Feeling is the key word here. Feeling has her not realizing she’s chasing a fantasy. In situations of this sort, one ends up settling for less (being single and lonely) thinking they’re avoiding settling for a lesser match or person.

Spending two years apologizing, requesting, crying-consuming alone and hopeless means nothing to a person who, for ten years, remained faithful to a spouse, who decided that ten years of marriage excused one night of infidelity.

This is why Black Lives, as well as All Lives, doesn’t matter: Grifters from all sides chose to use the Name, Image, and Likeness (NIL) of Nolan Wells to generate monetary and recognition currency without any objective research due to a PROFITABLE NARRATIVE.

What you’re seeing with Nolan Wells is exactly what Colin Kaepernick successfully pulled off 10 years ago. People performatively acting as if outraged by the death of a kid who not one of you Negroes knew of or gave a damn about until he was a dead body – AND, it looked like you could blame the white man or “the system“ for his death. Everybody became a social media activist. A bunch of you fools are identity-insecure, and trying to win “black points“ by making a statement about it. Kaepernick did this same thing by himself w kneeling. People pretended to be moved by his proxy for substance. His book tour — and the Nolan Wells reactions — proves that this still works with a subset of people. Making a show of supporting either one, alleviates you of the responsibility of doing or standing on something that matters and requires real work. You Negroes disgust me.

This is what I paid internet for.

Don’t fight battles that make you lose wars

“Representation matters.” People repeat it without asking: HOW. Ben Shelton and Frances Tiafoe are making history at the US Open. Coco Gauff in the semis. Black people: “Representation!” Representation is not an outcome. Tiger Woods was representation 25+ years ago. Did that produce a generation of Black golfers dominating golf today. No. Seeing someone who looks like you succeed can show you what’s possible. After that, you still need: Skill. Work. Resources. Access. Development. Execution. Someone sharing your skin color winning something does not transfer any of their accomplishment. Celebrate, if you want. And, stop confusing somebody else’s representation with your progress. Representation is symbolic. Results are material.

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I know a front runner when I see one. To make a video to say that her haircut was for her is better than saying “it hurts me that he didn’t like it!”. #1. #2, it’s glaringly obvious that her dude has mind control over her.

High body count/Slutty clothed women, as I use the term “women” loosely, have always been and, sadly, always will be attracted to MALES, who find them purposeful for carnality. This explains their “we don’t care what men think!” and “where are all the good men?” responses.

