Redemption of a Dumped Girl

So I was single this week. For like a day.
That sh-t hurt.

I could feel the "lets just be friend's" floating
in background of our conversation on Wednesday
night.

You know that feeling you get, when it just
seems like, "You know what, he just don't love
me the same?"
Well, it came out. There we were, two legally trained
negro's going for the each other's juggler.
That argument was more intractable than
a congressional debate on slavery
reparations, no compromise.

I wish it on no one.
To be fair. He was ambivalent about it about making
the call. I was just in the middle of one of those,
"It shouldn't be this hard, why is it like this?" rants.

He just swooped in with "Your right, maybe friends
is the way to go." Now, after last year, with
The Graduate and BL, my position is that a
dude chooses you.

If he wants you around, he wants you around,
and if he doesn't he doesn't. It's as simple as
that. So I didn't put up a fight.

I was also grappling my desire to write more mainstream.
This thought was triggered by the fact that the Post
just started publishing a new "BLACK" online
magazine. When I first learned about it I was juiced.
Like yeah, maybe I can pitch them some freelance work.

THEN. I went to the site. I was like man, this is like
Slate lite for negros. No criticism. No analysis.

Yesterday, Illiam was going on and on about Michelle Malakin
and I felt myself getting jealous. She brown, fly and has a
mainstream gig.

This morning,with Michelle on my mind and my desire to
do work around the transparency of public school budgets,
I searched and found a study comparing budget disparities in
Oakland Public Schools. Then I thought, why don't I create
a map overlaying average teacher salaries, current murders,
and home foreclosure for the purposes of showing how
these three things are interconnected? I felt good.

So I got up from my desk and walked to a private area
to call SJ. When I walked back, there was a vase of flowers
sitting there. I thought to myself, why people gotta leave
THEY FLOWERS on my desk. Then I saw my name on the card.
He sent them to me.

I was speechless.
I was disarmed.
I was no longer angry.

With that simple gesture he said to me and others,
I love her. She is worth surprising.

Then I turned to my g-mail and found this note from a reader which said,

As an English minor, I'm captivated by your writing style that combines prose and blank verse: it's a powerful format that punches your ideas into the reader. I read things on your blog that sometimes take me a few days to deconstruct my paradigm and then construct the one from which you wrote but doing this enlarges my soul....

(I had to google blank verse.)

And Poof.
Just like that the tumultuous week, full of
uncertainty ended.

The writing doubts dissipated.

The drive to have intense reparation like
arguments ceased.
Speechless is good. *wink*

(By Saturday sh-t was back to looking questionable.
The emotional arms race was back on and poppin'
and I was hesitant to even post this for fear of it being inapplicable.
But I'm going to go ahead and step out on faith and be vulnerable.
This post is my effort at disarmament.)

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When was the last time you had one
of those conversation's that made things
exponentially worse?

How do you deescalate arguments?

Whats worse being the dumper/dumpee?

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