Anyone who has ever had the misfortune of riding in the car with me knows that I am a TERRIBLE driver! I am a daydreamer, I am always either going too fast or too slow—and driving anywhere in Washington, DC I am a confused mess of a person. I am not perfect, and neither is anyone else. I get bullied on a daily basis in my tiny Honda Civic and people speed up and NEVER let me over whenever I put on my turning signal. Driving in the DC area is a dog eat dog world. It is frustrating and infuriating but I accept it and I move on.

The other day, after a VERY long weekend spent running errands with my nine and four year old, it was time to leave the grocery store, get some gas and go the FUCK home! As I was exiting the shopping center there was a bus to my right on the main road picking up passengers and obscuring my view of traffic in the opposite direction. Like a true asshole DMV area driver I didn’t simply wait until the bus moved so I could see, I chose to dart across traffic because I am impatient, a little stupid and #YOLO. As I completed my left turn accelerating at full speed because I didn’t know what was behind me, I noticed that in my little misadventure I cut off a minivan innocently traveling along his path. It wasn’t a heart stopping near miss that would make me re-evaluate my life or at least rethink my driving habits but it was enough of a close call for me to feel guilty about cutting the vehicle off. But alas, we were all safe—perhaps the other driver butt hurt but no love lost.

Already on to the next thing, I pulled into the nearest cheapie gas station (you know, the kind with 4 lone pumps on a darkened semi-paved side street that screams “YOU WILL BE MURDERED HERE!” but you go anyway because the gas is 14 cents a gallon…) and as I am leaving my car to pay who pulls up but the minivan I just cut off less than a minute ago. The van pulls around and I get a good look at the driver, a man in his early 50s complete with scowling face and angry stare. Immediately I know that HE knows that I am the douchebag that pulled the risky traffic move at his expense. I feign confidence while walking to the cashier’s window but I’m nervous. Is this a coincidence or is this about to be a road rage incident taken way too far? I pay at the cashier’s window and as I am walking back to the car the guy is already out of his and making his way toward the window. I couldn’t mistake the antagonism in his voice as he spoke at me, “You were in that much of a rush just to get some gas?!”

The cloud of fear that hovered around me now settled onto me and began to seep in. And I get it—I did a stupid, dangerous thing and I could have seriously harmed us both—but is that what this was about? Was he here to harm me or to teach me a lesson? I walk over to my car and start pumping gas praying this was the end of our interaction. I crossed my arms trying to look tough but frightened out of my yoga pants that something sinister was about to pop off. He was parked at the pump directly on the other side of mine and as he walked back to his minivan I wished on everything holy that his lecture was over. He fixed the gas pump into his tank then he moved over to come closer to me, peered at the kids in the back seat and shook his head. “And you have kids in the car?! Why would you do something like that? Just to get gas? Really?!”

I didn’t know where this is going. The day was long, my pockets were empty I had just moved out of an expensive rental house I couldn’t afford with a landlord from the pit of hell, I was running on little time and no sleep and I didn’t NEED this! He didn’t know my story, he was not my father or a police officer I didn’t understand why he couldn’t let this go. People screw me over on the road every single day but I would never think to confront them about their transgressions—on the streets we are supposed to be anonymous. I felt intimidated but I wasn’t trying to show it so I decided to do my best to stay calm and be as direct as possible. “Sir, would you like me to apologize? I can apologize. What do you want to get out of this?”

He immediately says no, he did not want an apology and goes back into his rant basically calling me an idiot and irresponsible for my actions. I wasn’t scared because he was a black man, I was scared because he was a man here with me and my children in this darkened place trying to escalate a situation that was already over. It was subtle and clever and more power to him but I felt I was being bullied, I didn’t like it or invite it and I was helpless in the situation.

refusing advances

I asked him point blank if he was going to hurt me and he looked at me slightly taken aback by my reaction. I tell him, “You have me here in this darkened gas station at night, you are yelling at me in anger in front of my little girls, you don’t want my apology—what do you want? For me to listen to your verbal abuse or to punish me for what I did? I am at your mercy I am exposed and you are accosting me I don’t know you. You could have a gun, I don’t know what you want me to do?” I was feeling the same emotion I feel whenever I’m walking in public and a man makes a lewd comment and I have to be polite and laugh it off because people are crazy nowadays and rejecting a man’s advances can lead to the ending of your life. Or when I am on the inside seat of a nearly empty metro car train and a man sits next to me, traps me into conversation and asks me for my number, or even at work listening to sexist comments and choosing to ignore it because I don’t want to cause a shitstorm. I have no power in these situations, I feel trapped and at a clear disadvantage. Perhaps some may call it extreme language but I view it as an abuse of power. Men should always be subconsciously aware of their physical power over women and never misuse it to bully women into acquiescence—this is NOT ok!