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Several weeks ago, I discovered that the man I had grown up thinking was my father wasn’t my biological father. There were never questions on my part or rumors within the family. This discovery was purely by accident, and even when I think about it, it was sort of a miracle as to how this came about. I normally don’t give disclaimers to my writing, but I think it’s important for such a sensitive topic: There is going to be information I’m just not going to provide due to being too personal. I have no anger or resentment towards anyone, so the purpose of this isn’t to attack or judge anyone; it’s to tell my story. However, this is going to be a longer-than-normal post due to the amount of details I am willing to provide. If we are to start from the beginning: The man who I thought was my father wasn’t really active in my life. I’ve written in my book “The Children We Left Behind,” describing him as a stranger. After we left Detroit, where I was born and where he lived, I would hear from him maybe once a year and sporadically see him if he was driving to the northeast. When he did come to visit us, it never felt like he was there to see me. The best way of describing his visits is to compare them to a pit stop on the way to a greater destination for his travels. We didn’t really interact much, and I never felt like he cared about me. At most, he felt obligated to do small gestures, but he didn’t genuinely care about my welfare or emotional state. The last time I saw my father was when I was about 16 years old, and the last time I talked to him on the phone, I was about 21 years old, and it was a short conversation initiated by me. It was brief because it was clear that he wasn’t interested in talking to me and made it feel like I was bothering him. From that moment on, I told myself that I wasn’t going to try to build a relationship with him, but if he were to call me, I’d answer. He never called back and has since passed away. It took years of self-reflection and therapy to accept that my father didn’t love me, but his lack of love or care was not my fault. It’s no kid’s fault. This acceptance is the only way that I’m even able to talk about it because it stopped being a pain point for me. I can’t shed tears as if I’m responsible for his neglect. I stopped hating him and being angry at him and forgave him for his failures. I used his faults as a lesson to not become like him with my son. My first motivation when my son was born was to be the opposite of him and build a wonderful relationship with him (my son will be 21 in less than a month). Fast forward to several weeks ago, when I’m sitting on the couch watching talk shows featuring adults who are looking for their fathers and siblings. I’ve always known that I had a sister out there that was fathered by him, but just didn’t care to know more until that day. I thought to myself, “What if she’s looking for me?” Based on information I knew, he wasn’t active in her life at all, and all I had was a first name and possible location. At first, I searched on Facebook and Google for some potential clues but found nothing. My wife suggested I get an @Ancestry DNA test to see if something comes back linking me to her; I agreed that it was a good idea. A few weeks later, I get a notification that my results are in. The way Ancestry results are separated is by mother and father. My father was born in Trinidad and migrated to the U.S. as an adult, so my expectation was to see information about lineage to the Caribbean. However, when I clicked on my father’s side, his surname wasn’t listed and all of the names there were typical African American names. The closest relative with DNA results was a first cousin, and in his tree, our lineage wasn’t directed toward the Caribbean but instead toward Mississippi. I stared at my screen for about 20 minutes trying to make sense of what I was reading. It took that long to accept the reality: The only way this makes sense is if he’s not my biological father. I called my wife over and discussed it with her to make sure that I wasn’t crazy to come to this conclusion. I didn’t know what to do next. I sent my first cousin a message but got no response at the time. I mean, how do you go into a situation like this to tell someone that one of their relatives is my father? I ultimately contacted a “Search Angel” who happened to be from the Detroit area. She took on my case for free to try to figure out who my father is. A couple weeks went by, and she figured out who my cousin was and contacted him directly. He’s a police officer and thought that she was some sort of scammer at first, but eventually realized that what was being discussed was real. The next morning, he replied to my message on Ancestry and we immediately had a phone call. I told him everything, gave him names and pictures. I supplied him with details that could be useful in the search. He agreed that it had to be someone in his family that he knew. You see shows like what I’m going through where the family wants nothing to do with a person like me in this circumstance, but before the end of our call, he told me “You are loved and accepted. You are family.” For a kid who grew up without half of my identity as part of my life, that meant the world to me. I didn’t know if we’d find my father at that moment, but I knew that I at least was accepted. Later that afternoon, he called me. “Are you sitting down?” “No,” I replied. “I think you should sit down.” I sat down and then he delivered the news. “We found your father.” I audibly cried like a small child; that’s the only way I can describe what was coming out of me. I didn’t think I would find him and figured that half of my identity would be a mystery. After our initial phone call, he called around and reached a relative, providing certain information but withholding some to see if it was a match. He remembered my mother, remembered the circumstance of her being pregnant, but didn’t know that I was his child. Coincidentally, my uncle remembers her too because it was through his first wife that she was introduced to him. Before I spoke to my father on the phone, my uncle called me and told me the same thing as my cousin: You are loved, you are accepted, and you are family. The moment came and I heard my father’s voice for the first time. He was happy to talk to me and apologized to me because he had no idea that I was his child. He’s 76 years old, a veteran and a father of other children. Unlike the other man, he wants a relationship with me. He cares that I’m doing all right and has reached out to me every day since. My cousins and uncles message me all the time, and in such a short time, I feel a great closeness with them. This past Father’s Day was a difficult one for me. I was at church without my wife, and while I’m always emotional at church, it was incredibly difficult for me to hold back tears that day. My deacon came by me and asked me if I was okay after the service, and I broke down crying. I accepted that my father was dead and I was going to live the rest of my life never being able to have a bond with my father, but it didn’t mean I liked it. I was glad that my son never had to go through what I did as a child, but I would have given anything to have a father that actually cared about how I was feeling. I feel like this entire situation was God hearing my cries. He answered a mystery that I didn’t even know existed. Growing up, everyone told me that I looked like my mother because I didn’t look like my “father.” Sounds silly, but I never agreed that my likeness was similar to my mother. I look exactly like my father and my siblings. I have facial features that are strong within my father’s side of the family. My father’s side features creatives too, like writers, songwriters (one wrote for Motown back in the day), and musicians. My father has been into photography for years, and my uncle does it professionally. I’m currently sitting on the balcony of an Airbnb in Crete, Greece, and even though I’m thousands of miles away from him and eight hours ahead of my father, every morning I wake up to a message from him. I plan to meet him in October as I’m attending a conference in the same state he lives in. I should also be meeting some of my cousins in October. My uncle, who lives in Detroit, said he wants to throw an entire family event just to welcome me to the family. I think I would feel differently if the man who I thought was my father was incredibly close to me and I looked up to him, but in this case, my biological father is filling in the gaps of what I didn’t have my entire life. I don’t know how many years or days I have with my father, and I’m just incredibly grateful that I found this out now while he’s still alive. Because I know some might ask: No, I don’t believe that my “father” was distant because he suspected I wasn’t his. He was neglectful to all of his children and never questioned paternity. He was just a terrible father. Every child wants and deserves to know where they come from. We all deserve an opportunity to build a bond with the people who brought us life. There is absolutely no point in debating the past, especially from my position. All I care about is the truth, ugly or not, and having the opportunity to move forward with my real father and new family. There is no room in my heart for anything other than happiness for God hearing my distress and bringing this truth to light. I am immensely grateful.

