Baby Daddy Hate
When I say I hate my baby daddy, I’m talking about pure, unadulterated hate. I’m not talking about that cute high school to age 20 something garbage that can be soothed over with an apology, a few tears and some chocolates. I’m talking about the kind of hate that has burned in my soul for the last 3 years. The kind that would like to see nothing more than for him to die in his sin, go straight to Hell without passing “Go”, and having his memory obliterated from the planet.
I hate my first-born’s father for several reasons, but the primary two are for his being an unrepentant douche bag and for turning me into a cliché. I have always striven for excellence in my life, and the day I found out at 26 that I was pregnant out of wedlock was the biggest failure of my life, in my estimation. I never wanted to be the girl that rappers talked about in their anthems to their single mothers. The ones who struggled to raise them into the “men” that they were today despite the grueling circumstances and dangers of the ghetto. I wanted to be the woman that few Black ever read about in Fortune Magazine, who has her life together and is making an extraordinary impact on the world. Of course I didn’t have grandiose illusions of becoming Oprah or any such thing, but I never anticipated becoming someone’s “baby momma”. *Shudder*.
My daughter’s father is a caustic mix of ignorance, narcissism, arrogance and ruthlessness. It is his ignorance particularly that makes him such a dangerous foe. I had only seen glimpses of it when we were “dating” (he never wanted a committed relationship, which I stupidly allowed to myself to compromise to) but I didn’t heed the warning signs. I was madly in love, with what I now don’t know, and overlooked several of his less favorable tendencies…such as his penchant for gleefully sharing every sexual exploit he’s ever had with any woman everywhere. He’s also an incredible liar, lying from where he’s worked, to how much he makes, to why he got fired, to what day it might be should you ask him.
It’s funny. For many months I have been dwelling on how much I hated this Black behemoth that now that I’m sitting down to pen those thoughts, many of them escape me. I can happily say that at the end of the day, I am happily married to a good man, have a wonderful family and only occasionally am forced to deal with the antics of The Douche Bag, as we refer to him at my house. As I enter 2010, I am fully aware that he is merely an inconsequential anomaly and of no real importance. True, he is an extreme irritation, like a boil or a rash, but those things too disappear in time. If he is not killed or does not meet his untimely death in the next few years, I carry on knowing that I will full well be able to celebrate his permanent departure from my life in 2022 when my daughter turns 18. I’m going to have the most obnoxiously opulent party that anyone has ever been to in the history of all man kind, and you are all invited.
While I cannot disclose the name of this scab on my ass on the internet as we are in the midst of more litigation, I can give you a few clues. If you’re a woman living in any of the southern states and you’re reading this, beware of a bald black man from Demopolis, AL with an inability to spell or read. My daughter’s father is a man whore with no moral compass, has fathered 12 children (only 2 of which are now living) and has admittedly proclaimed that he will sleep with married women, sisters, mothers and daughters and roommates.
A word to the wise is enough.