About a year ago I came home to two of my brother’s friends in my living room. I had no problem with their presence, they were drinking buddies and it was Friday so the more the merrier. My girls were engaged in what look like a delightful pillow fight with one of the guys so I poured myself a glass of wine and watched them at play while chatting with the other friend. Suddenly, the friend playing with the children began to taunt me about being uptight and requesting that I join the pillow fight. I laughed it off and made it clear that I’d had a long day and I just wanted to drink and relax. My answer wasn’t enough for him, he kept up the teasing and next thing I know he was hitting me with the pillow. My response, “No, I am not going to play, don’t include me in this.” His response—another hit with the pillow. Three more hits with the pillow and my fury had boiled over. I am in my own house, in my own living room telling a guest NO, why was my NO not enough? And would a grown man do the same this same thing to another grown ass man? I doubt it. I jumped out of my seat and screamed for him to get the fuck out of my house because no means no and if I don’t want to you hit me in the face with a pillow repeatedly then DON’T!

Man Yelling at Woman

My power had been revoked from me. His other friend hopped up to back him away from me because I was hysterical. My brother came from downstairs to see what all the fuss and commotion was about and the way they all looked at me was as if I was a crazy black woman being all crazy and black again…popping off at the slightest provocation. But few men will understand what it is to lose your voice in that way. I was looked upon as disrespectful for kicking out house guests that were not mine but for me, anyone in your presence, let alone your house, cannot be around you if they can’t follow basic instructions to respect you and your space. The friend has since apologized and this is water under the bridge but this incident sticks with me—the powerlessness and the frustration of my wishes being so irrelevant to a person more physically powerful than me.

I lament about this a lot and I know it might make feminists hate me but I reiterate: men take care of us! If you feel no obligation to protect us at least don’t bully us or flaunt your physical power and control over us in these types of situations. I want my voice to matter just like any other human being (that pays taxes and rent and works and EXISTS ON THE PLANET) and I understand elevated emotional situations but even then there is a way to communicate and reason with people without manipulation.

There is a good chance I could be alone in these sentiments—but at least I feel better having gotten it off my chest.


Great Expectations

I sent a group text the other day to my family telling them the great news that FINALLY I was a published author. I live in reality, I know that I am self-published and it’s not exactly the same hoopla that comes with picking up an agent and being funded by a large publishing company, but still, yay me! My siblings were congratulatory, my parents remained silent. It was the first stone—felt like I swallowed it and could feel it travel down my esophagus and weigh down on my belly.

I saw them later that day, and I know my mother is the type to have cupcakes, say congratulations and ask questions—but when I got to their house it was business as usual. My parents are not villains. I had to pull my eldest daughter out of her former school, I can’t afford before and after care by myself so she now lives with them during the weekdays attending their neighborhood school as well as my four-year old daughter. My parents are not villains. They give me groceries when I am poor and encourage me to go to mental health counseling and provide me with plenty of scripture as advice.

My parents are not villains—they just don’t like the person that I have become. This divorced, formerly broken, independent and kind of whacky woman is not anyone they want to hug or congratulate or give a slap on the back. She is a little broken and way too open. She is not Christian enough; and I know that it bothers them that they can’t quite tell whether I’m going to heaven or hell. Well I don’t really know either, and I had to come to a place and take a moment to stop fretting about it. I’ve had to force myself to slow down and learn to be happy and accepting and to take life one day at a time. And as for this day, I am proud of myself because I never thought I would be here. If you had asked me where I would be at this time 5 years ago I would have said, “Lying in the fetal position on the floor of a psych ward contemplating where my life went so wrong.” I have exceeded my own expectations and I am going to bask in the glory of this moment even if it kills me to smile and I have to do it through faltering lips.

In spite of the men that didn’t value me enough to treat me with respect and dignity…

In spite of what I used to lay awake at night telling myself…

In spite of how the “Christians” may view me and my life choices…

In spite of rejection from the people I desire support from the most…




I am here. And I will continue to shut out the voices of the doubters and unbelievers in order to do the thing that makes me happy. I just want to write.

