Modern Relationships: Twenty Dudes on Standby, a Nonexistent Sex Life, and Somehow I'm the Problem 💀
I come before you today as a profoundly perplexed gentleman, an exhausted observer of human behaviour, and an unwilling participant in what can only be described as the most elaborate romantic circus ever devised by mankind.
Because for the life of me, I simply do not friggin' git it wit deez hoes💀
Allow me to elaborate.
Once upon a time, a committed relationship was a relatively straightforward arrangement.
Two individuals, mutually enamoured, would voluntarily forsake the romantic advances of others and devote their affections, loyalty, and intimate companionship exclusively to one another.
A splendid concept, really. Quite civilised. A mutually beneficial agreement founded upon trust, reciprocity, and a reasonable expectation that neither party would be entertaining an entire fucking football team behind the scenes.
BUT NAH, BRUH.
Somewhere along the evolutionary trajectory of modern romance, somebody apparently rewrote the entire goddamn constitution without notifying the male participants.
A BROTHER DIDN'T EVEN GET THE MEMO. 💀
You see, a man enters a relationship under the charming impression that he has been chosen. That he is, in fact, the victorious gentleman who has emerged triumphant from the competitive arena of courtship.
He believes himself to be the exclusive recipient of his beloved's romantic affections.
Little does the poor bastard know that he's merely been promoted to Employee of the Month, while approximately twenty other gentlemen remain on the reserve roster, patiently awaiting his inevitable dismissal.
AND BOY, LEMME TELL Y'ALL SUM'N ABOUT THIS HERE ROSTER. 😭
There's Marcus from the gym, who apparently just wants to "check in."
CHECK IN ON WHAT, MY NIGGA? SHE AIN'T IN THE HOSPITAL. GO CHECK YOUR TIRE PRESSURE OR SUM'N.
There's Jason from university, who has maintained a suspiciously enthusiastic interest in her emotional wellbeing for seven consecutive years.
SEVEN YEARS, BRUH?
This man has demonstrated a degree of perseverance that would put the most accomplished military strategists to shame.
BRO BEEN WAITIN' LONGER THAN A DAMN GOVERNMENT PENSION. 💀
Then there's her "work husband," a designation whose very existence ought to be subjected to immediate parliamentary scrutiny.
WORK HUSBAND?!
EXCUSE ME, MADAM?
Since when did the institution of matrimony introduce a corporate franchise system?
Does this gentleman contribute towards our mortgage? Does he pay the electricity bill? Is he legally obligated to attend family gatherings?
NAH, HE JUST BE SITTIN' NEXT TO HER AT LUNCH TALKIN' BOUT "THAT'S MY WORK WIFE."
BOY, GET YO ASS BACK TO THAT SPREADSHEET. 😭
And then, of course, we encounter the most formidable gentleman of them all.
The ever present, omnipotent, indestructible "guy best friend."
A remarkable specimen of masculine patience, whose unwavering devotion to this woman has apparently survived multiple relationships, several geographical relocations, and approximately fourteen thousand unanswered romantic overtures.
And by some astonishing coincidence, he would happily climb into her bed before the ink on the breakup announcement had dried.
That is, of course, assuming he even considers a formal breakup announcement a necessary prerequisite.
CUZ SOME OF DEEZ DUDES AIN'T EVEN WAITIN' FOR THE RELATIONSHIP TO END.
THEY ALREADY IN PREPRODUCTION FOR SEASON TWO. 💀
These gentlemen aren't friends.
They're the goddamn Avengers of romantic contingency planning.
A fully operational emergency response unit, strategically positioned to intervene the moment a brother commits the slightest infraction.
You forget to take out the rubbish?
MARCUS HAS BEEN ACTIVATED.
You disagree about what to have for dinner?
JASON IS ON HIGH ALERT.
You tell her you're tired and would rather stay home?
THE WORK HUSBAND HAS BEEN DEPLOYED TO THE FRONT LINES. 😭
And apparently, you're expected to remain entirely untroubled by this arrangement.
"Baby, he's just a friend."
Indeed, my darling.
