I'm Not Poor. I'm Just Fat.

Ever go on a date with a GORGEOUS man and you know it's not going to lead to anything but you have to go out with him anyway because he's GORGEOUS? Yeah, don't do that.

Ever eat a LOT because of your emotions and then fail to really take the time to deal with this issue to the point that your weight increases...significantly? Don't do that either.

Ever try to purchase something on a bullshit website that for whatever reason won't accept your credit card information and then you idiotically KEEP TRYING and KEEP FAILING until the website refuses to even let you try any more for the sake of your own financial safety? Definitely don't do that either.

Because if you do, you  might end up like me last Friday.

I didn't write any blogs last week (sorry reader/mom) because I had one hell of a week at work. My job is pretty chill and stress-free but last week it was like the powers that be found out that fact and tried to pay me back with one week of hell. So, needless to say there was no blogging, no resting, no fun. There was also, no hair-perfecting, no make-up, no general appearance trying. 

So Friday afternoon rolls around and I'm FINALLY done with my work for the week. I have about thirty minutes left before I can leave my job (at a reasonable hour) and decide to do something I've been contemplating doing for months. I just got paid and had a little extra after bills n' thangs so I decided to whip out my debit card, get serious, and join Weight Watchers. After a hard week at work and frankly a hard month for my self-esteem I figured it was time I did something about it. This was me being proactive and taking the first step to a new me! What I should have done was shut the hell up, sit the hell down and just eat a donut. I don't learn. 

I go to the website, enter all of my information and press submit! I'm ready to be a fat free, skinny bitch! Too bad the site rejects my information. At first, it was my mailing address, something about it was "unacceptable". Of course the site won't tell me what exactly is unacceptable but something is just wrong. I write out East instead of abbreviating it, I try a different city...nothing works. Finally I give up and just put in my sister's address; I'll pick up my Weight Watchers starter kit from her. 

Trouble doesn't end there because why would it? My sister's address is acceptable but now my debit card information is not. The problem is either insufficient funds (which I ruled out...it was pay day) or a problem with my billing address or the spelling of my name. Again, the site can't tell me what's wrong exactly. That would be dumb. So after a dozen times of changing information the site freezes me out. "After ten sad attempts at beginning your journey to a new you, you unfortunately don't know enough information about the old you. We can no longer process further requests with the given credit card." Not exactly what the site said but that's precisely what I heard coming from my computer in Oprah's voice.

Needless to say, I'm beyond annoyed, hating that this is how my work week is ending. I shut down my computer and take my big black ass home. But first, to the liquor store. A week like this doesn't need to end in Weight Watchers; it needs to end in wine. Duh! 

I go to the drive through because I'm a G like that and my local liquor store has a drive through. I push the button for service and turn to get my debit card out of my wallet while waiting for an employee to come to the window. I turn back around after retrieving my card and see the window slide open only to reveal the most beautiful man known to man. Not only is he the most beautiful man known to man, he's a man I went on a date with. I remember him right away (except I still can't remember his name) and my face is instantly covered with "Oh shit." I feel hot and sticky and have crazy hair and am wearing no make-up and I'm probably a good fifteen pounds heavier than I was the last time I saw him. Feminist Marissa says don't worry about any of that while real Marissa just wants to run and cry but...she needs her wine.

He gives me the "you look familiar look" and I give him the "nope, you're thinking of someone else look." It doesn't work because there was this:

Him: What can I get for you.

Me: I'll take a Barefoot Pinot Grigio...the big one.

Him: Ok, I'll be right back.

Me: *fuck* *fuck* *fuck*

He returns.

Him: Here you are...you look really familiar.

Me: Yeah, we, um, we went to a movie together once.

Him: Oh yeah, that's right! How are you?

Me: Just great!

Him: Awesome! It's really good to see you. Ok, that will be $8.37

Me: Ok, here you go.

Him: (Minor terror on his face) Um, it's saying it's declined. Do you want to call your bank or something? 

Me: You know I should call my bank because I know what you're thinking; you're thinking it's an insufficient funds issue but that's not it, I actually got paid today. You see the problem is I was trying to sign up for Weight Watchers earlier but for some weird reason the website kept rejecting my card, no, not because of insufficient funds, today is my pay day after all but for some other random reason that the site refused to disclose to me to the point that it locked up my debit card because I was dumb enough to keep trying and now I guess my card's just not working anywhere so yeah, I probably should call the bank and figure this all out so I can drink wine...and lose weight because yeah, I'm not poor. I'm just fat. 

