• » Name: Meka Soul
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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

I’m Calling Bullshit On Valentine’s Day

I was gonna slap up the other part of Mighty Casey’s reasoning on why we should all vote for Barry to run this half-decrepit country further into the ground this morning, but I realized that today is the Hallmark-sponsored Valentine’s Day. While I’ll spare you the depressingly hilarious details at my own failed attempts at love, it’s somewhat comforting to see that I’m not the only one who can’t get it right for shit as well.

Still for all my overtly-emotional tendencies, I’ve tried to remain optimistic about my chances of landing someone who’s actually dumb enough to step into the world of a semi-anonymous writer that hardly cooks, cleans or talks to them, but has a decent-paying job, no priors or child support payments to make and can deliver the internal hugs like no other. The perfect man, I tells ya.

(For all six women who still read my shit who’d still be happy to place some stank on my hang low, the e-mail’s right under my eyeball.)

Many moons ago, I actually contemplated stepping to the mic on some aspiring rapper shit; that is, until I realized my erstwhile Igbo accent tends to pop up every once in a while (particularly when I’m drunk. Go figure), thus rendering any form of intimidation irrelevant. Thank God(dess) for that Bachelor’s degree collecting dust in my mother’s closet, otherwise it’d probably be nigh impossible for me to land any paying gig outside of Albanian phone sex operator or some wild shit.

In a sense, not being able to rap should have put me in a better place in the game of porking women (boy was I wrong!), as I don’t have to keep a Max Payne-style grimace on my face every single day as if I welcomed the stinging kiss of a bullet across my forehead with open arms. Because let’s face it, people: having a chick on your arm, although inexplicably hypocritical, alludes to some sort of Twinkie middle softness within a rapper.

So if it’s rather quasi to have a wiz (although by the looks of this picture I beg to differ, though it may just be retarded) why the fuck would I take these yentas’ advice on how to treat a woman on Valentine’s Day, as they are always plum to give around this time? It’s one thing to tell me how to handle a ratchet when you rhyme about it, but listening to a Rick Ross of sorts tell me how to woo a (non-existent) lady actually makes me chortle a little bit in my mouth. By that logic, I guess next time I need advice on money management I should look to the wisdom of Dame Dash, right?

I guess if there’s anything to learn from this shit it’s just to do you (not like that) and be yourself. We’re all perfect imperfections in this world, and despite my foul trains of thoughts I still believe there’s someone for everyone out there. Just don’t let these mucklucks tell you how to get them though. We all may not be combinations of Raphael Saadiq and Immortal Technique, but we're all worthy of someone.

Happy Hallmark day, everyone.

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