Click here, to find out more and/or purchase my new chapbook Trigger: A Downward Spiral.

Apology Accepted


Apology accepted. I needed to hear this. I am a little ashamed to admit that sometimes living up to the increasingly demanding beauty standards of the black man is frustrating.
I am still disproportionately salty that my booty doesn’t twerk
If only my stomach were flatter I could better appreciate my worth
If only my arms were thinner and my smile could be more perfect
Then I could be these women getting all of this attention, love and
is what is craved, and the chance to be loved for who I am
Outwardly tall and proud is how I stand
but in weakest moments I can’t help but seek approval from a man

Visit my website for more: http://www.whiskeyandpoetry.com

I Hereby Submit My Resignation as Advocate for Plus-Sized Women

Maybe you were feeling ok today, even great— but then some passive aggressive asshole came up to you and hits you with the “Are you ok? You look tired,” or “Oh, what’s wrong with you?” Please do not feed into this foolishness! Backhanded concern and commentary is something subtle and nasty that women do to each other and this is not ok. By the same token, I think this is what society is constantly doing to plus sized women in an oh so subtle way.

You Look Plus-Sized Today

Me: “Cute skirt, I love it”

Stranger: “Thanks, I got it from *insert basic store here*. They probably have it in your size too.”

Holy shade points, batman! I didn’t ask for all of those details and it didn’t even occur to me to worry about whether my size was available for sale or not—I literally just meant “nice skirt”. Somehow, it is perfectly fine for women to speak to each other this way, but I don’t think I’m with it anymore. Going to the gym and wanting weight loss as a personal goal doesn’t mean self-esteem is lacking and certainly does not mean that I need anyone to remind me of or put me in my place about my size. I hate to be a skeptic but I just seriously doubt she would have bothered to provide the same helpful information to someone two sizes smaller than her.

Pushing aside the fact that anyone from a size 12 to a size 30 is considered plus size, is there really a need for women to bother categorizing ourselves in this way? I can’t say that I haven’t been guilty of it myself; emphasizing self-love for plus-sized women on social media and constantly drilling into my boyfriend’s head that he is dating a larger woman (though he could care less about descriptive terminology—he just likes ME). As a tall man with long limbs and big feet he actually identifies with my shopping struggles in the “other size clothing section” but when it comes to women, it seems we are the only ones that make size into such a big fucking deal. Is embracing yourself as a bigger woman really all that positive or is it completely unnecessary?

Urban dictionary

Damn, Urban Dictionary, that’s how you feel?!

Furthermore, these days it’s cute to say you have a thing for BBWs but according to the actual definition you would be talking about Amber Riley from Glee, not the ever so tiny Nickie Minaj and her artificial parts. (i.e. Urban dictionary’s flattering definition: A word that fat chicks use as a euphemism for fat. These girls usually run personal ads calling themselves “pleasingly plump.” Sure, you’re pleasingly plump if the South Pole is refreshingly chilly.)

Precious or Deelishis

Precious or Deelishis? You can decide which is your version of BBW OR stop using the term altogether

It Starts with Self Love—How do YOU define you?
I came across a Facebook article about a woman who cheerfully referred to herself as fat because skinny people refer to themselves as skinny so why can’t she be real about how she labels herself? *Eyeroll* OR how about we find something else that defines who we are besides weight? Ninety percent of the time I’m not thinking of myself as a plus-sized woman until I’m shopping for clothes on the internet and type in “plus sized clothing” or when I’m in casual conversation with someone and they say “We, as bigger women…” Perhaps I’m being petty but I no longer wish to relate to women on that level. Mainly because as I move closer toward self- actualization I believe there is more to who I am than the size of my clothes. Secondly, I am starting to feel it’s a terminology that has picked up momentum outside of the fashion world and evolved into a more negative stigma than it was intended to be in the first place.  It has become one of those undercover malicious descriptions that women use to throw shade at each other or to create a misery loves company-esque solidarity group.  “We are generally unpleasing to society because of our size but we are still cute.”  Bitch, I’m just cute—sometimes you have to pat your ownself on the back! I am a lot of things; I no longer wish for size to be atop the list of adjectives that define me. The women who know they look good and are naked on social media just hashtag #BadBitch, they don’t have to also include #plussizedbeauty  #fattygirl  or #biggirlshavemorefun—let’s all just have fun minus the disclaimers about weight.

Love Your Curves

Don’t talk about it, be about it!

