A Love letter to Sade

Dear Sade,

Ms. Adu you don't know me, not many people do outside of my weed man, a slew of bartenders, and a white stripper named "Cadillac" with gluteal muscles so massive that I keep openly suggesting that there's black folks in her genealogy(or her family fed her nothing but pork products every day since she left the womb), but my name is Humanity F.Critic. If you were to do read my blog, or do a F.B.I background check so extensive that I'm sure rubber gloves massaging my prostate wouldn't be beyond the realm of imagination, it would be as clear as the glass that retards like to lick that I'm not the textbook example of marriage material. To say that I have a history of insensitivity in relationships would be a gross understatement akin to saying that Rosie O'Donnell has a casual affection for snacks and shit, I'm sure that me calling out other women's names during sex would be frowned upon by a classy broad such as yourself. My penchant for leaving money on dressers after sex, eating sandwiches while receiving oral, affectionately calling the wet spot in the mattress that a lover leaves post coitus as a "toxic waste spill", or the words "baby's arm" that I had tattooed on my otherwise unimpressive penis, I know you hear these things and want to run with the surprising speed of a mummy in "Dawn of the Dead".

I'm writing all of this is because I can change, sure there has been women from all walks of life that attempted to rehabilitate me, treating me as if I'm their pet project the same way someone spends weekends rebuilding that old Camaro in their backyard, obviously all of their valiant attempts were thwarted. Well, because I have loved you since the days when I played video games all day and had no clue what the female orgasm was(not much has changed), I feel if there is one woman that could tame me it's you. Like that nun who used to beat my ass in catholic school because she claimed to "care for me deeply", why don't you let love rule in this particular instance? Sure I'm rough around the edges, like that uber feminist that I once dated who refused to shave her fucking mustache, but after you see how deep my love goes for you, it will be like intercourse in broken watch towers- we'll be fucking in no time. Let me give you some brief examples.

I wouldn't make fun of your forehead: One of my flaws, whether I'm dealing with a friend, lover, or family member, is my inability to let a good joke go if it's presented to me. For examples, there is this old man that I've nicknamed "Old Negro Spiritual" who frequents the bar that I go, and the other day he was going on and on about how he hates to see young people wearing their "pants off the ass" as he so succinctly put it. He then said, "I'm glad no child of mine wears that baggy shit, they were raised right goddammitt!!" Immediately I remembered that he has a gay son and how bothered he was by it so I said, "But would you rather have a son that wore clothes two sized too big, or took cock two sized too big for his asshole??" I couldn't resist. I have proven not to have a governor between my mind and my mouth either when dealing with lovers, I dated this girl with a prosthetic leg and called her "Hop-along Cassidy" constantly, an ex-girlfriend who mistakenly felt that she was severely overweight, I'd attempt to coerce money or sex from her by waiving cupcakes and other baked goods in her face, I'm not a good guy. But with you Sade, I won't feel obligated to say shit like "You'll never headbutt me!!", I'll resist the urge to see how many countries I could draw on her forehead, in those heated arguments I wouldn't even suggest that you give back to the community and donate your head as a police issued battering ram. Love, it'll do it to ya..

I'm in love with your work schedule: The one thing that I've always loved about you is that there seems to be no pressure to drop albums every year or so, matter of fact I think you have a definite "I'll drop a fucking album whenever I damn well please" approach to recording. That's where we connect I feel, both of us are lazy perfectionists, and with all the free time together we can do the same shit that normal lovers do. You know, me washing your drawers in a tub by hand like I'm in "The Color Purple" and shit, you denying that I even exist, me waiting up at all hours only to find your ass sneaking in the crib smelling like smoke and effeminate french guys. Good times.

I'd do crazy shit, but out of love of course: I'm probably the only person that enjoys getting stalked, I know that someone hiding in your bushes with a Ninja outfit can be a bit troubling, but I'm a guy so insecure with my sexual abilities any act of eternal devotion is embraced. I never stalked anyone though, not because I didn't want to mind you, but the main reason was because it always seemed like work and I'm just too lazy for such an endeavor. Now with us it would be different sweetie, granted I'd be tailing you in a car that you own and all, but to protect my livelihood you bet your sweet ass I'd stalk you. Not only that, every man that you aren't related to would at least get a tough stare, at most stab with a jailhouse shiv that I made out of one of your high heels. Lastly, I'm not usually into this by the way, but when you aren't around I will sniff your undergarments like I'm trying to get high off of them.


You could talk to me any way you'd like sweetie: One of the most commonly used words that I've used in relationships, outside of "Is it alright if I wipe my dick on your curtains" and "Why did they have to kill cohese!!" as I sobbingly watch "Coolie High", is "Who in the fuck do you think you're talking to!??" Actually, I've said that to men before, pre-fight that is, I guess I like saying those 10 words because I can deliver them with the most accurate pimp delivery this side of Morgan Freeman's performance in "Street Smart" and shit. I'm just allergic to authority, bullshit, and slick talk, so much in fact that if I had a quarter for every time I blew someones words out of proportion I could finally graduate to a higher class of hookers. Not with you dear, I'd suffer in silence as you and your friends openly laugh at the fact that you only give me shit like treadmills and bar-bells for Christmas. That's OK. While we make sweet love I can ignore the fact that you call me a "sweaty black beast" mid coitus, simply regarding your sentiment that you are "getting punched in the stomach" with my gut as the inside joke of lovers. Oh, did I mention that I'd be willing to take you last name?? What do you say sugar-tits, I mean "dear"??

Sincerely Humanity F Critic