“Well I don’t date ugly people.”

“When I was 19 I spoke without thinking too!”

“How did we even get on this subject? I didn’t know asking you about Thursday’s homework was an intricate flirtation technique!”

“I said I like food, FOOD!”

Then I say, “Well I guess that’s your choice.”

I probably went out like a punk to most of you, but I’ve heard this my whole life.

A guy like myself, who doesn’t follow the idiotic stereotypes of his own race (except for the chicken. I love Chicken!!), looks to meet someone who also feels the same way about their race.

My friends joke with me constantly about how my track record is mostly one-sided, leaning closer to white women than any other. Some might conclude that I don’t prefer to date women of my race, but that’s just ridiculous. I live in Warren. And I can’t help that. But damn if I’m gonna scour the white plains of this backwards town in hopes of finding my ‘Ark Mate’, who will make everything “complete” for me. I don’t chase color.

And as an educated man, I know that it’s completely stupid to push away any one race just for the sake of emotional protection. I find amazing things in most of the people I meet and I couldn’t possibly miss out on that.

It’s unfortunate that I constantly meet these convoluted girls who can turn a heartbreak, a distant father or their mother’s crazy ex-boyfriend into an image that stands as something to avoid. But these are all personal things. These are all things that no one single stranger would know without asking. And this is why I think this is weird. Why do girls feel that they need to tell me? They don’t know anything about me, and yet, their defense against a stranger is to tell him that everything they THINK he is, is not what they want.

I think “I’m not interested” has the same endgame without them sounding like unintelligent frost queens that think every black guy is some type of threat to their “immaculate” chastity.

Women who see love and relationships through this jaded and ambiguous lens can force feed their irreconcilable BS right into their backends. My calm demeanor is only held by my strict upbringing that taught me how to treat women. Just because I’m a man of color, it doesn’t mean a woman’s body is some sort of red flag that I need to rush at like a bull. What’s the point of Lex Luthor using Kryptonite against Clark Kent when he hasn’t even opened his shirt yet?

For anyone who reads this, just know that even the simplistic forms of “shutting someone down” can have negative response by the other person. But to avoid looking like a orney, half-wit, think about what you say and how a person is gonna react to a slight of racism. But if you don’t care, then you probably didn’t read this far anyway. In that case, good riddance.

Oh and by the way, the girl who told me that she didn’t date black guys was black also.

So I’ve had some serious writer’s block lately. And because of that I’ve thought a lot about why I chose journalism as my major.

I used to just want to write stories, elaborate, intricate action love stories about underdogs who beat the odds and get the girl. Nothing felt clearer than that concept.

Save the cheerleader, save the world, I thought.

Then I changed things up, almost suddenly. I just woke up one day and switched my degree program from English to Journalism.

I thought back to what was going on in my life at the time…

It was the spring of 2011 and I was single and pursuing a girl who didn’t want to be pursued. It was a classic story in most cases. If it was Shakespeare, I would have practiced all sorts of courting moves and probably wore some uncomfortable tights. I would have had these long, intricate declarations that exposed my exact feelings in iambic pentameter. She would have swooned under my romantic approach.

But this wasn’t the case for me.

It was more like, “Hey we kissed while we were drunk…does that mean anything to you? Because It means a lot to me.”

Eat your heart out Romeo…

The chase, as juvenile as it seemed, got tiring. And even though I didn’t give up the possibility that my close friend would finally see me as her one-and-only, I kind of gave up on the love story. I stopped using my imagination to propel an unreachable concept. And because of that, I guess the idea of writing fictional stories became dismal. So you can say in 2010, in my effort to get out of an emotional ditch, I dropped the fantasy and bought some reality.

I wrote a post called Orange Mustangs, and in it I say, “I used to write love stories, now I write the truth.” I thought it was clever, until I realized that my own failed pursuits of love have completely shutdown a part of me that used to thrive.

This doesn’t mean I don’t believe in falling in love. Now it just seems like a bi-product of just being around a person, who likes being around you. It’s not something magical. I feel like back in the day I was like a caveman that saw his first sunset and thought it was something unique and great. But now I know that the world rotates on an axis and it revolves around the sun, giving the sun the illusion that it’s “setting” even though it really isn’t going anywhere…it’s all science. But I’d pay to think it was magic again.

Whenever you speak I can’t help but think about James Bond Super-Villain Xenia Onatopp, Linka from “Captain Planet” and Bruce Wayne’s Ballerina date in “The Dark Knight”. This makes me want to talk to you. Maybe even ask you to say “Moose and squirrel”.

You may be offended by my forward nature at first, but I promise that my charm will excite you. And if that doesn’t work, just know that I can recite every song from Fox Animation’s hit musical “Anastasia”. Liz Callaway has nothing on me.

If we ever had a chance to get a drink, I know of a great place where vodka flows like water and the people are red friendly. No worries, there’s no more scares. Of course there was that spy Anna Chapman that was hanging around, but my friends and I are willing to exchange the basking of your beauty and voice for any qualms you may or may not have with our country. I don’t have any friends with nuclear launch codes either way, so I think were good.