EXCEPT I DON'T SAY ANY OF THAT. I START TO MUMBLE IT AND THEN JUST THINK "OH, FORGET IT" AND SETTLE ON...

Me: No, it's fine, I'll just pay with cash.

Him: It's all good. These things happen to all of us.

Me: Well, it's just that..

Him: Well, have a good one!

Me: Okay, yeah. You too!

I drive away. 

The next day I get an email from my bank stating they will be sending me a new debit card in the mail due to possible fraudulent activity. It should be here in about fifteen days. In the meantime I'm going to drink this wine and try not to get fatter. 

Dear Future Husband: Let's Just Keep It Open

Like the rest of the world, I've seen Lemonade about five times now, okay maybe seven. And like the rest of the world, I agree it's hands down, another big ass slice of flawless, divine, unicorn magic provided by the queen. Beyonce is seriously the most hyped up celebrity that is STILL underrated. Her perfection is unquestionable and unfathomable. She's everything I didn't know I needed. Ugh, Jay-Z, you're stupid. Okay, I'm digressing kind of...but for real, Beyonce really had me thinking, "Damn, I can't believe Prince is gone...but Beyonce. I have Beyonce." That's an awful fucking thought and yet...that's how I felt. 

So, watching Lemonade and it only took about three minutes into the hour-long special for my heart to break. For a couple that is so "private" about their relationship, Beyonce sure does drop some provocatively personal lyrics. If you haven't seen Lemonade...stop reading this and do so now. The pain felt by so many women is so painfully but beautifully woven into every lyric. She gets as bold as taking off a ring and throwing it, stating "you gon' lose your wife" and we've all heard about the Rachel Roy/Becky With The Good Hair controversy. Ok, if you haven't, in Lemonade Beyonce tells her theoretical man to go get "Becky with the good hair" i.e. some perceived mistress then some woman (a designer) named Rachel Roy tweeted about having good hair and not caring after Lemonade dropped.... fucccccccing ballsy. Anyway, the video album is dripping in blatant "hints" that Jay-Z cheats, cheated, was probably cheating while the video was being shot, and it's just heart-wrenching. 

I've been there. I've been cheated on but frankly, the cheating didn't affect me like I thought it would. I assumed my ex had cheated on me in the past and one night I was just like, "Can we talk about your infidelity?" then we did. It was hard, excruciating but... I was somehow fine pretty quickly after. My ex has done some SERIOUS damage to my heart, more than I thought possible for someone like me: I'm insanely open and forgiving and resilient...alas... those you really love can easily destroy you. This pain was caused not by cheating though, but by other lies he told, betrayals he executed without batting an eyelash. And those are the things that hurt. Those are the things that crush a woman's spirit. It's not the sex with another person. It's the gross disrespect, the spit in the face, the lies, the betrayal, the complete disregard for a life together built. And clearly it doesn't just apply to women, men know this pain all too well. 

Maybe it's fear speaking but I'd rather have an open relationship than ever be in a situation where a man can embarrass me this much and crush my spirit. But then again, like I said, this was done to me and it wasn't even because of cheating sooooo yeah, love is always dangerous, always.

But. I don't think I can handle signing up for a monogamous relationship and having to deal with such an egregious breach of contract or even the possibility of it. Since it's the lies that hurt more than the physical acts, I truly believe I'd have no problem in a relationship where sex was your own business and not for me to control (as long as we're all being safe here). 

Now I must add that an open relationship (for me) isn't just some silly defense mechanism that I'd use trying not to get hurt but in turn is a really bad fucking idea. When I think about a man I'm dating, when I think about him with another woman...that mess turns me all the way on! I know people will always ALWAYS be attracted to multiple people at once; we're just not "supposed to" act on said attraction. I honestly don't see the big deal. If you can love me and commit to building a life with me and honor me based on OUR standards, not society's, I really have no problem with you boning that hot waitress we're both always staring at. Sounds crazy to some but for me I think it's sexy as hell and I believe in acknowledging my partner's sexuality, not caging and confining it. There are always rules, rules in a relationship are just pragmatic, tangible signs of respect. They're great and necessary. I just don't think monogamy has to be one of those rules, not for me anyway.

