Dear Pickmesha Jones,
I don’t hope you’re having a blessed today. I hope your bonnet fell off when you were sleeping, and your hair rubbed against some cotton sheets, so your twist out looks like it went through electroshock therapy. If you’re not a fro-popping sister, I hope your wiry strands fall out at each brush stroke.
May your edges require the help of baby Jesus, but he doesn’t have time for your shenanigans nor your ashy-peen-itis.
You may be wondering why I’m here today. I wonder too as you probably lack the ability to comprehend what this letter is meant to convey.
But I’m being childish, and I’ll stop.
In short, I’m here to save you from yourself. Sis, your “pick me” ass ways have to stop. This is a cease and desist letter. May you only need one to get it together.
“Pick me?” You’re probably wondering what that means. It means that you wake up every day with a thirst for attention from the same misogynist piece of shits who will pass you up for the same women you try–and often fail–to belittle.
These specific men don’t like you, love. They don’t care if you stay home and watch reruns of Martin instead of clubbing. He’s texting you how much he thinks you’re cool and down to earth for not being a club slut while bending over Brenda in the same club.
You don’t wear makeup, weave or form-fitting clothes because he thinks that’s for hoes, and you agree so you dress like Whoopi from Sister’s Act 2–you also share her lack of eyebrows because haysoos is petty–but his woman crush and the women he pines for? None of them look like you boo.
You shunned the nice dates, and the romantic gestures because you settled for a six-piece nugget combo from Mcdonalds–not even ten girl?–a shabby blanket in a gnat filled lawn somewhere and uncomfortable sex in a 1996 Honda just so he could wife you for your “low maintenance.”
Yet, you’re still single like the rest of us girl. And you got bite marks and bad knees now to boot.
These men are never wrong to you boo. You side with them on topics that adversely affect you, but you want to be “cool” and “one of the boys” so bad, that you go against your sisters. But even though think you’re one of the boys, you’re still not a boy, you’re not one of his boys–you’re a woman. And a boy just like his boys that you were so desperately and pathetically trying to be is going to disrespect you in a sick twist of irony on something that YOU sided with them about.
Because they don’t care about you love. You’re just an enabler of their shitty ways.
You’re a means to an end.
You burst through the walls, screaming your sexist rants, and cosigning their misogynistic, pseudo-intellectual, anti-progressive drivel while proudly pointing at yourself. Your “Pick me please!” is unspoken, but it is loud.
But they never pick you love. They never pick you.
And as for you sir.