And a crocodile is merely an enthusiastic swimmer.
GIRL, STOP PLAYIN' IN MY FACE. 💀
Now, ladies and gentlemen, we arrive at the second act of this magnificent theatrical production.
THE GREAT VANISHING OF THE MARITAL BEDROOM.
In the beginning, intimacy is abundant.
Passionate. Spontaneous. Enthusiastic.
The sort of romantic exuberance that convinces a man he has stumbled upon the eighth wonder of the world.
A BROTHER BE WALKIN' AROUND WITH A SMILE FROM EAR TO EAR.
LIFE IS GOOD. THE BIRDS ARE SINGIN'. THE SUN IS SHININ'. GOD IS GREAT.
But somewhere along the line, a most extraordinary transformation occurs.
The once-vibrant sanctuary of romantic affection gradually deteriorates into a restricted archaeological site.
Sex?
GOOD HEAVENS, NO.
She's tired.
She's stressed.
She's not in the mood.
She's got a headache.
Mercury is in retrograde.
The neighbour's dog has developed an attitude problem.
The atmospheric conditions are apparently unsuitable for physical affection.
BRO, WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK IS GOIN' ON IN THIS ESTABLISHMENT? 😭
Now, naturally, nobody is entitled to sex, and every individual's bodily autonomy must be respected.
A perfectly reasonable and indispensable principle.
HOWEVER.
After six consecutive months of romantic austerity, a gentleman might reasonably begin to wonder whether he's participating in a loving relationship or serving a life sentence as an unpaid emotional support butler.
BRO AIN'T EVEN ASKIN' FOR MUCH AT THIS POINT.
HE JUST WANNA KNOW IF THE DEPARTMENT IS STILL OPERATIONAL. 💀
And yet, despite this extraordinary drought, the demand for absolute romantic and sexual exclusivity remains firmly in place.
You mustn't flirt.
You mustn't look.
You mustn't entertain the affections of another woman.
You must conduct yourself with the unwavering chastity of a medieval Benedictine monk.
Meanwhile, her Snapchat resembles the waiting room of a particularly ambitious fertility clinic.
DING.
"Hey beautiful, hope you're having a good day ❤"
DING.
"Just checking on you, gorgeous."
DING.
"You deserve to be treated like a queen."
BRUH.
WHY IS EVERYBODY CHECKIN' ON MY GIRL LIKE SHE'S A PATIENT IN INTENSIVE CARE?
IS THERE A MEDICAL EMERGENCY I HAVEN'T BEEN INFORMED ABOUT? 💀
And should you express even the slightest curiosity regarding this extraordinary congregation of concerned gentlemen, you're promptly reassured that your apprehensions are entirely unfounded.
"They're just friends."
JUST FRIENDS?!
MADAM, YOU GOT MORE MALE FRIENDS ON STANDBY THAN THE UNITED STATES MILITARY GOT RESERVISTS.
I DON'T FRIGGIN' GIT IT WIT DEEZ HOES. 😭
I am expected to provide the loyalty of a medieval knight, the emotional availability of a licensed psychotherapist, the financial reliability of a Swiss banking institution, and the sexual restraint of a fourteenth century monastery resident.
ALL AT THE SAME DAMN TIME, BRUH.
And what magnificent compensation do I receive for this extraordinary demonstration of dedication?
A forehead kiss.
An occasional "you're annoying."
And the immense privilege of watching Netflix while she falls asleep seventeen minutes into the film.
SEVENTEEN MINUTES, MY NIGGA.
SHE AIN'T EVEN MAKE IT THROUGH THE OPENING CREDITS. 💀
And heaven forbid I articulate the slightest dissatisfaction with this peculiar arrangement.
For then commences the Grand Tribunal of Psychological Accusations.
"You're insecure."
"You're controlling."
"You're overthinking."
"Why can't you just trust me?"
MADAM.
MY DEAREST AND MOST ESTEEMED COMPANION.
I TRUST YOU.
IT'S THE TWENTY UNEMPLOYED ROMANTIC SUBSTITUTE TEACHERS CIRCLING THE PREMISES LIKE A PACK OF MALNOURISHED HYENAS THAT HAVE ME SOMEWHAT CONCERNED.