I can handle you hooking up with other women. I really can. As a matter of fact, I want you to come home and tell me allllllllll the delicious details. What I can NOT handle is disrespect. I can not handle lying to my face. I can not handle the facade I run into like a brick wall you've built to cover up your shame. I can not handle the barrels of lemons men hand women on a daily basis forcing them to conjure up some sort of "make it work" lemonade.

The pain in Beyonce's words is so raw and real it stops you in your tracks. I absolutely dread ever having to feel that way. I know it's always a possibility when you love someone. People hurt people, there's no way around that. But the pain that comes from sexual misconduct due to socially construed rules...I'll pass. Dear future husband, let's just keep it open. 

15 Reasons to Never Look For Love

1. Most obviously...you won't find it.

2. Insecurities you thought you were over will reemerge: Those stretch marks you forgot you even had will start to appear in your dreams. They must be the reason for the chronic rejection, right?

3. You'll start blogging.

4. Your blogs will be bitter AF.

5. You'll watch romantic dramas on TBS and convince yourself that this shit could ACTUALLY take place.

6. You'll spend all of your money on wine. All of it.

7. You'll start wondering if your borderline-abusive ex maybe wasn't that bad. 

8. You'll realize that the lesson taught to you at an early age really is true: A lot of guys, like a lot, will completely disappear once you have sex with them. Obviously, you KNEW this but never cared because you were free, white and 21 and didn't need shit from anyone, especially commitment. But now that you're an old, black slave looking for someone to really love you, you realize, "oh, shit," maybe I do have to preserve the cookies because dudes be ruthless in these streets and preservation can be hard, especially when you really like that guy...that will undoubtedly disappear. 

9. You will suddenly hate hanging out with your friends because they won't fuck you, pay half of your bills and make you feel safe. You'll want to smack every friend that has a vagina just because their vaginas aren't the shlong you're yearning for. 

10. Because in the middle of writing those bitter AF blogs referenced in number 4, ol' boy will text you, "Hey Stranger" like fucking clockwork. 

11. Because the one you want to text you won't... not before, during or after you complete your bitter AF blog. 

12.  You'll start to convince yourself that maybe you can settle for casual sex only to end up crying in a strangers bed at 3 in the afternoon...twice.

13. You'll start to convince yourself that maybe you can settle for that one guy that really really likes you...who cares if he's old, bald and delusional about his true sexuality. Minor details, right? After all, you're probably just rejecting the man that loves you simply because he loves you since you thrive off of the rejection of assholes, right? Yeah, it's you. Don't be a douche. Just marry the old gay man. You'll end up happy, watch.

14. You'll start to fantasize about being 35 and married and laughing about the times you were so worried about never finding love and how silly you were...then realize you're 36...and still fucking single.

15. You'll realize after talking to your married friends that most marriages are passionless and based in a not wanting to be alone...and you'll want to do it anyway.

Don't do it. Just don't do it. It can't be helped but try to help it anyway. Embrace your stretch marks and ice cream obsession and the fact that you can fart in peace in your own home because when you let go of the hope and embrace being single, you know what will happen??? NOTHING. No, this is not where I say love will find you but at least you won't have to share your bed with anyone! 

End rant.

Smooches. 

That One Time When I Was Sad as Hell...

Here's an old blog post from a blog I used to write with a friend because I STILL struggle with things to say (that I actually want to get into in terms of non-fiction) sooooo here's a little copy/paste action for ya. Disclaimer: Things are getting better these days. Don't cry for me Argentina. 

I struggle with non-fiction writing which is exactly why I'm a blogger. What? Right. It makes no sense but neither does life so just eat the cake Anna Mae and don't worry about it. Every week I ask friends sooooooo what do you think I should write about? And they say, "It must be Sunday night." Sigh. This is where I proceed to write about how I ask them for topic suggestions and they give me dozens to which I respond from the following pool of phrases:

No.
Hell no.
That's dumb.
I refuse to write about that.
If I read one more article about that I'm gonna finally jump so I'm definitely not gonna write about it. 
Yeah! I'll do that! ...well, no. Give me another suggestion.
And then sometimes they just get the blank stare.