1. Stephen A’s need to prove that he’s “down” got used against him. 2. The ladies turned off the comments. Dead giveaway someone’s mad they’re getting roasted on their own content.

One of the most underrated parts of Michael Jordan’s greatness was something incredibly simple: He showed up. No scheduled rest. No load management. No treating random Tuesday nights like they didn’t matter. If Michael Jordan was healthy, he played. He played all 82 games nine different seasons. He played through bumps, bruises, fatigue, back-to-backs, long road trips and everything else that came with being the face of the league. And that matters, especially now. We live in an era where guys sit for “maintenance,” workloads are carefully managed, and somehow we’re still told this is the toughest era ever. Jordan’s era didn’t come with that luxury. Fans bought tickets to see Michael Jordan, and overwhelmingly, Michael Jordan was there. Teammates could count on him. Coaches could count on him. The league could count on him. Greatness isn’t just what you do when everything is perfectly optimized around you. Sometimes greatness is simply being available, night after night, year after year, and still delivering. Jordan did that better than almost anyone. No load management. No carefully curated schedule. No preserving the mileage so the career totals would look prettier 20 years later. You bought a ticket to see Michael Jordan? He showed up. And then he tried to rip somebody’s heart out. That was the deal.

Doing something today that was once difficult, once rare, or once innovative does not carry the same value when it has become common. When millions of people can do it, the bar has moved. You don’t get credit for repetition. You get credit for contribution. This is where most people miss it. They think being better at something automatically makes them significant. It doesn’t. If the thing itself is already established, you are operating inside a system someone else built. That’s not legacy. That’s participation.

A culture based on Ownership will gladly cater to, while laughing at, a culture whose foundation is based on consumership.

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Most men fail to separate the message from the messenger. They filter truth through their feelings about the speaker, their relationship, or how it was delivered. This is a fundamental flaw in processing information. Objective evaluation of facts is paramount.

Apparently 1.4 million people saw my post about Lindsay Clancy, and some of the women who disagreed with me responded in the least reassuring way possible: they started telling me how often mothers think about killing their children. Ladies…that was not a question. Nobody was taking a survey. I saw comments saying, “Every mother has had thoughts like that.” Every mother? That’s your defense? You’re trying to protect women, but you’re making motherhood sound like a Dateline internship. And stop writing this stuff on public social media! The internet is forever. Divorce attorneys can read. Custody judges have Wi-Fi. You’re trying to show compassion, but what you’re actually doing is handing your ex-husband Exhibit A with a little heart emoji underneath it. Mental illness can explain somebody’s behavior, and a jury can decide whether it removes criminal responsibility. I understand that. But you cannot spend fifty years insisting hormones do not affect a woman’s judgment and then suddenly wheel hormones into court as a character witness when the charge is murder. You can’t demand equality when you’re applying for the job and special circumstances when you’re standing in front of the judge. Equality has to include accountability, or it isn’t equality… it’s a rewards program. And if your defense of women begins with, “We’ve all thought about killing the kids,” you are not winning the argument. You’re just making every father in America quietly create a folder marked SCREENSHOTS.

If Lindsay Clancy is found innocent because hormones made her emotionally unstable, women better be very careful celebrating that verdict. Because the law loves PRECEDENT. From that day forward, every job application is going to have a new question: “Are you currently hormonal?” “Well, I’m a woman.” “Thank you. I think we’ll be going in another direction.” You can’t carry a weapon anymore. No female police officers. Sorry, but we cannot hand a loaded gun to somebody whose legal defense might eventually be, “My hormones were acting up.” No more high-stress jobs, either. No air-traffic controllers. No surgeons. No nuclear-launch codes. One bad hot flash and boom 💥 Canada is glowing. And women definitely can’t be judges. How can you decide whether somebody else is emotionally stable when your own gender just established in court that hormones can make you kill three people? No female politicians, either. You can’t be trusted to run the country if, according to your own argument, your endocrine system occasionally takes over the government. And custody hearings are going to change overnight. The judge will say, “Ordinarily, children belong with their mother. However, according to the Lindsay Clancy precedent, she may be only one hormone away from a Netflix documentary. The children go with Dad.” Dad doesn’t know their shoe sizes, the pediatrician’s name or which one is allergic to peanuts, but his testosterone has never been successfully used as an insanity defense. Feminists spent a hundred years saying women are not hysterical, irrational creatures controlled by their biology and one defense attorney walks into court and says, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury… have you considered the uterus?” You cannot demand equal authority and then ask for discounted accountability. If women want equal rights, great. But equal rights come with equal wrongs. Otherwise, that glass ceiling is about to become a padded ceiling.