I throw the baby in the stroller and proceed to walk on one the angriest walks I’ve ever taken. I know that this is a new part of my life: walking everywhere. Hmm, where is my car? It decided not to start after being parked outside of daycare for a hasty afternoon pickup. My brother called and told me the news while I was coming home from work and I felt the heavy tension return home to my forehead. My first panicked thought was, “How the fuck am I supposed to get to the gym?” I can’t stop obsessing about this.

With the chaos of all that’s going on in my life, this is the least of my worries but I am fixated. Somehow my ability to get to and from the gym with ease equates to the final balance and happiness I feel I need in my life. Calm down guys, I know you’re poor and hurting and suffering loss— but the gym will make everything better! This “no excuses” bitch pictured above has got me believing that somehow this is the key. I suppose its not really her, its my reaction to her that’s messing me up. What’s my excuse? Bitch, I’m tired! This morning as I’m walking the baby to daycare in a stroller with a flat tire, we roll passed my busstop to see a bottle of hand lotion on the ground. I know instantly that its mine and it immediately sets fire to a stressor fuse in me that’s been burning for some time. Seriously, wtf am I doing in my life where I’m so poor and deranged that I actually contemplate dusting off my old hand lotion from the ground and putting it back in my purse? And how did I manage to drop it out of my purse without noticing? And why don’t I realize that I am not in a position to be throwing $1.50 down the drain like that? Let’s not even mention how my ashy hands will suffer! I need to get my life together– I need to go to the gym.

At the gym I can relieve some tension and even stop half lying to my co-worker about going. I suppose I’m not lying, per se, I do PLAN to go to the gym but my car, and fate, and the gods of hotness just have something else in the cards for me. I stood in the employee lounge listening to this little, beautifully shaped cock diesel goddess (she looks like the hot woman from 12 Years A Slave) complain about how she struggles with her body and I’m thinking “Wow, are we really having this conversation?” I try to listen to her with a sympathetic ear but my mind begins to wander to whether I should make the kid’s lunches tonight or just pass out when I go home, or if I should go on a liquid fast until my best friend comes to town then maybe I’ll have a flat stomach for when we go out drinking. I really shouldn’t be drinking, its fattening and too expensive. But, I digress.

My #lifeflow is like this blog post. It’s just a mindless stream of shit happening with no real flow or pattern and I can’t keep the reins on it. Furthermore, I don’t even know if I used the proper spelling of the word “reins”– and I really hate that I use words like “furthermore” and care about spelling! Anyway, I have no car, no money, no man, no common sense, no freedom, no life and all I need to fix it is the gym! The gym is home. I know my place there. I show up in my baggy t-shirt, dingy yoga pants and old running shoes and I know where I belong– in the back and far away from the mirrors and hot chicks taking #gymflow selfies. I belong on the treadmill panting it out, music blasting and tears flowing because I just need some sort of outlet to relieve the stress in in my life. Minor stress to some, but colossal stress to me. At the gym I don’t have to constantly fight the battle to be understood, accommodated, appreciated, loved, stress-free, worry-free, or problem-free. In the gym I ain’t shit and as I sweat it all out on that fucking elliptical I realize that here, I don’t have to be shit.



I feel like each year I allow one person to get under my skin. There is always the one person that moves me for inexplicable reasons and I’m half in love— geekin’ over their very presence. Sighhhh, I was REALLY hoping it would be someone different this year. One stupid email exchange and I’m up at night lying awake in my lust and exploring possibilities. I hope he reads this so he knows it’s only wise to run.

I just want him—and that’s all I really know about it. I reached out to him under the guise of friendliness and he pushed the closed door slightly ajar. I then kicked it wide open spilling all of my residual feelings into the room, making a mess of things. What is it about this man? I feel I’ve written for this dude a hundred times and I still don’t have what it takes to keep his full attention. Falling back is the next logical option, but I’m not dealing with logic and reason. I’m wrestling with self-control as reckless desire envelopes me and I’m on fire with anticipation of what will eventually turn out to be nothing.

I need some discipline—
I want to let him in
I can taste it so sweet, just before the sour
But by daring to savor I relinquish my power

Video from: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7AjD7nKiUQ4

Dialing It Back: Part III


My best friend is dealing with a lot of emotional stuff right now and her go to phrase to describe it is, “I feel all the things!” I always laugh and respond with, “Oh mama knows”– but mama really does know, dammit!

I keep this blog so I can kind of keep a handle on my emotions and try not to hold back the details of how I’m feeling no matter how bizarre they can be perceived. It’s getting more and more difficult to express without feeling well…silly! It is 2014 and the overall world motto, to me, seems to be “Fuck your feelings!” Ok, then. What is a girl like me to do with that? I am the girl who will meet you at your ugliest yet only think of you at your best, or will lock eyes with you across a room and immediately want to consume and devour. I want to feel all of my things and your things, too until I combust with emotion and have to spend days in my room crying to release the tension before I can go out and face the world again. The world is telling me to have several seats.

My only problem is that I cannot find the space between feeling everything and nothing. I say dialing it back but really its not a volume button for me, its either on or its off. I don’t know how to curb my feelings and properly guard the heart I wear so openly on my sleeve. I try not to let my perceptions become reality, but I do also function under the philosophy that reality isn’t all the harshness of murder, decay, and unrequited love. I function under the philosophy that reality is who we are when we peel back the layers, its unconditional love and its just a bunch of wandering souls doing all the crazy shit that we do to quell our desire and longing for SOMEthing that resembles real to us! But the world says to me, have a seat. Your feelings, your ideals, your sheer ridiculousness is not welcome here.