I then planned to proceed by labelling myself a, " high maintenance friend" listing clear signs of such exhausting acquaintances. But the truth is my dear dear readers, I'm gonna be honest with you, both of you, I'm really not that much of a high maintenance friend and that's not what's on my heart anyway.

I've been going through a bit of a rough time. I hate to talk about it because it leaves me so vulnerable but it's hard for me to write about favorite sex positions or my top five worst dates when I'm going throuuuuugh it. I have a terrible poker face and am way too open for my own good. I can't help it yet always regret it. This may be a theme in my life.

Anywho... I guess my question for the day would be what exactly do you do when you have a problem that no one can fix, not even yourself and when people give you advice you simply envision punching them in the jaw. Its the only thing that makes you feel even slightly better.

Now, I got some advice from my two besties today that actually helped me a lot. The first told me..."don't react to temporary things as if they're permanent"  and the second told me to meditate and if I didn't it would be my loss. My besties tend to play good cop/bad cop without knowing it. They don't even know each other. But one will hold my hand while the other slaps my face. I love them. Anyway.

If you don't have awesome besties like me, hell even if you do, sometimes you just struggle with situations that seem impossible. You want help, you want things to change but then when someone tries to help you, it's not that you don't want the help, its just that you almost don't feel physically capable of accepting and applying the help.

When my friend initially told me to meditate my initial (internal) reaction was omg stfu I can't meditate! Its not gonna help. I'm too sad. I'm just gonna sit there and cry! I was defensive, irrational and emotional.

This post might be about depression.

Not to be so elusive, my big struggle in life is being a single mom. I am totes and legitimately not cut out for this job, although I do it well. I can't write about being a single mom because I think it just opens opportunity for generalized social commentary and lots of judgement from lots of different angles and the humanistic aspect is completely lost.

What the hell is this woman talking about?

I don't know but it was hard for me to come up with an arbitrary yet focused topic for the day. I guess I just needed to be honest with myself and give a little shout out to those of us who can feel utterly hopeless at times. Its not forever but when it is here...its a doozy, let me tell ya.

Soooooo. Ever get that feeling of hopelessness?  Like no one can help you, not even yourself? Like advice is nothing more than a dagger to the side? It's not but, does it ever feel that way? Like the person is undermining the severity of your situation with what sounds like canned, shallow cliches even if its not. Am I the best blogger ever??? Known for her focused precision??? Write a random comment or your favorite joke and we'll be besties for life.

Dating Chronicles: Maybe It's Me...

Nothing wrong with a little self-reflection. I have stories for days about some of my dating horror stories but I'm not ashamed to say some of the horror comes from me. I'm human! Sue me! Just kidding, don't sue me. I don't have time or money. 

1. The time I started crying on a first date because it was going so well. He didn't seem to mind...maybe he somehow found it endearing? Either way, I don't recommend tears on dates. This situation eventually resulted in ME rejecting HIM. I have no idea how. 

2. Making a friendly bet on what most people would say is the first day of the week and then getting really fucking upset when everyone kept saying Monday when CLEARLY it's Sunday... general "know-it-all" pretentiousness....not a good look. 

3. Being TOO open TOO soon: going passionately on and on about my political, ethical, religious, social views, then sprinkling on some exciting stories about my eccentric, mildly mental ill, gay son and then daring my date to say boo about...any of this. 

4. Not shaving to make sure nothing happens...later wishing I had shaved. 

5. Coming across cocky or ridiculously insecure with no in between. 

6. Talking too much. 

7. Yawning too much. 

8. Being too fat.

9. Not dressing well.

10. Overthinking my weight, dress, number of yawns. 

11. Asking questions he's already told me the answer to in texts... i.e. not keeping up with the roster. 

12. Not giving him a chance. 

13. Giving too many chances. 

14. Hoping.

15. Giving up hope. 

16. Starting stories with, "My therapist told me the funniest thing..."

17. Falling... literally and symbolically...usually very painful. 

So, I don't know...maybe it's me. The fight goes on!!!!!

This N*gga

I am the mother of two black boys. I am the mother that watches the news and clutches her stomach and prays and prays and prays to a god she no longer believes in. I am the mother who tirelessly strides to love them, protect them and push them as I see my great grandmother's vision in their eyes. When it comes to my babies, there is so much I could say. But I'm sorry y'all...I just can't today.

