My Love Letter To Black Women

Dear black women,

I am sorry. 

I’m sorry I didn’t speak up for you enough. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how beautiful and sexy you were enough. I’m sorry I didn’t praise your strength and courage enough. I’m sorry I didn’t fight for positive images of black girls & women as hard as I fought for positive images of black boys & men. I’m sorry I didn’t intervene when your skin, hair, weight, and psyche were demeaned and unappreciated, but instead turned the other way and sometimes even joined in. I’m sorry that I insulted you when really my insecurities had turned me into a coward. I’m sorry I didn’t always acknowledge the burdens you have to carry through this life just for being a black woman. As a man, but especially as a black man, I let you down.

You deserve so much more than what myself and society have given you. There are so many amazing black women in my life who shatter every negative stereotype out there. Even with all the vitriol spewed at them, these women somehow will themselves to rise above it. You’ve all made such a huge impact in my life.

Thank you for using your strength to lift me up. Thank you for raising me to be a caring and thoughtful man. Thank you for letting me cry. Thank you for taking care of me when I needed you. Thank you for using your voice to chastise and empower me. Thank you for showing me how to love selflessly. Thank you for being a black woman.

“Cause I love you girls though you ain’t mine
I wish my arms was long enough to hug you all at the same time”



The Redskins and Their “N-Word” Problem


The Redskins are more than just a storied franchise, rich with history and tradition (five Super Bowl appearances, three Lombardi trophies, The Hogs, The Diesel, Fun Bunch, Redskins-Cowboys rivalry, etc). The Redskins are more than the 4th most valuable sports franchise in the world (Not just the city, THE WORLD, Craig!). The Redskins are more than the team that I grew up rooting for as a child and the team I follow with an unwavering passion.

The Redskins are offensive. At least — according to some people — their name is offensive.

The decades-long backlash at the team’s name has come back to light after recent remarks from DC mayor Vincent Gray on what would have to happen if the Redskins were to move from their home stadium in Landover, MD to one within DC proper. “I think that if they get serious with the team coming back to Washington, there’s no doubt there’s going to have to be a discussion about [changing the name],” Gray said. The name, which dates back to 1933 when the team was located in Boston and was trademarked in 1967, caused enough outrage that in 1992 a group of Native Americans filed suit in federal court (Harjo et al v. Pro Football, Inc.) to have the name lose its federal trademark status. The case made it all the way to the Supreme Court, which refused to hear the case stating that the group had waited too long to challenge the trademark. Federal intervention be damned, the debate marches on.

Supporters tout the name as celebrating Native American pride and honor. It is said that the team was named the Redskins in honor of their head coach William Henry Dietz who claimed to be part Sioux. Ives Goddard, curator emeritus in the Department of Anthropology of the National Museum of Natural History at the Smithsonian Institution, published a research article in the detailing the origin of the term “redskin”. His findings show that the term was actually used first by Native Americans themselves to distinguish themselves from their white colonial visitors. Only later did the term become corrupted.

“[The] use of redskin as a Native American in-group term was entirely authentic, reflecting both the accurate perception of the Indian self-image and the evolving respect among whites for the Indians’ distinct cultural perspective, whatever its prospects. The descent of this word into obloquy is a phenomenon of more recent times.”

Detractors insist that the name only highlights the blood-soaked horrors of Manifest Destiny. Whether the word came from amicable or hostile beginnings, it cannot be denied that, for a long time, Native Americans were demeaned and the term “redskin” was no longer a honorable title. Many people compare it to the use of the word “nigger”. Suzan Shown Harjo, president of the Morning Star Institute in Washington, D.C. and one of the plaintiffs in Harjo et al v. Pro Football, Inc., wrote:

“Once you’ve been stung by that word, you never, ever forget it or the venom of each modifier, most commonly ‘dirty,’ ‘lazy’ and ‘stupid.’ […] No Native person who has been called the R-word has ever said: “Wow, they must think I’m a football player or a sport mascot or a person covered in red paint for war.” It has always been a fighting word and has never been a compliment.”