So I hope this letter gets to you my beautiful Russian doll. If not, there has to be a mobster around a harbor somewhere I can pass it to. I know how much they look forward to us Americans meeting their women. Talk to you soon!

Sincerely,

Emmanuel Smith

Picture enclosed

Looks just like you!!

I woke up in a warm sweat, drenched in my own failed memories. I never thought a brand of vehicle and an innocent color would ever haunt me, but there it is.

Orange Mustangs! Orange Mustangs!

This nightmare was brought to me by a girl I can’t mention. If I do, she might see this and call me once again to say, “How dare you tell my friends about my business!”

That statement is just confusing. Aren’t friends supposed to know about your personal life? I guess the Hennessy I had drank large amounts of, misunderstood this rule and spilled the beans. Like no one else drunk dials…

But the cat did have my tongue. I was unable to retort about her lack of commitment, emotional distance or continued connection with her ex. I just took it, like a bitch. So in a way, she got the last word. But in another way, I did. She doesn’t have a blog.

This will all come back around eventually and I will probably hear something negative from someone, but just know, I have a point, and that point is love. Two people can’t fall in love if the other person is unsure about how they feel. In this girl’s case, she wanted new love, but only because she was running away from a failed love.

I was just a rebound that stayed bounded for a lot longer than I should have been. And in that time, I was able to learn wonderful things about a smart, responsible, and funny girl, who has beautiful hair and an addictive personality. It was just unfortunate that her ghosts and skeletons were too powerful for us to battle.

I guess this is just my short lesson to you. Listen to your heart. If things don’t feel right, they’re probably not. If you meet someone who already has their glass full, then they’ll be less likely to let you fill it with your loves, interests or dreams.

I have returned for another semester of college.

I make that statement like there should be music in the background, but it’s really not that exciting. This is what I’ve done since fall of 09′ and I’m ready…really, really ready to be done.

A couple of opportunities stand ahead of me in the world of journalism. The school paper that I thought I was laid-off from, didn’t actually lay me off…they just switched editors. So I’m still employed and have the chance to become a Staff Writer, instead of just a contributing one. That means I can be paid.

Go ahead and raise your fist in the air on that one.

I’ll be one step closer to being an Entertainment superstar and finally getting invited to the Oscars. I’ll conduct red carpet interviews, flirt at after parties and most likely get fired for being part of some Columbian sex scandal I’ll never admit to. Damn, I can’t wait.

And I know it’s hard. It’s hard to be cocky and confident, unafraid to fall or misstep. It’s hard to write something down that seems almost impossible to do, then actually do it. But it has to happen. Too many great people sit idly at the bottom and never explore what can make them a stronger.

There’s too much wasted talent and way too many wasted words out there. I know this personally. Other than putting down the typical resolutions of saving money and exercising more, I also wrote down making more music and finishing a short story. This, and anything else I put my mind to can be attained if I just go for it. If you trust yourself and follow your heart, I don’t see any New Year goals being unachievable.

P.S. I also put down I needed to be cooler. Not temperature-wise, but Frank Sinatra, Billy Dee Williams, George Clooney cool.  Watch out 2012!

Some of you are just heading to a local bar, somewhere around the corner, ear distance from the sound of your own children. You thought about heading to a bigger venue, but you remembered the times before and how crazy things were. You’re older now so you know it’s ok to party like a conservative. You’ll leave you’re 3 children in the care of the neighbors kid, who you really don’t trust. You can’t put you’re finger on it, but you can’t help to smell the faint scent of cannabis every time she comes over to borrow duct tape. The whole gang will be at the bar. Your co-workers, your neighbors, your ex’s. The festivities will include Maud’s famous pot roast and potato buffet, along with Mr. Changs Chinese Champagne at midnight. Carl from down the street will be there with his biker friends, hogging the jukebox for most of the night. They’ll play all the hits from 78′, and every Greatful Dead song they can find. Ashley, the notoriously lascivious waitress, will be there, looking her best, acting as the party’s Bettie Page, schmoozing the old men and pissing off the ladies. She’ll be wearing the most ridiculously tight black dress that you’ve ever seen. And you, along with your significant other and everyone else in the bar, will never believe she’s 63 with 5 kids. Classics never  get old.

Midnight will come and you’ll kiss your love. You’ll have some shots, jam to “Red Solo Cup” or something from the Jackson 5. You’ll have a mediocre time and be in bed before the cops begin to lurk the streets. Congrats to giving in.