THEM BOYS DON'T EVEN GOT JOBS BUT SOMEHOW THEY AVAILABLE TWENTY-FO' SEVEN.
HOW DOES THAT WORK, BRUH?! 😭
Why the fuck do you entertain them !? Why do i have to even discuss it?
And the truly magnificent part?
The moment a relationship encounters even the most insignificant inconvenience, these reserve gentlemen begin materialising out of the woodwork like cockroaches when somebody switches off the kitchen light.
Perhaps you've forgotten to purchase the correct brand of oat milk.
Perhaps your tone of voice was insufficiently reverential.
Perhaps, in a moment of uncharacteristic audacity, you dared to possess an independent opinion.
And suddenly, as though responding to a coordinated military mobilisation, the entire reserve battalion awakens.
"Hey stranger, just checking if you're okay ❤"
OH, YOU OPPORTUNISTIC LITTLE BASTARD.
YOU'VE BEEN REHEARSING THAT SENTENCE SINCE 2019.
BRO BEEN RIDIN' THE BENCH FOR SEVEN WHOLE SEASONS WAITIN' FOR COACH TO PUT HIM IN. 💀
And the audacity of these gentlemen is truly astounding.
They arrive bearing unsolicited sympathy, extravagant compliments, and carefully rehearsed declarations concerning how a woman of her calibre ought to be treated.
"You deserve so much better, queen."
BETTER?!
MY NIGGA, YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THE ARGUMENT WAS ABOUT.
SHE COULD'VE SET THE WHOLE DAMN HOUSE ON FIRE AND YOU'D STILL BE IN HER DMs TALKIN' BOUT "YOU DESERVE PEACE, QUEEN." 😭
The sheer opportunism is almost admirable.
These men possess the patience of Buddhist monks, the persistence of tax collectors, and the moral flexibility of career politicians.
Some of these scoundrels have been waiting so long that their romantic applications ought to have expired under the statute of limitations.
Yet there they remain.
Ever vigilant.
Ever hopeful.
Ever prepared to assume the vacant position should the incumbent gentleman be dismissed for gross misconduct, such as failing to respond to a text message within eleven minutes.
BRO, THE RECRUITMENT DEPARTMENT NEVER CLOSES. 💀
Now, before the Similar Worlds judiciary assembles to prosecute me for crimes against womankind, allow me to clarify something.
I am perfectly aware that not all women behave in this fashion, and that plenty of men are equally proficient in the ancient arts of romantic dishonesty, duplicity, and general buffoonery.
Indeed, some gentlemen are such monumental disasters that they ought to come equipped with hazard warning labels.
I GET IT, BRUH. SOME OF Y'ALL MEN AIN'T SHIT EITHER. 😭
But this particular species of modern relationship, ladies and gentlemen, represents an absolute masterpiece of contradictory expectations.
A fascinating psychological paradox in which one party is expected to provide unwavering devotion, unconditional reassurance, inexhaustible emotional support, and complete romantic exclusivity, while the other maintains an entire supplementary workforce of prospective replacements.
You cannot reasonably demand the devotion of a husband while treating your partner like a probationary employee whose contract may be terminated at any moment, with twenty applicants already waiting outside.
THAT AIN'T A RELATIONSHIP, BRUH.
THAT'S A GODDAMN AMAZON FULFILMENT CENTRE FOR REPLACEMENT BOYFRIENDS. 💀
And what makes this entire predicament particularly absurd is that a man may genuinely be attempting to build something meaningful.
A stable household.
A loving partnership.
A future characterised by mutual respect, companionship, and shared aspirations.
A BROTHER JUST TRYNA BUILD A LIFE, PAY HIS BILLS, HIT THE GYM, AND COME HOME TO SOME PEACE AND AFFECTION.
Meanwhile, half the NBA draft class is sitting in her message requests, waiting for him to miss a layup.
AND Y'ALL EXPECT THIS MAN TO HAVE PEACE OF MIND?!
NAH, FAM.
