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Don’t.

August 24, 2014

Don’t invite me to church.
Invite me to a picnic you’ve prepared in the park. That’s where I commune with God.

Don’t spew the Bible.
Spew Octavia Butler.

Don’t make dinner reservations at a 5-star restaurant.
Fry me some chicken with a side of sweet potatoes, collards, Mac & cheese and Jiffy. I’m southern.

Don’t get us a fancy hotel suite
Borrow a friend’s pick up truck and fill the flatbed with blankets and pillows and drive us to the middle of nowhere so we can sleep under the stars.

Don’t invite me to your job’s gala.
Introduce me to your best friend.

Don’t fawn over me on FB.
Speak highly of me in my absence.

Don’t brag on my degrees.
Brag on how I hold your heart close to me with the utmost care.

Don’t buy me extravagant gifts.
Surprise me with my favorite candy. Dark chocolate bites stuffed with caramel rolled in coarse sea salt.

Don’t buy me flights if you can avoid it.
I prefer to travel by rail.

Don’t buy me the most expensive tequila.
Honey Jack will do.

Don’t buy me the world.
Give me you.

–The Ignant Intellectual

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