I follow beautiful women on Instagram who market themselves as “curvy”. I’m pretty sure they’re models because they are so gorgeous and there are plenty of posts of them in high fashion clothing. However, every #ThrowbackThursday a few start posting old  pictures and lamenting about when they were thinner. Is you proud of who you is or nah? Why is “plus-sized” marketed as an in spite of attribute?  You can be a model in spite of your weight. She’s pretty in spite of her size. It has become the most gratuitous battle cry “I AM OVER A SIZE 12 AND I LOVE MYSELF!” as if the two are mutually exclusive. (Just today, Facebook presented me with a “memory” selfie from 4 years ago when I was about 40 pounds lighter. I wanted to badly to repost but then again– I was super unhappy 4 years ago. I don’t care if I was smaller, I don’t own the unhappiness that went along with that memory…)

Weight becomes an issue when we allow people to make it an issue. Recently, I’ve not only done that but have allowed myself to become completely consumed by it. I also follow a larger woman on IG that posts pictures of herself scantily clad to fight the stigma and to end body shaming.  That makes sense to me, but if you really and truly just want to be naked and free…do it, post it and don’t hide it under the guise of something else. I did a whole blog post about my Plus Sized Fun vacation and it gave me the security blanket of finally posting pictures of myself in two piece swimsuits and summer clothing. The blog post had its place but if I were to rewrite it today I would probably just title it “Vacation” and not make a big deal out of my body type being so different from the women around me—especially since no one seemed to really notice or care. I don’t have to define myself as a larger woman as a preemptive strike to combat others visual impressions of me.

Bitch Where?

For the women who continue to fight for the cause; more power to you. Personally, I see continuing to go out of my way to always reference myself as plus-sized is nothing more than a defense mechanism and a term that I no longer wish to use as a crutch. Plus what? I’m not an extra person I am THE person living in this body.

We are prone to live our lives out loud these days. I am a proud transgender, I am a devout Muslim, I am a devoted single father, I am a beautiful big girl—at this point I am most interested in simplifying. I am just a person trying to make it through this life happy with who I am inside and out. I no longer have a desire to shout it through the rooftops to prove to everyone else that I am ok with me. Hmm, plus-sized? Bitch where?


We Are Tired (Guest Post!)

 *This is a guest post written by my sister L. DAVIS. Enjoy!


WATThe black woman is tired. If I hear another story about how the black man is not doing his part, I’m going start a Million Woman March so we can officially claim our independence from this nonsense. I understand our history of slavery and how the black family was torn apart and yes, I feel the effects of the pain that was inflicted on us but—come on black man! Rise up!

The black woman is not the enemy! We were made to help lift you up when you are being torn down by this fallen world. Yes, we are doing our thing by getting educated, becoming professionals and taking care of our families…hell, it’s all hard work. But…we do it for you! We do it so that the cruel world that you have to face every day doesn’t come into your home. The place you lay your head and get love and protection from the self-esteem killers called the World.

Black man YOU are not the enemy. If you have your health and are in your right mind, there is no reason why you can’t rise up. Rise up and be the king, the warrior that you were called to be. It is time for the WOE IS ME mindset to be annihilated…there is no need for it. You are blessed with the tools to achieve what you desire. YOU are standing in your way. I know you didn’t have a daddy growing up or a positive role model. I know that you came from a broken society that didn’t fully understand the purpose and meaning of your life. That is no excuse.

We are tired! The women who are supposed to be your Queens, the women who conform to all of your wants and desires even when it’s not reciprocated. We do that so you know we are on your side and that we love you and no matter what is going on out there we got your back. We are tired of being your whipping board for all the things that are not well with the world. We are tired of being emotionally drained because you don’t have a clue as to who you are and what you are supposed to do. Take a look in the mirror and see— Black man; you can be whatever you desire to be. That’s why the black woman was created to help you achieve.

The Blacker the Berry

TBTBThe rains came pouring down in Virginia yesterday. This happened just before I left work. I ran all the way to the metro only barely managing to keep from getting soaked.

I emerged on the Maryland end of my commute greeted by the sun and humidity. It had rained there too, just not nearly as much as it had in Virginia. As I walked to my bus terminal a sparkle caught my eye– something glistening and shiny like an expensive, shimmery jewel. I look up to see just an ordinary black man, lanky in his white t-shirt and jeans, his long dreaded hair pulled back at the nape of his neck. My eyes move to his face and I actually felt my breath quicken and my heart begin to beat faster.