As a black man who must deal with the past (and present) crimes of the word “nigger”, it would be ignorant of me to simply brush this aside without trying to put myself in the shoes of a Native American. But what shoe is that? Native American activists, like Suzan Shown Harjo, seem to be adamant in their battle against the term. However, a Sports Illustrated poll in 2002 found the opposite to be true among the general Native American population:

“Asked if high school and college teams should stop using Indian nicknames, 81% of Native American respondents said no. As for pro sports, 83% of Native American respondents said teams should not stop using Indian nicknames, mascots, characters and symbols.”

This is an interesting issue, no doubt, and one that I feel very torn by. I’ve mainly been a supporter of keeping the name, but I can admit that it’s for purely selfish reasons. Why would I want the team that I grew up with and invested so much in to change their name? The term “Redskins” isn’t derogatory to me. I feel pride when I hear it. Joy. Honor. I am a Redskin and I want my kids to be Redskins too. It’s me. I feel ownership of that name. Wait, can I really claim that it’s my word? I want to, but I don’t think I can. Ultimately, it’s a word with a dark past that I never experienced. I don’t know what the right choice is in this debate, but I’ll never stop supporting my team. Hail to the R-words.


Because I Want To

I’ve been reading this book lately called No More Mr. Nice Guy. It’s a book by Dr. Robert Glover and it’s for “nice guys” who find themselves stuck in a mindset that prevents them from living fulfilled and rich lives. So far, this book has been like a Mike-Tyson-in-his-prime punch to my gut. I couldn’t have imagined how accurately and easily the author would have pointed out every aspect of my “nice guy” personality and tore them apart to reveal the damaging and toxic habits that I practice. Some that I frequently acknowledge and others that I didn’t even know about. The crux of the nice guy’s issues comes from the belief that:

“If I can hide my flaws and become what I think others want me to be, then I will be loved, get my needs met, and have a problem-free life.”

I’ve only gotten through half of the book, but I’ve already started making small changes to the way I deal with life and relationships. I’ve begun to (honestly) express myself more and take more initiative to go get what I want out of life. One scenario in particular gave me the opportunity to do both of these things.

I’ve written before about my relationship with the Male Choir. I was happy to be a part of a group of men singing for God, but after a year and a half, I didn’t feel that excitement anymore. I wasn’t fulfilled. I felt like I was being held back. But I stayed. I felt like I had a responsibility to stay even though I didn’t feel happy. In fact, I actively ignored my responsibility to make myself happy. I had a responsibility to stay because I should be able to endure for God. I was too important to just quit the choir and leave them with one less soloist and first-tenor. I would get judged if I quit. I didn’t want to deal with the possible embarrassment/awkwardness. If avoiding conflict like this meant lying to myself and to others about my feelings about the choir, then I was fine with that. I continued living a pretend life feeling trapped in a cage of my own design.

Then, yesterday, I quit the choir. I did it. I formulated a script for me to follow and practiced it (no lie). I called up my director and told him that I had decided to not be a part of the choir anymore. I didn’t dance around it. I didn’t tell him that I needed to take a break or that I was way too busy to be active anymore. I told him that my season with the choir was over. I was literally sweating and felt so bad while I said it. I immediately wanted to take it back. But I didn’t. I could hear the shock and disappointment in his silence, but I didn’t change course. He asked me if there was anything wrong or if someone that happened with the choir  made me decide to quit. I told him that nothing was wrong and that everyone in the choir has been great to me, but that this was the best decision for me.

…the best decision for me.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve said that to someone who I knew would be negatively affected by my decision. As stupid as it sounds, I often ignore my own desires in lieu of the desires of others. The moment I heard myself say that, I felt good. I felt free. Granted, right after that, I went back to feeling guilty for quitting, but that was enough to convince me that adding “because I want to” to my lexicon is okay. Looking out for my own interests and desires is okay. Being responsible for my own happiness is okay.


Stuck At The Kiddie Table

It happened a few weeks ago. I was sitting in my usual seat, listening to the instructions that were being given. Wondering why we were going over this….AGAIN. I wasn’t sure if my patience would endure much longer. My annoyance had been growing over the past few months, but I kept shrugging it off and replaced it with indifference. This time, it was a bit too palpable. This isn’t what I wanted. What I wanted was to get up and leave.

It’s a little known fact that I like to sing. You might even say, I love to sing. My singing portfolio includes four choirs, three praise teams, and, I hate to admit, a high school R&B group. So when I moved to Pittsburgh, it was imperative that I join a choir. I chose to join the all-male gospel choir at my church. There were other choirs I could have joined, but something about the image of a group of black men devoting their time to singing for the Lord drew me to this choir. They welcomed me as one of their own as soon as I attended the first rehearsal. We sang at other churches, nursing homes, community centers, all over. It felt good.