There is a distraction. And I don't mean whatever bullshit internet fad that's displayed to distract us as a people. Oh no. It's me. I am distracted. I am distracted by this god damn beautiful nigga. This man has me so wide open, y'all, I might need someone to come up here and catch me if I fall.

I am the woman who sits at the spoken word and endures the misogynistic bullshit wrapped with a poetic bow, nicely packaged bullshit that grown women actually clap for. I could talk about the black men telling me I'm a slut or a queen with no in between. There's no right to be ordinary within the black sanctuary. Thank you black man for instructing me to stay in my lane and so thoroughly defining precisely what that lane is. Talking about the hos with the fake fat asses putting us in the very boxes you criticize us for not liberating ourselves from. Go ahead. Judge the fuck out of her while you fucked the shit out of her just the other night...and the night before. The crowd claps as I make that face and think, "Man, fuck this nigga".

I am the woman who doesn't use the N word. Whether it's an "er" or an "a" I'm just not down with that shit. Nigga, if you knew where that shit came from, which I'm sure you do, you would think twice before you decapitated that ER and replaced it with that A to make it suddenly okay.

So many topics to touch, burdens to lay down, gripes to go around but none of them come to mind because all I can think about, all I can spit about is this goddamn nigga.

He sees me.

He sees me beyond my hips and my thighs , beyond my full lips and pretty brown eyes.

The pain that I hide, the insecurities in my stride. No matter how much I suppress, to him I'm transparent and he offers me rest. 

He sees me and loves me and pushes me and catches me. 

He makes me forget about him and him and him and her because for me there is only him.

Forever there is only him. Him and I. 

The only problem with this nigga? I haven't met him yet. 

Red Hot: An Ode (In Pictures)

Reeeeeedddddddd!

I'd trust you with my taxes...and my vagina. 

Rough me up...red style.

You know those redheaded, bearded hipsters that everyone hates? I want to sit on their faces. 

Michael...my heart is yours.

He could get tough with my mud.

I'd go to his show. 

I'd meet his parents. 

Read me a book, please.

Praise Jesus.

Our Love Child, all grown up... :) Mommy loves you!

Dating Chronicles: Online Dating/Slow Death

Picture it. Sicily. 1926. I’m a young woman crying into my meat sauce because I’m unhappy with my father’s choice of husband for me but what can I do? I just keep stirring. And crying.

Except no. I’ve just always wanted to ‘Pull a Sophia’. If you don’t know which Sophia I’m referring to...I’m SO sorry for you.

I was nowhere near alive in 1926 and my father would never arrange a marriage for me. I don’t know his exact feelings on the topic but I’d guess he (like me) has completely given up on me finding love. Oh, gosh I hope he’s not still hopeful. Are my parents still hopeful? Do they think I’m going to find someone? Are they praying for me to find a husband????? Oh, gosh, oh, gosh, I hope not. I’d feel so bad for the inevitable disappointment.

Anyway, back to the point. I don’t live in the age of arranged marriages (not in my country/region/culture/family anyway). I live in the dreaded era of ONLINE DATING! Cue horror music!

If I wrote a blog post for each experience…well, let’s just say, “Ain’t nobody got time for that”.

So here’s a painful list I’ve compiled painfully about my painful dating life.

1. The Chastity Belt: His profile says he’s looking for a woman to hold the key to his chastity belt. I instantly fall in love with the witty humor. We exchange a few messages and I suggest we meet for drinks. He says, “Before we do, you should check my profile again.” I furrow my brow in confusion but oblige and check out his profile. Next to his request for a chastity belt key holder he writes in parentheses: This is not a joke. I’m really looking for someone to hold the key. I need someone to fully control me. He then proceeds to send me pictures of these chastity belts (which are nothing like what I’d expect). They were more like ball clamps that look powerful enough to castrate the strongest of dicks. Drinks were not had.

2. The 1st of About 12: We met online. Exchanged numbers and witty banter. We plan a date. I text: Excited to see you. He texts back: Excited to see YOU *wink wink wink wink* He doesn’t show. HE DOESN’T FUCKING SHOW. Has the balls to apologize and the audacity to try and reschedule. I’m disgusted so I … reschedule. He doesn’t show again.

