He Likes Cracks, Not Cooters

So, I met this guy when I was 26 years old. And what I loved most, he had so much soul.... This guy was great. My dream. Tall and brown.

One great sense of humor. Check
Two degrees. Check.
Three Piece suit and impeccable taste. Check.
Four vehicles: two cars, a motorcycle and a boat. Check.
Five star restaurants and vacation spots. Check.
Over six feet tall. Check.
And, he was fine. Not no ordinary fine. Like a, not surpassed, but lapped Boris, Morris, and Micheal Jordan in '93 type of fine.

One catch, though. Just one.

And, before you jump to conclusions, yes he had a high FICO score. But back to the catch. And it came in the form of minor, teeny, small detail. He slipped up. He uttered the word "divo" in reference and reverence to Dwight Eubanks from RHOA.

Yep. You guessed it: HE'S GAY!

There went my dreams of a huge, Kimora Lee-style walk in closet. My visions of perfectly coiffed children with creative-chic names like Falcon and Sparrow. My chance at what could have been my Barack. My ticket out of Oklahoma. My future husband that would be okay with me keeping my last name. Poof. Gone. Gone into the depths of the tunnel of darkness that is anal play.

That's what I get for having respectable standards. If  I'd had hoodrat expectations, I'd have a straight man. Someone who's always home, because he's mooching off me. I wanna get married in nine yrs, I gotta start getting serious. And because of his affinity for peepees and not vajayjays, I have to start from scratch. I give up. He needs a beard, and I'll be that stoic partner that stands by his side when he gets caught in public restrooms with a barely legal boy toy and a pocket full of meth.

So, yeah. I'll marry a gay! We can have a life of wonderful dinners, imperially decorated homes, designer duds, great conversation, cuddle to watch Sex & the City on DVD together...as long as I get first dibs on that barely legal boy toy.