Then some of you are heading to a club or gala event. Something over-the-top, expensive, maybe even exclusive. You’ve worked your ass off all year, probably studying a subject that you hate, or working for a prick boss that under-appreciates you. And because of this, you’ve finally decided to give yourself the opportunity to go all out and get wild. You’ll leave your younger siblings or relatives at home and angry at the fact that they can’t go party with you, even though you both spilt a fifth of pomegranate Burnett’s last week. The limo bus will stroll to the front of your home and you’ll climb in to hear 15 of your bestest friends, who are already drunk, screaming your name. You’ll take pictures holding bottles of liquor you can never afford and you’ll hi-five more in the first 15 minutes of the ride than you have all year. Everyone will be dressed like their heading to the Oscars, and you’ll look no different. People who you never thought could clean up on their best day, are suddenly sexy and stunning, posting things like, “Anything can happen tonight!” and “I can’t wait for a midnight kiss!” on their Facebook pages. The event will be an over-hyped display of everything the world hates about America. Beautiful people, super DJ’s that listen to themselves DJ when their not DJing, premium drinks no one knows how to pronounce correctly and a Top Chef buffet filled with exotic foods that you’ll lie about eating in some made-up story about a trip to Tokyo in 05′. You’ll dance all night, shoes will be off by 11:30 and that person, who you’ve wanted to kiss all year, will be right next to you when Ryan Seacrest begins the countdown. You’ll make magic and party senseless for the 4 hours afterwards, till you climb back into the Limo and into the arms of the person you shared that kiss with. Congrats, you lived.

I’m not sure which one any of you will be tonight, or if your already out and unable to read this. Just know that when your old, all you have is your memories. Nothing great ever happened when people played it safe. If your year was shit. Do yourself a favor…go all out. Even if that means you get drunk, call Ashley the Waitress a whore and take over the jukebox and force everyone to get up with you to do the Cupid Shuffle. Take chances, make mistakes, get messy. Ms. Frizzle couldn’t have been more right.

I scroll up and down my Facebook newsfeed, and look in disgust and how many places are “crowed as hell” or “Busy as f*@#!”. I think my procrastination has dug me into a hole I can’t easily climb out of. I will have to face the people. I will be in Target soon, shoulder to shoulder with angry, impatient, snaggle-toothed headhunters, who would sell their first-born for a deal on an Xbox 360 or a Desperate Housewives Definitive Box-set. The mad rush of hungry, tired and stressed out shoppers creates an environment a lot like the Serengeti…and I’m a little scared.

I don’t want a repeat of Wednesday. So I’m listening to the Charlie Brown Christmas album, attempting to overload myself with holiday cheer. That way I can walk in the store like an Xmas “T-1000″, and run to the gifts and get out of there as soon as possible. I might even have time to turn my hand into a knife and take a punk ass down hard…if need be.

“Feliz Navidad…bitch.”

Hopefully, it won’t come to that and everything will be cool. But if you hear on the news about a brawl in target, caused by a man in a cop uniform with a butter knife tapped in his hand, word to Shaggy, it wasn’t me.

Happy Holidays!

I love Christmas but I really dislike people. Not in the stuffy claustrophobic type of way, where I’m sidestepping everyone, hoping to not be touched. Ok who am I kidding? That’s exactly what I mean. Does that make me weird?

If so, just imagine this.

You walk into the grocery store around noon, hell-bent on making the quickest exit you can. You have your list, you have your expert strategy and you the eye of the tiger. The Rocky theme starts as the automatic doors open. You grab your cart and to your surprise…all four wheels work. Your thinking to yourself, “This might actually go well.”

But your optimism dooms you, because time you turn the corner you find a cart traffic jam. Three babies are mindlessly swinging their arms and feet while their mom is chatting on the phone with their father, who apparently forgot to put Chase’s “binky” in the bag today. Two pimple-faced teenagers look on as an elderly couple attempts to “sign” their way by, not knowing that the trophy wife with the leggings and the Northface bubbly jacket only listens to one person…her Swedish personal trainer and lover Gunnar Björnstrand.

So your there skirmming passively, trying not to be rude, but at the same time your trying to show authority. So you begin to ease close, putting your right hand up as you pass, signaling that your waypoint is well intended. But since no one is paying attention you get locked up in between the old folks and the kicking kids. You suddenly feel closed in and trapped. You think about the movie “Total Recall” and how Douglas Quaid felt when he woke up from Mars. You didn’t want to kick and fight anyone and get sedatives shot in your leg by some kid half your age. So you stay and wait…in the mess, brooding silently while a 4 year old tries to hand you his soggy sucker stick. Merry F’in Christmas.

So am I still weird?

Now I can blog with ease…preferably in my pajamas.

I won’t lie, I wrote those two sentences two hours ago and I’ve contemplated either eating a bologna sandwich or a bowl of oatmeal. This vacation has already gotten a hold of me.

I plan on using the next couple of weeks to formulate some sort of artistic step-ladder to get my ass in gear. I have a whole bunch of music to make, pictures to take and experiences to document.

Next week, I’ll have a special Manny’s Key to Success New Year’s Eve edition. For now, I will be off to make a PP&J/Oatmeal combo and start watching the rest of the 1st season of “The Big Bang Theory”. More to come folks.