3. The Closet: We met online. He was the first white guy to ever really hit on me. My initial reaction was, “Who is this white boy tryna talk to me?” We exchanged messages, wasn’t long until I realized, “Oh, shit, he’s perfect.” That was startling. We exchanged numbers, texts, phone calls, went on dates…it was time for it to go down. I snuck him into my house when my kid was asleep. We ended up making out in my closet. My kid caught us. Fucked things up pretty bad with that one. Perfect man pretty much ghosted me since then and my son gives me wicked side eye. I’ve been hooked on white guys ever since and I just can’t shake it!!!! It’s awful. Next week I should blog about red heads. They deserve their own blog! My kid has since forgiven me, btw. There was a lot of bribery involved but...whatever works! No more boys in the closet. 

4. The Other Closet: We met online. He fell for me QUICK. We spent a LOT of time together. First date was perfect. Second date…I started crying it was going so well which is crazy but he appreciated it. We spent MORE time together. I started to pick up on things…gay things. Basically, he was gay, like, super fucking in the closet trying to date and cover it up (in fucking 2013) gay. I tried to back out gracefully. I didn’t want to say, “You share a bed with your ‘roommate’ and I’m not that progressive yet to be okay with whatever the fuck is going on here.” I gave the usual “it’s me, not you” routine but he wasn’t having it. His “love” was strong. *eye roll* I had to just come out and say it, “Dude, I think you’re gay!” His response, “I swear, why does everyone say that!?!”

5. Repeat Number 2

6. The Black Academic/Poet/Panther: We met online. Lots of messages, lots of witty banter. LOTS of big words being thrown to and fro. (Is that how you say that? To and fro?) Idk. Anyway. I’m thinking oooooooweeeee this is exciting! Returning to my beautiful Black roots. I miss Black…hands. I casually mention how I’ve been dating mostly white guys lately. Instant rejection. He can’t “get down with a sista that would be with a white dude.”

7. The Short and Sweet: yo, sup, hey, dick pic, hi, what’s good, sup, hey, hi, yo, dick pic, sup

8. The Republican: This actually led to the best sex of my life…then I found out he was engaged. That’s a thing that happens.

9. Repeat Number 7

10. Repeat Number 8 (except a married Democrat).

 God, it’s wonderful.

Dating Chronicles: The Black Mormon

I wrote a book y’all. I told my sister about it and she said, “Girl, you NEED to write a book about your dating experiences!” All I could do is shake my head and say, “Girllllllll, I can’t even.”

“Why?” you ask. Well, because my dating life is pretty typical of that of a young woman in America… pretty fucking depressing. There is nothing unique happening here but all the same, it is painful. These days, young people go through the dating world thinking, “Is this real life? This can’t be real life!” Oh, but it is.

I’ve been in two long term relationships in my life. I call that accumulation of seven years the years of blissful ignorance. I was protected by my respected boo thangs; I had no idea of the dating horrors, the horrors, I tell you!

So, because I’m strong enough to laugh at myself (or at least strong enough to front like this shit is funny) I’m somewhat answering my sister’s call and not writing a book about my dating experiences but posting some blogs about the madness instead. Let the Dating Chronicles commence!

First Up: The Black Mormon

The title alone should cause pause. What the hell is a Black Mormon? Yep, they exist. Did you know Black people weren’t even ALLOWED to be Mormons until the 70s????? Pretty sure that’s a thing…like, a fact. Anyway, not the point. Just adds to the weirdness.

So, I’m in college…maybe a sophomore, yeah a sophomore. I’m in between the two big relationships in my life and I’m living it up! I’m dating for the first time in my life (the first relationship was just sorta instant and we were super young. There was no "dating") and I’m loving it! I meet a Black guy that’s kinda quirky. He’s into old movies that I thought only I alone on the planet have seen, he plays guitar and he’s got big, curly hair! He’s different; he sticks out; he’s not annoyingly macho like all the football players; he’s great!

He asks me to “hang out” which is as official as dating gets in college. We walk around the main streets of our little college town. We stop for ice cream. From the conversation I start to pick up on his weirdness. He tells me he can’t eat strawberry ice cream because it terrifies him. I laugh, thinking I’m just joining in on his laughter because that MUST be a joke. It’s not, apparently. He’s not laughing. I brush it off and keep on keeping on because his muscles bulge through a his t-shirt soooooo, forgiven.

We come across a book store and he jumps, yes, jumps, in glee and asks if we can go inside. I say, “Hell yeah!" I like books.