The issue was that I wasn’t used to the demographic and song selection of the choir. The choir is full of older men. Almost all of the guys are AT LEAST 20 years my senior. A lot of them spent their entire lives in Pittsburgh. It’s been really hard for me to connect with most of them. We make jokes during rehearsal and exchange small talk, but nothing past that. And as “my shit don’t stink” as this is gonna sound, I can’t deal with the quality of the singing anymore. Some of the guys have an ear for music and can sing pretty good. But the rest are just awful. Tone deaf. Screaming notes. Can’t follow the tempo. The quality and breadth of songs we can sing is handcuffed by this too. And it’s sooooooo frustrating when my entire section gets pointed out for being wrong when it’s the same people who can’t get the notes right (see: not me). I just feel like I’m at the wrong table. I’m with the kids.

I praise God through song. That’s my gift. I can praise Him in other ways, but nothing makes me feel closer to Him than when I praise Him through song. But I can’t focus on God when all I hear is you singing in the wrong key. I know that church people try to say that it doesn’t matter what you sound like when you’re singing for God, but it DOES when it’s your ministry! As a choir it’s our job to bring others into worship. We can’t do that effectively if our sound is not on point.

I’ve considered joining our church’s Praise Team, who sound PHENOMENALLY better than the Male Choir and are more my pace. However, even though I would be fine with quitting the choir today, I made a commitment to sing with them in August. I don’t like going back on my word, so if you see me tweeting about them, you’ll know why. But after that, I’ll be ready to leave the kiddie table and hopefully find myself looking forward to choir rehearsals again.


Making Up For Lost Time

One of my friends jokingly called me a deadbeat brother a few weeks ago. Let me explain…

I was 11 years old when my little brother was born. As his older brother, I had a hand in raising him. I changed his diapers. Saw him learn to walk. Shared a bunk bed with him. Taught him how to drive. He was my Mini Me. And then, I went off to college. I was loving being away from the nest. Not in that Girls Gone Wild sort of way, but in a “it’s refreshing to meet so many new women people” sort of way. I was only about 45 minutes from home, but I didn’t go back too often. At this point, my brother was starting first grade and I was no longer a constant presence in his life. I spent every year after that at college or an out-of-state internship so I didn’t see him much. Phone calls checking up on him were rare. I essentially had an “out of sight, out of mind” mentality. Hell, I grew up without an older brother to guide me through parts of my life and I turned out more than okay so I thought he wouldn’t need one either.

I started to take notice of how much I was neglecting him once his grades were consistently below average. He was always a well-behaved kid, but he started having trouble in his classes. Whenever I asked, he was never sure what was causing his grades to slip so far. I’d give him general advice and suggestions on how to improve his study habits, but he kept bringing home the same results. My parents are old and tired at this point and can’t help him with his homework even if they tried. Grounding him for bad grades is the only weapon in their arsenal and they’re not even consistent with that. Without being there to monitor his learning habits, I couldn’t truly know what he was doing wrong nor enforce a study regimen.

After another report card with failing grades, my dad had the crazy idea that my brother should come and stay with me in Pittsburgh. If I couldn’t come to him, then he would come to me. I wasn’t a fan of the idea at first. I have a busy schedule as is. Add having to put together an itinerary for a 14-year-old and you can see why I was hesitant to agree to it. But I knew that something needed to be done. This was a chance for me to make up for lost time. Whatever the issue is with my brother, it isn’t going to be solved by staying home where he’d spend his days playing PS3 and watching Netflix. He is going to be beginning the ninth grade at the end of the summer and won’t last long if his grades continue to look like they do. The least I can do is try. So that’s what I’m doing.

My brother is going to be my temporary roommate for the next month. I’ll have him working on his study habits, as well as working on other areas that he’s lacking in. Hopefully, by the end of it all, he will be a better scholar and more well-rounded man. To be honest, I’m curious as to how this whole experience will change me as well. To now have a roommate, let alone one whose well-being I’m responsible for, is a big change to my normal routine. I’m excited though.


