I had my V-day blog all mapped out in my mind until I overheard this conversation in a department store this afternoon between Negro A and Negro B.
Negro A: Yo, look at this pink shit, my nigga. Get this for yo ho, mann.
Negro B: Nah, my nigga. She ain't no pink bitch. She like black and shit.
Negro A: But this is Nautica, my nigga. Buy that bitch this shit for Valentimes Day and get it in.
Negro B: Yeah, you right my nigga. My bitch betta like it cause its Nautica. Yeah, yeah!!! She put this shit on and I'm takin' it right off dat azz TONIGHT, my nigga.
Negro A & B: hahahahahahahaaa

Now before you dismiss them as some ignorant high schoolers, I guesstimate (and yes I hate when people use this word) them to be in their early 20s. This was later validated when Negro A shouted to his shopping companion: "I'ma grown ass man, my nigga. She's been on my dick since I graduated from [won't embarass the High School named] in '03. This bitch will like whateva she get from me. I ain't sweating it." So if he graduated from high school in 2003 and actually graduated on time then that would put him at approximately 23. Correct?

I initially did a triple take. Did he just call his friend's girl a bitch (and a ho) and did his friend just cosign on calling her a bitch? And are they really having this conversation in the middle of the lingerie department of department store in the middle of the day when the soccer moms and socialites (ahem slackers ) like myself frequent this establishment? And thats when panic set in. I immediately turned around to see if any white people were within earshot of this . You can clutch the pearls all you want but I know I'm not the only one who does this. I don't want anyone to think in any way, shape, or form that I have any affiliation to this hot ghetto mess of a conversation. And yes my embarassment led me to straighten my coat slung over my arm, fix my hat to make sure it was tilted more stylish less thugnificient - all in an effort to visually distance myself from the coonery and buffoonery on display.

Once I realized that I was "safe", I walked away feeling a little sad. Not sad for myself but sad for the "bitch" getting the pink Nautica cotton pajamas for St. Valentine's Day. Sure, I could whine, complain and wax quiet poetically about how I've never had a nice Valentine's day. The kind with flowers and dinner and candy and gifts and some declaration of love and devotion from the opposite sex- the standard V-day fare. But in that moment I was grateful to never have any of it because I wasn't that "bitch". And don't give me that Nas philosophy of term of endearment fooly wag and thus taking the "bite out" of traditionally degogatory monikers. Damn if this is the shit I have to look forward to, then you can keep this love shit and I'll remain single for just a little while longer.

Most likely I will post my original post tomorrow. I'm still feeling it but I couldn't ignore this bitch shit.