Always some fuckery

A few years ago, a couple scolded me for making jokes about my marriage. “That’s disrespectful!” they said, holding hands and strolling off like the picture of true love. Fast-forward: divorced. Irreconcilable differences.

When I was going through it with my teenage son, a “friend” told me I needed to show him who’s boss and not tolerate the fuckery. Not long after, her teenager punched her in the face and disappeared from home for days. Their relationship is still strained. My son and I? We’re good, thank God.

Another friend once told me: “If you ever see my man with someone else, tell me. If you don’t, you’re not my friend.” I saw him. I told her. Suddenly, I became the problem. We’re no longer friends.

And when I first moved into my own home, it wasn’t much. The bathroom was tight, the front gate rusty and falling apart. It was the butt of plenty of jokes and, I laughed along too. A rusty falling gate is funny! But here’s the thing: a lot of the people doing the laughing didn’t own a home then, still don’t own a home now, and are still talking shit. Meanwhile, I fixed my gate and my toilet is a little bigger.

All of that to say this:

There’s always going to be some fuckery. Always.

So do you, sweetheart. Do you.

Amen.