A King’s Defeat

When I was born, my dad was working as a cab driver in Washington DC while my mom was a cafeteria cook in Alexandria, Virginia. My parents struggled to make ends meet in order to provide me with a great childhood and they didn’t want that life for me. So every chance they got, they stressed how important a quality education was for me. They made sure that as soon as I got home from school that I did my homework. They made sure I was on the honor roll. They made sure that they were involved in my school life and it paid dividends. My grades were always at the top of my class and I breezed through most of my classes. Not only that, but my parents made sure that I was involved in extracurricular activities such as soccer, karate, choir, and church. I pretty much excelled at everything I did. Because of this, I became the pride of my community.

Seriously, I was that kid who other parents would brag about to their own children. Every A+ that I brought home was greeted with hugs and statements of pride. It was awesome, but also stressful. As years went by, this larger-than-life reputation that I seemed to have built kept adding more and more self-inflicted pressure on me. You see, life got a little harder in the very area of my life that I had been a king in. Classes started becoming difficult. My grades began slipping a little. I couldn’t simply ingest information as soon as I saw it anymore. I had to chew first. And even then, certain topics felt too big to swallow. All the while, I felt like I had to keep up appearances. Once I realized I wasn’t as invincible as my reputation seemed to advertise, I froze. I had connected great grades and academic success with love and acceptance by family and friends.

So what did I do? It would have been ideal if I had used my declining situation as a motivating tool to regain my kingly status. What actually happened is I developed a fear of failure and a reluctance to ask for help. Procrastination became one of my favorite techniques to avoid situations and tasks that held the possibility of failure (which ironically only made it easier for me to be mediocre at said tasks). My rationale was that if I didn’t try, then no one would think I couldn’t do it, they would just think I didn’t do it. The fear of asking a dumb question and revealing to my peers that I’m secretly incompetent kept me from asking for help. Even now, I find myself waiting for some inevitable moment where it’s reveled that I’m not PhD material and I somehow snuck into the program (see: imposter syndrome). My entire life was defined by raving academic success, so once I reached a point where I realized I wasn’t perfect, I felt…lost. At the same time, I felt I shouldn’t be tormented by this mindset. I shouldn’t think so little of myself, which made me more aggravated that I couldn’t break out of this mindset and made me think even less of myself. Vicious cycle.

All of this seemed to come to a climax in graduate school. Lots of students, all seemingly geniuses, progressing through their classes and research at a faster pace than I seemed to be. And as one of the only black students, I found myself feeling more pressure to represent for my race. I often ignore the fact that I was accepted into the same program as all of these “geniuses” and that I was coming in with nothing more than a remedial Biology knowledge base that caused me to have to do some serious catching up that a lot of these students didn’t have to do. But, a negative mindset as deeply rooted as this one doesn’t quit so easily.

I see myself making strides sometimes. Feeling confident and willing to take on the challenges ahead of me without any fear or cowardice in my mind. In fact, a friend of mine in my program admitted to having a lot of the same issues with her research that I was having, which made me feel less alone in my struggles and gave me a bit of confidence. But there’s still lots of work to be done and lots of growth that needs to take place before this midset is destroyed.


Tearing Down My Wall

My mind has often been a closed door. Bits and pieces of my emotions, thoughts, and psyche are shared, but never in a way that truly makes me vulnerable. Never in a way that really makes me feel…bare. Not even my closest friends get to see ALL my innermost doubts, fears, and conflicts. My innermost hopes, delights, and aspirations. Call it a defense mechanism. Call it insecurity. Call it whatever you want. This is how I’ve lived for as long as I can remember.

As years go on, however, it’s become more and more of a hindrance. An increasingly unbearable load. This unhealthy need to always be funny, content, and emotionally strong. A requirement I thrust onto myself. It’s gotten to the point where sometimes I feel like I’ve become so good at putting on a facade that it gets difficult to pinpoint what I’m truly feeling. Honestly, therapy would not be a bad idea for me (we won’t get into the stigma that therapy has in black society).

All of this is to say that I’ve decided to do some sharing this week and the next. I’m going to try to reveal my soul and be uncharacteristically open with you guys. Ultimately however, I’m doing this so I can be more open with myself. Should be interesting, to say the least.

“Mr. [That Damn African], tear down this wall!”


