserve it, so you needn’t feel bad about being the dealer.
Hip-Hop David Koresh is who he is. Accept that the man you met a decade ago is long gone. He is the Rap Ben Carson. That’s it.
Exhale, shoop shoop, and let that dream go.
For the love of God, some of you swear the gospel is found in an image muddied up with text by someone still fighting the battle of how to properly use “your” versus “you’re.”
#Stop #Writing #Like #This #It’s #Mad #Annoying #Yo #Limit #Yourself #To #Three #Per #Post #Pretty #Please.
Michael Arceneaux hails from Houston, lives in Harlem and praises Beyoncé’s name wherever he goes. Follow him on Twitter.