I don’t know what it is, but lately I find myself so enamored with dark skin. It is absolutely gorgeous to look at, and to see a cluster of raindrops reflecting the sun off of his face and forearms gave him the ethereal appeal of an angel come down to Earth. Staring would have been impolite so I politely averted my eyes but it took a lot of concentrated effort to keep away from the sight. I fought the urge to walk up to him, gaping in awe and telling him just how beautiful he was.

I have a dark skinned man at home that I am sure to tell almost everyday how much I love his pretty, pretty skin. I’ve dated maybe 4 or 5 dark skinned men, and couldn’t help but notice that all of them had been treated a certain way all their lives because of it. They make self deprecating jokes about not wanting to get darker in the sun, about being “black enough already” etc. Finally, I took a stand against it and I refused to listen to insecurities about skin tone escaping from full chocolate lips in what was an obvious defense mechanism. Beauty stands proud and alone, it needs no defense.

A dark chocolate male friend of mine came to me and said, “Wow, I saw a picture of your boyfriend– he’s blacker than me!”  Automatically I beamed back at him and replied, “Yes, isn’t he gorgeous?!” I cup his handsome face in my hands, kiss his high cheekbones and tell him so as often as I can. There’s so much going on in the world I can’t bring myself to even write out the extent of my emotions in response to the racial tensions in America and the Black Lives Matter movement. At this point I really just feel moved to savor my identity and to celebrate what others can’t seem to understand or grasp.
I read books and watch programs… see and hear the descriptions of olive skin, porcelain complexions and red tinged lips… no one speaks much about the phenomenon of black skin. Every black man I’ve met and had the pleasure of exploring has been composed of various complicated shades of brown– to the amount of cream in their coffee eyes, the hint of coppery brown in their beards, the tender pinkish brown underneath fingernails and toes, the light tracing of chestnut brown in the lines of their palms…I could go on all day.
I celebrate the very thing that is used against us, to profile us and to make us feel inferior. The same world that makes assumptions about our culture, generalizes us and treat us like animals and stereotype us as heathen can’t deny the unique beauty that lies within our color. And if they can– they are truly missing out.

Nutrisystem Diaries – 3.18

*This is not going to be a daily thing…I promise*
I don’t feel like I’m getting any smaller and it’s bumming me out a little. I’m supposed to lose like 5 pounds in the first week– and I translate that to mean that I should bust the two piece out of the closet. And people keep saying, “Well, if you’re working out, you might gain before you lose.” That’s ass backward– I wanna LOSE before I lose HENCE WORKING OUT AND BEING ON THIS STUPID DIET! (Or “lifestyle change” is probably what I’m supposed to call it…)
So, the good thing about Nutrisystem is that you do get to eat all day. My obsession/love affair with food doesn’t have to come to a complete end. So my schedule looks a bit like this:
9am – Breakfast
11am – Snack
1pm – Lunch
3pm – Snack
6 or 7 – Dinner
In theory this sounds awesome, but yesterday my 3pm snack alarm went off and I remember thinking to myself, “Really? I just fucking ate!”  Maybe the angle is to make you eat so often that you just get tired of food in general and it becomes something you have to do to survive and not the highlight of your life (as it used to be!)  I should really hold off on bragging about it though until I start to see some pounds dropping. Tomorrow will be a week…

Two piece swimsuit goals (Forever 21–b/c budget)

Nutrisystem Diaries – 3.17

NSD 3.17

Too much filter

Reason #3,467 of why I want to lose weight:
If I am anything above a size 10-12 I look like a chubby video hoe in whatever I wear!

I put on an outfit this morning that was supposed to say “Its warm outside. I will dress accordingly and professionally. ” However, by the time I got off the bus with my pencil skirt riding high and my tank top riding low, I think I was saying,  “Everyone step back please…I may twerk at any moment!” (Yes I am obsessed with twerking but only because I feel like it looks like I can do it but I can’t. I’m a walking false advertisement.)

Anyway, this is not how want to look while going over expense reports with my boss. Weight loss has to happen because I’m too poor and too vain to start buying baggier clothes. At the very least, I am grateful this skirt doesn’t have a slit in it anywhere. Seriously, what kind of sadistic, perverted fashion designer came up with that bullshit?