THAT'S SOME DIABOLICAL SHIT. 😭
Thus, I stand before you, a humble and profoundly bewildered gentleman, attempting to reconcile the noble ideals of romantic commitment with the increasingly incomprehensible realities of contemporary courtship.
And I find myself compelled to ask one simple question:
HOW DE HELL YOU GON' HAVE A WHOLE BENCH OF REPLACEMENTS, A WAITING LIST LONGER THAN A GOVERNMENT HOUSING APPLICATION, AND STILL EXPECT A BROTHER TO PLAY LIKE HE'S THE ONLY MAN ON THE TEAM?! 💀
Make it make sense, ladies and gentlemen.
MAKE. IT. MAKE. SENSE.
Because I have examined the evidence, considered the competing arguments, contemplated the sociological implications, and exhausted every conceivable avenue of rational inquiry.
And my conclusion remains unchanged.
I DON'T FRIGGIN' GIT IT WIT DEEZ HOES, BRUH. 😭
Thank you for attending my TED Talk.
I shall now retire to my chambers, where the therapeutic comforts of marijuana and the inexhaustible catalogue of internet pornography await my return.
For unlike the bewildering intricacies of modern romance, marijuana has never deceived me, maintained twenty prospective replacements on standby, or accused me of emotional unavailability.
And pornography, for all its questionable contributions to human civilisation, has at least the decency to be transparent about the nature of our arrangement.
No clandestine admirers. No elaborate psychological warfare. No mysterious gentleman named Marcus checking in at two in the morning.
JUST ME, MY WEED, AND SOME GOOD OL' FASHIONED DIGITAL DEGENERACY. 💀
And as for remaining blindly loyal to a woman who treats commitment like an optional subscription while demanding absolute devotion in return?
NAH, BRUH. FUCK ALL THAT.
LOYALTY IS A PRIVILEGE OF MUTUAL DEVOTION, NOT A LIFETIME MEMBERSHIP TO THE CIRCUS OF ROMANTIC BUFFOONERY.
A BROTHER AIN'T GON' KEEP PAYIN' FOR A FRONT-ROW SEAT WHEN HE'S THE DAMN CLOWN IN THE SHOW. 💀
Because for the life of me, I simply do not friggin' git it wit deez hoes💀
Allow me to elaborate.
Once upon a time, a committed relationship was a relatively straightforward arrangement.
Two individuals, mutually enamoured, would voluntarily forsake the romantic advances of others and devote their affections, loyalty, and intimate companionship exclusively to one another.
A splendid concept, really. Quite civilised. A mutually beneficial agreement founded upon trust, reciprocity, and a reasonable expectation that neither party would be entertaining an entire fucking football team behind the scenes.
BUT NAH, BRUH.
Somewhere along the evolutionary trajectory of modern romance, somebody apparently rewrote the entire goddamn constitution without notifying the male participants.
A BROTHER DIDN'T EVEN GET THE MEMO. 💀
You see, a man enters a relationship under the charming impression that he has been chosen. That he is, in fact, the victorious gentleman who has emerged triumphant from the competitive arena of courtship.
He believes himself to be the exclusive recipient of his beloved's romantic affections.
Little does the poor bastard know that he's merely been promoted to Employee of the Month, while approximately twenty other gentlemen remain on the reserve roster, patiently awaiting his inevitable dismissal.
AND BOY, LEMME TELL Y'ALL SUM'N ABOUT THIS HERE ROSTER. 😭
There's Marcus from the gym, who apparently just wants to "check in."
CHECK IN ON WHAT, MY NIGGA? SHE AIN'T IN THE HOSPITAL. GO CHECK YOUR TIRE PRESSURE OR SUM'N.
There's Jason from university, who has maintained a suspiciously enthusiastic interest in her emotional wellbeing for seven consecutive years.
SEVEN YEARS, BRUH?
This man has demonstrated a degree of perseverance that would put the most accomplished military strategists to shame.
BRO BEEN WAITIN' LONGER THAN A DAMN GOVERNMENT PENSION. 💀
Then there's her "work husband," a designation whose very existence ought to be subjected to immediate parliamentary scrutiny.
