I’ll Take It Black - “Chapter 6: Untalented Cumrag”

Without a doubt, the top half of 2018 was the worst few months of my life. Between his bullshit manipulation, the pregnancy/abortion and a slew of other things, I had had enough. The last thing I was about to deal with from him was cheating. Like, damn! I moved into my Friday like nothing had happened. Yeah, I was sad but the worst part was, I didn’t even know why. He was psychotic. In an effort to recreate my mood and own the day, I posted a video on Instagram. Nothing crazy or incriminating. Actually, it was quite the opposite. The video simply said, “It’s Friday and beautiful! *blah blah blah* These fuckboys are gonna make me famous one day!” Innocent enough, right? Too bad ex bae didn’t think so. Within minutes I saw two notifications pop up on my phone. It was two comments left by him, the first read, “Either way you’re still a cumrag, writing about being a cumrag”. The second said, “If only you had a real talent lol”. 

For a moment I was taken back. He had called me a lot of things before but I had yet to have been called a “cumrag”. Oh, the creativity of a salty man. Within minutes the anger turned to laughter as he quickly deleted the comments. Stupid boy, don’t you know once it’s been online, it’s documented forever? Especially cause I had already taken a screenshot like the petty princess I am. In an effort to bite back, I quickly posted the screenshot in my Instagram story with him tagged and a simple response that read, “Damn. Somebody mad.” I should have known it’d cause an internet battle that I’d regret but in the moment, I didn’t care. I’ve always hated men who felt like they could blatantly disrespect me without lash back or consequence. Finally, I had the platform to shame him. Finally I had the ability to broadcast his shittiness publicly. Just like he thought he’d do to me. I was about to start an internet battle but had yet to realize that neither of us was trying to lose. I made it through Saturday without issue but Sunday was another story. Blocked from my phone but not Instagram, I woke to a long and accusatory message. Apparently I had spent my Sunday with the man my ex likes to refer to as “him”. This unfortunately was not true, as I had spent it doing acid with my roommate but who am I to try and understand the logic of a lunatic. Our argument rapidly turned to more insults and accusations. The most comical of which stemmed from his defensive claim of “not having fucked or eaten my pussy while it was broken”. A lie as gigantic as Blac Chyna’s ass. 

When I wasn’t reacting to his DM’s and overall harassment as he had anticipated I would, he expanded his range. Quickly he began messaging my friends (some of which he had not met) demanding an explanation on why they were on his page or watching his IG stories. Giving little acknowledgement to the fact that he had (over the weekend) not only posted pictures of me on his Instagram but had tailored captions calling me “trash” and a “backseat slut”. A hysterical perspective from a man whom doesn’t have a car, but I digress. 

The pictures weren’t all though. His story had become riddled with screenshots of him talking shit on my pussy (which had previously been broken thanks to my wonderfully delightful abortion) and his harassment of my friends. A reaction I did not appreciate. I was hitting the end of my patience. Not only had he been the one who cheated, among so many other things, but now he was also the one attacking me?! All because I posted a screenshot of comments that HE MADE. Typical. About a week and a half had gone by but the fighting continued. Our dirty laundry aired all over the internet for our friends and the world to see. At one point I had posted screenshots with a caption stating I’d bust his head. He had screenshots saying white women were trash. It was a mess of the highest degree and the reality was, we were far from reeling it in. Then one weekend he took a leap of faith and called one of my friends after running into another. 

It had been established that the first interaction with my other friend had not gone well and inherently, I was upset. Already in a spot to quit speaking to her, I didn’t anticipate another reach out. So when my other best friend told me about him calling her too, I lost my shit. It was midnight, I was drunk and in no position to react to this information. Though that didn’t stop me. My hammer (literally, a hammer) clutched in one hand and a lighter in my other, I was about to kill a mother fucker. Be it lighting him on fire or hitting him with my makeshift weapon, it didn’t matter. 

After an hour long cool off, I settled on a phone call. One that consisted of hysterical crying, screaming and threats of murder. He seemed scared as he sat on the phone silently, my voice now reaching octaves I had never heard it reach. I hung up, knuckles bruised from hitting a wall and took my ass inside. After a few more weeks shit settled. We both had agreed to stop posting online and to keep our drama to ourselves. As our fight had gotten uglier and bigger than either of had initially anticipated.

(Some screenshots from his story below) 

I wish I could say this was our lesson learned. I wish I could say we never spoke after this. Never argued again, but unfortunately, that’s not the truth. We tried again, not to date, but to be friends and as I’m sure you can imagine, it failed miserably. On our last hang out, we argued over Marc Maron, whom my ex considered to be a “failure” due to him “not sticking to his dream of comedy”. An odd interpretation of the most successful podcaster ever but, alright. Quickly this argument transitioned to my life and his thoughts of me being a failure. As I went to leave, unwilling to accept poor treatment from someone I wasn’t even dating, he followed. Pushing his body closely against mine as we walked down one flight of stairs and through two doors. There was still one more flight of stairs but at this point he had gotten much closer. As if to push me. I turned around and told him to back up to which he responded, “this is my house, I can do whatever the fuck I want!” So I pushed him, to which he pushed me. Pushed me in the direction of the stairs. Thankfully, I can fight. Reflexively I grabbed him to gain balance and started swinging. I knew I was connecting but I had no idea with what as we stumbled around and he tried to catch my hands. After a moment we separated and he stepped back, ready to let me walk down the stairs to leave. “You tried to push me down the stairs you fucking psycho!” I screamed. He shrugged and screamed, “I’ll push you down the stairs just like I did my ex!” Classy.

Finally, our time had come to an end. In retrospect, I’m not sure how it had lasted so long to begin with. To say this relationship has shaped how I move is an understatement. I had known of a lot of ugliness in the world. Shit, I had seen a lot of it! But rarely had it been directed at me. As a womanist, I feel disappointed in myself for not having been stronger and walking away. But I wouldn’t change anything for these are the situations that shape you. For better or for worse. At the end of the day, learn your lessons how you learn them. But never be afraid to prioritize yourself, your well being and your mental health. It’s not your job to fix the world or love the unlovable so stop trying. Fix your crown and redirect your effort into yourself. That’s how you truly begin to flourish in love and in life.  

(Screenshots with my friends)