Thirty minutes later, we’re still in the bookstore… he hasn’t spoken one word to me. His nose is stuck in a book on guitar chords…a book that I would assume isn’t that interesting or helpful without a guitar in your hands. Boy, was I wrong. His face looks serious. Then he smiles, he laughs, I swear to God at one point he looks like he’s about to cry, all due to this riveting book on chords. No narrative, just chords. Thirty minutes of me staring at him staring at chords. 

This is when I realize, okay, the cute weirdo might be a legit weirdo.

Finally, he speaks to me! He picks up a book of poetry, spontaneously losing interest in his chords and swiftly moving on to a brick-sized book of poems.

He turns to me and says, “I’m going to read you a poem.”

The first words he’s spoken to me the entire time we’ve been in the bookstore.

I offer up a hesitant, “Alright.”

The poem is long, like, really fucking long. He takes about ten minutes to complete the thing. That’s a long time in recitation!

Finally, he’s done! He looks up at me, searching my face for my reaction to the piece (that I 100% didn’t follow). I give him nothing because well, I have no idea what he just said and have nothing to give. Then he asks, “Would you like to read one?”

I’m a bit appalled but most of all just suuuuper uncomfortable. I politely decline.

I’m thinking he’s picking up on my discomfort and he offers to take me home. Wahoo!!!!

We get back to my place and "watch a movie". The typical term used before Netflix was invented.

Ok, I know. I know. How am I about to have sex with the weirdo? I’m in college, single, not doing shit…I really don’t know what else to say. Plus, he wore the super tight white t-shirt and I felt like a pink lady about to get it on with Danny. How does a girl say no to that?

We watch the movie, I snuggle up under his arm and inhale the cologne that fills the room with every rise and fall of his chest. I tilt my head and look up at him, making my move.

He pauses the film and I think, “Oh, hell yeah.

He pauses the film to turn to me, look deep into my eyes and explain to me that he’s a good Mormon, will do anything to please his God.

My soul thinks, “Ugh, I should be like you.”

My vagina screams, “#&*^#*#&**@”

He continues with his religious diatribe. I look deep into his eyes, listen intently and nod periodically, letting him know I completely understand. We are on the same page. 100%

Our religious guilt shortened our sexcapade to a mere thirty minutes of boning as opposed to the all night workout I was hoping for. But I was alright with it. The muscles were big, the who-ha was thick, I was satisfied. My weirdo, Black Mormon had done a body good!

The next morning, I wake up with a Black Mormon sitting at the edge of my bed, reading my bible. I shuffle and he realizes I’m awake.

With spirit he grabs my hand and exclaims, “Thank God you’re awake! Come, pray with me. I can’t handle the guilt!”

And then came the tears. 

Pillars of Sand

He told me I am blessed.

That I do have a strong foundation.

Two of the most important pillars to stand upon: God and Family.

The words of encouragement instantly make me cry as these two entities slowly but surely drain from my life.

God, already gone. Family close behind.

I ask myself what’s left.

Love.

There is always love.

I seek love, yearn for it. It often escapes me.

Life without God is hard.

I’m agnostic.

Not by choice.

If it were up to me I’d bask in His glory with hands raised and heart open once again and always.

I’d always have someone there.

A listening ear, a constant comfort, the greatest force worthy of all worship, a frickin’ god that I'd be lucky enough to call my best friend.

I loved it.

I miss it.

But my brain gets in the way.

The silence he gives me outweighs the comforting presence I myself created.

Family.

It’s hard when you have family but no rock. No constant shoulder.

The support is there but so are the mistakes.

He tells me he’s always going to be there for me while he is awful to her.

Delusional of his overwhelmingly crushing crimes.

And the others are busy. Rightfully busy with their busy lives.

Hate to complain.

Hate to need.

Refuse to ask.

These pillars he credits to me are nothing but pillars of sand.

They sink swiftly, transform to quicksand and I drown.

My rock.

My strength.

Nothing but pillars of sand.  

Getting To Know You... Ok, Me.

I was once told the secret to success is obsessive, relentless persistence. I struggle not to call bullshit.