Dialing It Back Part IV: Purge


He held my hand and asked me to be his girlfriend. I floated above myself, giddy with excitement and challenging myself to take the leap. I was crazy about him once upon a time but his indifference and neglect of my feelings burned me time and time again. I am now a muted version of myself with him and I don’t know if I’ll ever get back up to 100% with any of them. I’ve been too severely damaged over time.

I still feel the imprint of his hand in mine as I lay here typing this and coming to the realization that this game is much bigger than me. A man will say anything.

It is bold to want from a woman her precious time and body yet neglect to do the small things necessary to create a safe place for her to be free. I resolve to live in complete and utter solitude than to waste any more time with men who feign intimacy but refrain from engaging and learning the parts of me that I hold dear. I purge myself of all of them. Facts are facts because they cannot be unproven or misconstrued. A man that cares makes time, a man that is sincere makes effort. My self-esteem can’t handle bare minimum anymore. Before, I dialed back for them, now I do it for me.

Happy 30th birthday to you, Naomi. You deserve more than what you have settled for. You have laid the foundation for a stronger house this time around. It’s time to build it…

Embrace the Crazy: Behind the Scenes Photo Shoot

So, I had put off this photo shoot for a few weeks because at the time it was supposed to happen I just didn’t have the energy to go through with it. I just was not mentally there. So, fast-forward to the morning of November 17 and I am feeling really self-conscious and nervous about the shoot so naturally I ate a piece of cake for breakfast to boost my self-esteem and calm my nerves. I was in line at the CVS buying the thickest pair of false eyelashes I could find and suddenly aware that I was about to be half naked in front of two of my closest friends. Was there any way out of this?! Whose idea was this, anyway? …oh, wait that ‘s right, it was my idea.

I am happy to report that I not only survived, but my friends Angela and Justin survived. I wanted to show the Behind the Scenes stuff just to sort of give more background AND to show that I am fully aware that I am not a model. I was far far and away from my level of comfort.

Why the Straight Jacket, You Insensitive Bitch?

I feel like I’ve clarified the purpose of this blog enough that I don’t want to go overboard with it. Everything I write about is internal, it’s about me and it has nothing to do anyone and their personal experience but if you can’t get with it—that’s cool. The jacket is a serious piece, it represents how stifled and censored I feel when I am attempting to live up to the standards of others. The concept of a straight jacket was fascinating to me—it’s purpose to detain and constrain and the positioning of the arms hugging yourself. I appreciated the symbolism of feeling confined by the standards of most people and looking inward to find the strength to break free of their expectations and marching to the beat of your own drum.

If you want one they’re like $30 on Amazon.

Where are my pants?

In my bag somewhere—in order to just dive into things I shed them immediately when we got there. It was nerve racking and took me so far out of my comfort zone I almost called it off. However, when I am compelled to do something I am driven and I can’t stop or let it go—and that’s why I have so much trouble in dating and life in general—but I digress. I feel it was important for me to be as exposed as possible because that’s what the blog is all about. After harboring so many secrets about my well-being and hiding who I truly was from the world I developed a deep fear of exposure so I’m always trying to push myself to be open and to accept myself as I am because I’m fully aware that most won’t. Kind of a “be kind to yourself because no one else gives a shit” thing, or however that saying goes. Furthermore, it’s been no secret my struggles with my weight. I am the largest I’ve ever been and I continue to be so hard on myself because of it. Embrace the crazy… embrace the fatty, this is me pure and unadulterated (besides a face full of makeup!)

Photoshoot? You are definitely no model…


How do you feel now?

Incredibly silly. This isn’t my thing, I just wanted to try it for once if not only for the fact that I’m a woman and want to feel pretty sometimes, dammit! Promo is a necessary evil—and I started off doing the blog just for me because I have to write to maintain my sanity, but now I’m interested in pushing things further and seeing how far it can go. I’m only 6 months in but I do wish to establish a brand that I can feel good about—because of the subject matter, that brand is ME. Only now I will have a drawer full of about 20 shots of me in a straight jacket struggling not to look goofy and cross-eyed in front of the camera. But as I continue to challenge myself by doing random things that put me out there, I learn more about who I am and I have become more comfortable in my skin.

Anything else?

I really and truly thought that straight jacket was going to be so much longer! :-/ I’m showing a lot of leg!

Just for Laughs…

One of my tags for the YouTube video is “BBW” and to me, this is the funniest thing on Earth 😉

Stay tuned for the official post to celebrate my 6 month “blogoversary” and the final reveal of the photos!

Thanks for Reading,
Your Homie