WORK HUSBAND?!
EXCUSE ME, MADAM?
Since when did the institution of matrimony introduce a corporate franchise system?
Does this gentleman contribute towards our mortgage? Does he pay the electricity bill? Is he legally obligated to attend family gatherings?
NAH, HE JUST BE SITTIN' NEXT TO HER AT LUNCH TALKIN' BOUT "THAT'S MY WORK WIFE."
BOY, GET YO ASS BACK TO THAT SPREADSHEET. 😭
And then, of course, we encounter the most formidable gentleman of them all.
The ever present, omnipotent, indestructible "guy best friend."
A remarkable specimen of masculine patience, whose unwavering devotion to this woman has apparently survived multiple relationships, several geographical relocations, and approximately fourteen thousand unanswered romantic overtures.
And by some astonishing coincidence, he would happily climb into her bed before the ink on the breakup announcement had dried.
That is, of course, assuming he even considers a formal breakup announcement a necessary prerequisite.
CUZ SOME OF DEEZ DUDES AIN'T EVEN WAITIN' FOR THE RELATIONSHIP TO END.
THEY ALREADY IN PREPRODUCTION FOR SEASON TWO. 💀
These gentlemen aren't friends.
They're the goddamn Avengers of romantic contingency planning.
A fully operational emergency response unit, strategically positioned to intervene the moment a brother commits the slightest infraction.
You forget to take out the rubbish?
MARCUS HAS BEEN ACTIVATED.
You disagree about what to have for dinner?
JASON IS ON HIGH ALERT.
You tell her you're tired and would rather stay home?
THE WORK HUSBAND HAS BEEN DEPLOYED TO THE FRONT LINES. 😭
And apparently, you're expected to remain entirely untroubled by this arrangement.
"Baby, he's just a friend."
Indeed, my darling.
And a crocodile is merely an enthusiastic swimmer.
GIRL, STOP PLAYIN' IN MY FACE. 💀
Now, ladies and gentlemen, we arrive at the second act of this magnificent theatrical production.
THE GREAT VANISHING OF THE MARITAL BEDROOM.
In the beginning, intimacy is abundant.
Passionate. Spontaneous. Enthusiastic.
The sort of romantic exuberance that convinces a man he has stumbled upon the eighth wonder of the world.
A BROTHER BE WALKIN' AROUND WITH A SMILE FROM EAR TO EAR.
LIFE IS GOOD. THE BIRDS ARE SINGIN'. THE SUN IS SHININ'. GOD IS GREAT.
But somewhere along the line, a most extraordinary transformation occurs.
The once-vibrant sanctuary of romantic affection gradually deteriorates into a restricted archaeological site.
Sex?
GOOD HEAVENS, NO.
She's tired.
She's stressed.
She's not in the mood.
She's got a headache.
Mercury is in retrograde.
The neighbour's dog has developed an attitude problem.
The atmospheric conditions are apparently unsuitable for physical affection.
BRO, WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK IS GOIN' ON IN THIS ESTABLISHMENT? 😭
Now, naturally, nobody is entitled to sex, and every individual's bodily autonomy must be respected.
A perfectly reasonable and indispensable principle.
HOWEVER.
After six consecutive months of romantic austerity, a gentleman might reasonably begin to wonder whether he's participating in a loving relationship or serving a life sentence as an unpaid emotional support butler.
BRO AIN'T EVEN ASKIN' FOR MUCH AT THIS POINT.
HE JUST WANNA KNOW IF THE DEPARTMENT IS STILL OPERATIONAL. 💀
And yet, despite this extraordinary drought, the demand for absolute romantic and sexual exclusivity remains firmly in place.
You mustn't flirt.
You mustn't look.
You mustn't entertain the affections of another woman.
You must conduct yourself with the unwavering chastity of a medieval Benedictine monk.
Meanwhile, her Snapchat resembles the waiting room of a particularly ambitious fertility clinic.
DING.
"Hey beautiful, hope you're having a good day ❤"
DING.
"Just checking on you, gorgeous."