The Hang-Up

It had been a long day and wasn’t anywhere near being over. It was about 8:30pm on Friday and I had a review paper, a presentation critique, and homework grading to finish. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, procrastination. Anyway, in the midst of my adrenaline-fueled kamikaze typing, my phone rings. What does it say?


Oh well. Silence ringer. Let it go to voicemail. Then it rings again and again it says the number is restricted. Because the second call came so quickly, I figured it was someone I knew. I pick up the phone and a very high-pitched foreign voice comes on. I immediately think it’s the wrong number. “Hello?” The person on the other end continues their gibberish. Just as I’m about to hang up, I hear giggles and immediately recognize who it is. My 12-year-old sister trying to prank me. *sigh* Seeing as how I have a mountain of work to get through, I try to get her to stop giggling and tell me what she called me for. She asks me when she can get a facebook account. When I say I almost cussed her out….

See, this isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation and it won’t be the last. She’s hardheaded and doesn’t understand it when she doesn’t get what she wants, even though she’s not spoiled. And the fact that I was already stressed with all my work made me more upset that she bothered me with this. I tried to explain that I had work to do and that we could talk later, but she wouldn’t budge. Her facebook campaign was important to her. So, I hung up.

I just hung up. No goodbye.

I’ll tell you what, it. felt. good. I would never punch my sister in the face, but if I could punch certain aspects of her personality in the face, that’s what it would feel like. To be honest though, it left a bad taste in my mouth after a while.

I’ve made a big deal about putting family over my career before. Planning on having a career as demanding as a university professor will make you think about how your family will fit into the equation. But even with that, I always knew I would be good. I wouldn’t let my family get left behind. I wouldn’t be THAT guy. Then what did I just do to my sister? Did I put her first in that case? Granted, her conversation was absolutely trivial, but she’s still a little girl who needs love and support from the older brother she doesn’t get to see or hear from often. In that instance, I didn’t put family first and I took my work frustration out on my sister. I think the two most important things that I realized is 1) I’ve got to be more mindful of how I treat my family, even when their requests are insignificant, and 2) I won’t always put my family first, no matter how much I want to believe it. I’ll have days where I ignore them, brush them off, cancel plans, and put work-related stuff above them. That side of me will rear it’s ugly head from time to time.

My sister and I spoke the next day and I apologized for hanging up on her. I wanted her to know that I thought what I did was wrong and that I could’ve handled the situation better. Then we continued our conversation from the night before (no, she doesn’t get to have a Facebook account yet). I just hope that I never put my family so  far on the back burner that they lose sight of how much I love them.


On Time

There is nothing I hate hearing in the morning more than my alarm clock. To be fair though, I’m sure it hates me even more the way I abuse that snooze button (I really gotta stop taking 45 minutes to get out of bed). Anyway, I went to lab late last night to get some work done and went back home around 5am to take a nap before my class. HORRIBLE IDEA!

So of course once my alarm goes off, my snooze button reflexes immediately activate. About an hour later, I decide I might want to try to make it to class on time. I get up, get myself ready, eat a really quick breakfast, and make it out the door just in time to miss my bus. -_______-

So now I’m standing in the cold waiting for the next bus to come, expecting to be late to class. Pretty soon, a 30/40-year-old white woman in pajama pants and a sweatshirt walks over to me and asks, in a very demanding voice, what bus goes to Forbes Avenue. Slightly taken aback by this woman’s brash tone, I hesitate and then answer that the 67 and 69 could get her there. Then she tells me “that’s not the answer I was looking for”, but it came out as “no, I need the 71C.” Confused as to why she even asked me that question if she knew what bus she was looking for (not to mention the fact that the 71C doesn’t go down Forbes Avenue), I simply explained that the 71C also makes a stop here. She then took out a cigarette and started smoking it near me, which just sealed my annoyance with her. Keep in mind, I was running on a couple of hours of sleep and standing in the cold after missing my bus thinking about the huge load of work I still had to accomplish, and now I’m being harassed by Grumpelstiltskin. I just kept looking down the road hoping that I would see the glimmer of a bus’s lights soon so I wouldn’t have to endure this woman anymore. In comes the plot twist…

While we’re standing at the bus stop in silence, the woman stopped huffing down her cigarette long enough to say “Is it okay if I rant to you?” All I could think was “here we go.” So I oblige her and I come to find out that she’s doing rehab for a pain medication addiction she’s had for years. She was there to get a ride to a treatment center and was instead told that she had to take the bus on her own in an area that she wasn’t familiar with at all. She was understandably angry and I started to feel bad for her (and embarrassed at how I judged her before). I tried to offer her my jacket since she was clearly cold, but she just thanked me and declined. As we continued to wait for the bus, she asked if I had a phone she could use. I let her use it thinking she was calling someone close to her to let them know what was going on. She called one number 14 times with no answer. She kept trying and trying but no one picked up. Eventually, the bus came, so she stopped trying.