As a teenager, my dream was to be an actor and I didn’t really see it as a dream, more like, what was going to happen. I rejected my parents’ foolish talk of backup plans because backup plans were for non-believers and at fifteen years old, trust me, I believed in myself. I had the typical insecurities about boys, my weight, my skin, blah, blah, blah but when it came to my future, when it came to acting, well there was no question. I’d be an actress, I’d win an Oscar, and then I’d win another. Believing in my dream was the easy part. What I failed to realize was the work it would take to get there.

My biggest distraction was sex, maybe not sex but, this longing to experience everything, especially love and intimacy. I was raised by two strict, Caribbean parents that kept me on the shortest leash possible so I put all of my energy into breaking free. The energy was misplaced to say the least. Instead of focusing on goals that would propel me forward, I looked for adventure that would let me escape, even if only for a moment.

So, I went out and I got me some! First kiss at fifteen, first real boyfriend at sixteen, virginity lost at sixteen and then boom, first baby born at seventeen. For most, the dreaming would stop there but luckily for me, my teenage delusion was strong. I thought, “A kid? That’s alright, now I’ll just have a sidekick to accompany me to the top!” (In all honesty, I was freaking the fuck out…I could write about one hundred posts about being sixteen and pregnant and they’d all be filled with pure horror… but I still knew I’d reach my goal, simply because I wanted to).

Life marched on. My relationship ended, another began and boy did I just KNOW that this one was it! My childlike sense of invincibility didn’t dissipate until I was well into adulthood. It wasn’t until my second baby came along at twenty-three that I knew my dream was dead. Of course I could still do everything necessary to become an actress but to me that meant being a bad mother, putting my needs before theirs and that wasn’t an option, not then, not now, not ever.

I experienced a deep depression after my second son was born. It wasn’t post-partum; it had nothing to do with having a baby (in fact my second child has always given me a sense of peace…another blog for another day) but soon after having him I realized that I put my greatest dream to rest in order to fight for this picture of a family that wasn’t going to happen. My relationship with his father crumbled in as much of a whirlwind as it was created and the one thing I had a passion for was no longer a viable life choice. Depression doesn’t begin to describe the darkness of that time. I was in my mid-twenties, two kids, on my own, at a daily funeral for any hope for the future.

I learned to stop dreaming. In fact, I avoided it. I didn’t set goals; hell, I didn’t even make to-do lists. The real, tangible option of failure was too overwhelming. I can’t fail if I don’t try. That was my mastered motto. I worked a day job, I focused on my kids and I cringed any time anyone asked me about a five-year plan. I’d protect my heart by never wanting anything again. As long as my kids were okay, screw any personal desires. That mess just got me in trouble anyway.

But.

That can only last for so long. I’m creative. I’m driven. I’m hard working. I knew as a teenager that I was meant to shine. At that age it was this naïve sense of invincibility, the feeling that life would happen the way I wanted it to just because I wanted it to and nothing bad would happen to me or get in my way because well, nothing ever had before.

The perfect recipe for failure: Naivety+Talent+Entitlement.

But the tables have turned.   Now I’m in a place where I’m not itching to shine but to share, share my stories, my experiences and oh hell, shine a little bit too, to be an unapologetic and fearless writer. Remember what it felt like to be fearless? God, I envy children. I’m terrified because this time I’m enlightened to the possibility of failure. Failure is likely. I know I have the work ethic and the resilience to make my dreams come true, but now I’m scared, scared that even if I do work my ass off the dream may still not come true. I hear the teachings that I can do anything, any fucking thing I put my mind to and my gut reaction is, “Yeah, maybe”. I doubt because I’ve lost a dream before, a dream that I loved more than anything in this world.

But the thing is…I didn’t put the work into that dream. I got distracted. Life kicking me in the ass? Ninety percent of those flesh wounds were self-inflicted. Maybe I can try again and do it differently this time. Maybe this time I can stay focused and make it happen.

So here I am, taking a leap of faith. I want to be a writer. I still want to act but I’ll wait for my babies to be full-grown before I pursue that again. They still come first. But in the meantime, I want to write and write and write. I wrote a novel that I love and am excited to put out into the world. I’m going to share some of it here along with my other writings. My stories are short and sweet and dirty and sometimes bizarre. I like them and hope you will too. I need to combine my teenage assuredness with my adult work ethic and make this happen. Do I believe that my dreams will come true if I’m obsessively, relentlessly persistent? Is that really the secret to success? I guess there’s only one way to find out.