DING.
"You deserve to be treated like a queen."
BRUH.
WHY IS EVERYBODY CHECKIN' ON MY GIRL LIKE SHE'S A PATIENT IN INTENSIVE CARE?
IS THERE A MEDICAL EMERGENCY I HAVEN'T BEEN INFORMED ABOUT? 💀
And should you express even the slightest curiosity regarding this extraordinary congregation of concerned gentlemen, you're promptly reassured that your apprehensions are entirely unfounded.
"They're just friends."
JUST FRIENDS?!
MADAM, YOU GOT MORE MALE FRIENDS ON STANDBY THAN THE UNITED STATES MILITARY GOT RESERVISTS.
I DON'T FRIGGIN' GIT IT WIT DEEZ HOES. 😭
I am expected to provide the loyalty of a medieval knight, the emotional availability of a licensed psychotherapist, the financial reliability of a Swiss banking institution, and the sexual restraint of a fourteenth century monastery resident.
ALL AT THE SAME DAMN TIME, BRUH.
And what magnificent compensation do I receive for this extraordinary demonstration of dedication?
A forehead kiss.
An occasional "you're annoying."
And the immense privilege of watching Netflix while she falls asleep seventeen minutes into the film.
SEVENTEEN MINUTES, MY NIGGA.
SHE AIN'T EVEN MAKE IT THROUGH THE OPENING CREDITS. 💀
And heaven forbid I articulate the slightest dissatisfaction with this peculiar arrangement.
For then commences the Grand Tribunal of Psychological Accusations.
"You're insecure."
"You're controlling."
"You're overthinking."
"Why can't you just trust me?"
MADAM.
MY DEAREST AND MOST ESTEEMED COMPANION.
I TRUST YOU.
IT'S THE TWENTY UNEMPLOYED ROMANTIC SUBSTITUTE TEACHERS CIRCLING THE PREMISES LIKE A PACK OF MALNOURISHED HYENAS THAT HAVE ME SOMEWHAT CONCERNED.
THEM BOYS DON'T EVEN GOT JOBS BUT SOMEHOW THEY AVAILABLE TWENTY-FO' SEVEN.
HOW DOES THAT WORK, BRUH?! 😭
Why the fuck do you entertain them !? Why do i have to even discuss it?
And the truly magnificent part?
The moment a relationship encounters even the most insignificant inconvenience, these reserve gentlemen begin materialising out of the woodwork like cockroaches when somebody switches off the kitchen light.
Perhaps you've forgotten to purchase the correct brand of oat milk.
Perhaps your tone of voice was insufficiently reverential.
Perhaps, in a moment of uncharacteristic audacity, you dared to possess an independent opinion.
And suddenly, as though responding to a coordinated military mobilisation, the entire reserve battalion awakens.
"Hey stranger, just checking if you're okay ❤"
OH, YOU OPPORTUNISTIC LITTLE BASTARD.
YOU'VE BEEN REHEARSING THAT SENTENCE SINCE 2019.
BRO BEEN RIDIN' THE BENCH FOR SEVEN WHOLE SEASONS WAITIN' FOR COACH TO PUT HIM IN. 💀
And the audacity of these gentlemen is truly astounding.
They arrive bearing unsolicited sympathy, extravagant compliments, and carefully rehearsed declarations concerning how a woman of her calibre ought to be treated.
"You deserve so much better, queen."
BETTER?!
MY NIGGA, YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THE ARGUMENT WAS ABOUT.
SHE COULD'VE SET THE WHOLE DAMN HOUSE ON FIRE AND YOU'D STILL BE IN HER DMs TALKIN' BOUT "YOU DESERVE PEACE, QUEEN." 😭
The sheer opportunism is almost admirable.
These men possess the patience of Buddhist monks, the persistence of tax collectors, and the moral flexibility of career politicians.
Some of these scoundrels have been waiting so long that their romantic applications ought to have expired under the statute of limitations.
Yet there they remain.
Ever vigilant.
Ever hopeful.
Ever prepared to assume the vacant position should the incumbent gentleman be dismissed for gross misconduct, such as failing to respond to a text message within eleven minutes.