She told me where she was headed and coincidentally her stop was one away from mine, so we both got on the bus and when we got to her stop I got off with her, to her surprise. I helped her find the building she was looking for. She was pretty shocked that I would go out of my way to help a complete stranger like that. She kept thanking me for helping her out and telling me how shitty she was feeling because she felt like no one was looking out for her when she needed support. The whole thing was the most humbling experience I’ve had in recent memory.

After I got her to her building and wished her luck on her road to recovery, I thought about the circumstances that put me in that spot. I had been so disappointed with myself for waking up late and missing my bus considering where I had to be, but how awesome it was to find out that those 20 extra minutes of my time made a huge difference in the life of a complete stranger. No, I didn’t erase her debt or heal her illness, but I showed her that at least one person cares. While I walked to my class, already 15 minutes late, I prayed to God that He would take care of this woman that I had just met, make her rehab a successful one, and thanked Him for putting me in a position to be on time for her.


The 24-Year-Old Virgin

Pretty self-explanatory

It was very late and people had been drinking, so it didn’t take long for the conversation to go where I knew it would. As I sat there, huddled in a diner booth with some of my friends, my voice began to tuck itself back into my throat. Every now and again, I would raise my eyebrow, let out a chuckle, or shake/nod my head to confirm that I was still a participant in the discussion. However, I had no real insight to share. I was out of my jurisdiction. I just sat there and listened while my friends talked about sex.

Many moons ago, I had decided that I was going to wait to have sex for the first time. I had decided that, in the eyes of God, it was the right thing to do. My wife would be my first and that was that. So far, I’ve kept that promise to God and myself intact. However, within the last three years especially, I’ve fought with that choice a bit. In a world full of sex, it’s hard not to eventually question a decision like that.

There are times when I feel like an outcast. There’s no denying that my experience isn’t considered “normal”. A relatively good-looking, healthy, sane black man in his mid-20s who hasn’t had sex ever in his life is quite strange. Because of this, I feel generally alone. Yes, of course there are other male virgins out there like myself, but it’s akin to the number of black people in science or engineering-related PhD programs: they’re there, but few and far between.

There are times when I’m very proud of my achievement. I made a hard choice and stuck to it. Somehow I survived high school and college without letting peer pressure, alcohol, or half-naked women in my bed convince me to go against that choice. And even without a sex life, I was able to grow out of my socially awkward beginnings and become a well-rounded man.

There are times where I love the fact that sex doesn’t cloud my judgment and actions. I’m not gonna stick with you for the sex cause, well, there isn’t any. This isn’t to say I’ve never done something stupid merely because of a physical attraction to someone, but people are more willing to do something stupid over good sex than good eye candy.

There are times when I sometimes think about how often I turn women off because I’m a virgin. Sex in a relationship isn’t the most important thing, but it’s definitely a large factor to those who have sex. I remember my ex-girlfriend understandably having some frustrated evenings at my place because of my decision to wait.

There are times when I wonder why I should keep waiting. My sexual urges are still there whether I’m having sex or not and it gets difficult to ignore it. There have been moments where I was ready to fuck the next girl who would be willing and almost did.

There are times when I don’t even question my decision to wait. My spiritual and personal convictions renforce my choice.

In the end, I’m much more on the fence about my personal choice to not have pre-marital sex than I used to be. I’m not as gung-ho about waiting until marriage. I don’t think that’s an indictment on my faith. In fact, I feel even closer to God now than I’ve ever been, but I have a slightly different viewpoint on sex than I did when I made my virgin vows. That and my patience for my wife is wearing thin. Having said that, I’m not in a rush to pump the next woman that gives me an offer. I’ve survived this long without sex so there’s no need to fit it into my immediate schedule. For now, my journey as a virgin continues.

And I’m okay with that.