So, here I sit humiliated and disappointed that I can’t be free to believe in everything. I have to change and dumb down and pour myself into this mold already laid out for me. I need to quell my emotions and come to the realization that some things are ugly and shallow and unfair no matter how you slice it. But if I lose the ability to seek out the beauty in the ugliest of things who do I become? It’s a catch 22! My heart is soft, but not strong enough to withstand being laughed at by the cynics and by those who think of me as a stupid girl in over her head, wasting time on the worthless. I used to believe that everything was worth it.

“Fuck your feelings,” says the world. Ok then…as you wish.


I feel like Rapunzel locked away in a tall tower, unable to truly be free. I’m still not sure how to handle the censorship of others and too affected to feel anything other than paralyzed. Stupid girl, still unable to turn off emotions and fit in with what everyone else doing, thinking or feeling. Stupid girl, you are no Rapunzel, your hair will never be long enough to find your escape.

Super Massive Black Hole


Listen, dating is a massive sinkhole that only widens everyday sweeping poor unsuspecting suckers into its stupid, shallow hole. Modern dating is a rude process and I find myself being just as rude right back to it. As I found myself texting a potential (love interest, sex partner who knows…) informing him that I was bored with the back and forth texting process, I realized that I just need to take a step back. It’s hard for me to be nice anymore when I feel my time is being wasted.



I love being black, contrary to the belief of those who judge me based on the way I talk and the fact I have white friends and I love hummus. I’ve been so clear about my love for slang talking, Hennessey drinking, too hardcore to ever be shorts-wearing black men– but with that love comes some stipulations. Sorry I have to say this, but sometimes I hate that we have to be so fucking cool we have to have a separate word or phrase for EVERYTHING. We don’t casually date, we “talk”. What the hell does that even mean?! I get swept up in the culture and terminology time and time again. I remember having the defining the relationship ( or as I call it the “Wtf are we doing”) conversation with a man and I got so distracted by the sound of his voice and the look of his smooth, brown full lips as they uttered the words, “Yeah, I fuck with you.” The way my heart skipped a beat you would have thought this nigga proposed! What he did was blurt out a meaningless phrase that I can’t dare question for fear of officially losing my black card. I fuck with my Ramen noodles for lunch every day and we are not in a romantic relationship– I need some clarification, dude.

If our cultural mating rituals were being observed on the national geographic I feel like the narrator would fall asleep because nothing would even begin to move for several months. He would then be awakened screaming, ” Holy shit, they’re mating! I didn’t see that coming– they hardly knew each other. That escalated quickly….”  Things do happen too fast because the “talking” process is long as it is empty. It consists of weeks and weeks of texting with no continuous conversation or face- time. Listen, fuck your texts I want your soul! I could care less if your day was “good”, I want to know what made it so and I want to at least hear your voice explaining it, if I can’t physically see you breathing, blinking, moving–alive! I operate almost solely off vibe, on top of the fact that I’m a weird girl and my personality does not translate via text at all. I just wonder if maybe I’m getting too old for this runaround. Or maybe I’m the kid with ADHD that always needs some sort of action to be going on for me to feel adequately stimulated while everyone else is so laidback.


I’m Focused, Man

I did have one guy say to me that he feels like it’s a lot of pressure on the man because the woman sometimes becomes too focused on him. Hey, sir listen up. I’m a full time employee, single mom with a writing hobby– I’m looking to do most shit as efficiently and expeditiously as possible– including trying to determine your depth and eliminate you if you have none. Let me see you! And if you can’t open up, or are only capable of a few sporadic texts then what’s really our purpose? In addition to that, no woman wants to feel like she’s on the back burner. None of us want to be in the emergency glass case next to a mallet labeled “in case of horniness, break here”. If you are talking to 50 different women that is certainly your right, but it is your responsibility to at least make every one chick you talk to feel as if she’s the only one, and to not mass text your dick pic to a listserve of bitches you want to bang. If you don’t have the attention span to keep things moving progressively with these women, then don’t pursue anything. If I decide I want to get to know you then I pencil in time for it. Period.

I’ve been there done that with the whole juggling several dudes and it just wasn’t my cup of tea. It felt a little sleazy and if all of them were having a bad day I had to listen to EVERYBODY’S problems. On top of that, I do have the hard fast rule of only one bedmate at a time– so whilst physically engaged with one I had to keep the other irons in the fire with lustful texts and sexy selfies. I’m not a fucking photographer and a lot of production goes into those damned selfies—must have good lighting, proper body angles, face cropped out at just the right spot, subtle but natural filter, etc. Say it with me guys, ain’t nobody got time for that. I’ve long since decided to vibe with just one or two dudes who seem like they have something going on deeper than meets the eye and leave it at that. So far, I keep getting sucked into the black hole of modern dating norms and I can’t even level with anyone on where I’m coming from because the first rule of dating club is that you don’t talk about anything of substance at all…ever. I don’t want to spend my thirties regulated to texting purgatory with dudes, then fucking them on the first date because it feels like we’ve known each other for a while,  when all I really know is that you like to call me baby and you don’t answer your messages between 10am and 9pm. I am truly and sincerely not about this life. I have to be myself in everything, and I just can’t get with this or change my stripes in order to get with it.