BRO, THE RECRUITMENT DEPARTMENT NEVER CLOSES. 💀
Now, before the Similar Worlds judiciary assembles to prosecute me for crimes against womankind, allow me to clarify something.
I am perfectly aware that not all women behave in this fashion, and that plenty of men are equally proficient in the ancient arts of romantic dishonesty, duplicity, and general buffoonery.
Indeed, some gentlemen are such monumental disasters that they ought to come equipped with hazard warning labels.
I GET IT, BRUH. SOME OF Y'ALL MEN AIN'T SHIT EITHER. 😭
But this particular species of modern relationship, ladies and gentlemen, represents an absolute masterpiece of contradictory expectations.
A fascinating psychological paradox in which one party is expected to provide unwavering devotion, unconditional reassurance, inexhaustible emotional support, and complete romantic exclusivity, while the other maintains an entire supplementary workforce of prospective replacements.
You cannot reasonably demand the devotion of a husband while treating your partner like a probationary employee whose contract may be terminated at any moment, with twenty applicants already waiting outside.
THAT AIN'T A RELATIONSHIP, BRUH.
THAT'S A GODDAMN AMAZON FULFILMENT CENTRE FOR REPLACEMENT BOYFRIENDS. 💀
And what makes this entire predicament particularly absurd is that a man may genuinely be attempting to build something meaningful.
A stable household.
A loving partnership.
A future characterised by mutual respect, companionship, and shared aspirations.
A BROTHER JUST TRYNA BUILD A LIFE, PAY HIS BILLS, HIT THE GYM, AND COME HOME TO SOME PEACE AND AFFECTION.
Meanwhile, half the NBA draft class is sitting in her message requests, waiting for him to miss a layup.
AND Y'ALL EXPECT THIS MAN TO HAVE PEACE OF MIND?!
NAH, FAM.
THAT'S SOME DIABOLICAL SHIT. 😭
Thus, I stand before you, a humble and profoundly bewildered gentleman, attempting to reconcile the noble ideals of romantic commitment with the increasingly incomprehensible realities of contemporary courtship.
And I find myself compelled to ask one simple question:
HOW DE HELL YOU GON' HAVE A WHOLE BENCH OF REPLACEMENTS, A WAITING LIST LONGER THAN A GOVERNMENT HOUSING APPLICATION, AND STILL EXPECT A BROTHER TO PLAY LIKE HE'S THE ONLY MAN ON THE TEAM?! 💀
Make it make sense, ladies and gentlemen.
MAKE. IT. MAKE. SENSE.
Because I have examined the evidence, considered the competing arguments, contemplated the sociological implications, and exhausted every conceivable avenue of rational inquiry.
And my conclusion remains unchanged.
I DON'T FRIGGIN' GIT IT WIT DEEZ HOES, BRUH. 😭
Thank you for attending my TED Talk.
I shall now retire to my chambers, where the therapeutic comforts of marijuana and the inexhaustible catalogue of internet pornography await my return.
For unlike the bewildering intricacies of modern romance, marijuana has never deceived me, maintained twenty prospective replacements on standby, or accused me of emotional unavailability.
And pornography, for all its questionable contributions to human civilisation, has at least the decency to be transparent about the nature of our arrangement.
No clandestine admirers. No elaborate psychological warfare. No mysterious gentleman named Marcus checking in at two in the morning.
JUST ME, MY WEED, AND SOME GOOD OL' FASHIONED DIGITAL DEGENERACY. 💀
And as for remaining blindly loyal to a woman who treats commitment like an optional subscription while demanding absolute devotion in return?
NAH, BRUH. FUCK ALL THAT.
LOYALTY IS A PRIVILEGE OF MUTUAL DEVOTION, NOT A LIFETIME MEMBERSHIP TO THE CIRCUS OF ROMANTIC BUFFOONERY.
A BROTHER AIN'T GON' KEEP PAYIN' FOR A FRONT-ROW SEAT WHEN HE'S THE DAMN CLOWN IN THE SHOW. 💀
31-35, M
