Category Archives: Live With No Regrets

I MISS HIM DAMN IT!

Writing use to make things easier…today it doesn’t.

I’m reminded of all of the things he and I won’t get to experience and I remember all of the things that we did. It was tough being his daughter, but it was a privilege that I’ll never forget and a want that I’d love to experience again. I know he’s in heaven, and yes, that’s where he is, although he gave us and the world all sorts of hell, and that in spite of him not being physically here, I’m still his daughter. I just wish that I could physically see him and have him tell me. His last words were that he loved me—words that will never mean the same coming from anyone else. I’ll appreciate them from anyone and I’ll believe them from everyone, but the meaning that his last words to me meant…well, it just won’t compare. He spent his life saving others. I spent my life admiring him, sometimes resenting him, for reasons unknown, but I also spent my life appreciating him and loving him more than I ever knew. I miss him, I’m mad as hell that he’s gone. I knew he would leave, had time to prepare, but he was the strongest man on earth…I never believed that he would leave.

He left.

He was supposed to stick around, but he left— I believe of his own freewill because he’d suffered quite enough. This, this, does not erase the pain, this does not bring on a restful night’s sleep, this does not stop the tears from flowing as a type this…but it’s a start.

 

I love you, Pop. Rest well my dear…protect me.

~ Boo

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FEAR

Fear

Knotted stomach,
        Wearied heart
Aching head,
        Sore parts
Delayed mornings,
        Passionless beginnings,
Sleepless nights,
        Dreadful endings.

                                                       Fear.

Evolving. Revolving. (Happy Birthday, Baby)

I’m writing in an opened space.

Feels good.

I got the clarity that I was seeking; the moment that I so strongly wanted all last week, and so much more. I was afforded the thoughts that were jumbled or willed away by the happenings of life.

Here goes:

Today my little baby is a whopping sixteen-years-old.Babe Little

The thought of this seems weird. At 10:16 tonight, it’ll be more than a notion.

I was just holding her on my hip.

Hell, I was just carrying in her my womb.

I was just taking her off to her first day of school.

I just bought her Junior Debutante dress.

I was just explaining the intricacies of being a female and all the weight that, that carries.

And now, my little, semi-sweet, chocolate, pudding is suddenly at the age where independence is hers for the taking.

Life will seem grand through her newly freed eyes. She’ll enjoy it on levels that mommy no longer will be able to supply.

That frightens me.

That makes me happy.

It was during the sixteenth year of my own life, when she came to existence and I pray, preach, and scream for her not to have to write this same post at thirty-two-years old.

Though now, I can count her as a blessing because having another child is nearly medically impossible for me, but who knows things could happen…but it won’t bother me any if they don’t. Because of her early presence in my life, I was afforded something that many women with my disorder won’t be. I got to experience childbirth.

Then it didn’t seem all that fantastic.

Now, I’m thankful.

Happy Birthday, Sweetheart!

 

Babe 16My pretty, little, darling, will be off to college soon and I’ll be—for the first time—an uninhibited woman free to do the things that being a young mother hadn’t afforded me to do. You know the stuff like just up and moving when I please, kind of just do whatever the heck I want to do without being considerate of someone else’s feelings.

I don’t think any mom can do that…so I digress, but at least I’ll get the chance to live alone.

The thought? At one time sexy to me.

Now? It’s scary.

I’ve lived my life for her and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

She is my everything. EVERYTHING.

The reason to breathe, the reason to love, the reason to believe, the reason to keep going…when I’ve wanted to stop.

I miss her already.

I want to hold her tight and not allow her the freedoms that she deserves.

I want to protect her from the world that she’ll now see through new eyes.

I want to keep her the little baby that held on to me for dear life when strangers were around.

I want to keep her the little one that said, “Don’t worry, mommy. We’ll be okay, huh?” with bright-eyed optimism that said I could and would fix everything for her with just a simple band-aid.

I want to protect her from the heartbreak she’ll experience.

I want to protect her from the failures that she’ll take personally.

I want to protect her from the mistakes that she’ll make and more importantly, I’d like to protect her from herself.

She’s wonderful, adventurous and has no care in the world about being herself.

She calls herself the Black-Hippie. Which, yes. All complete yes.

She’s awesome, dope.

And really, those of us born in the 80s know that being dope is a very important part of life.

She’s dope.

But, that’s scary to a mom that wants her to be the same little one that thought that a band-aid could fix everything.

I’ll have to let go.

I don’t like this idea.

I’ll adhere to the rules.

She’ll be off to live her own life very soon and I’ll have to begin…again.

Yeah, I miss her.

 Evolving. Revolving.

Happy Birthday, Baby.

I love you, lights out!

XO

~Mommy

My Funny Valentine…and other shit that hurt

So, today is a day of love, of wonderfulness, of kindness, of sexy thoughts and naughty parts, and I’m here for it. Every drop of it. However, I’d be remiss if I didn’t take the time to jot this down; the time to allow my present self to chastise my former self…and to also be thankful for her as well. There are a few posts here about a guy that I spent too many years of my youth (listen, my early youth, because I’m still young. Thank you kindly. Shit.*stares at you and dares you to refute*) and there’s a lot about him in those post that don’t necessarily paint him in a good light. Trust me it was well deserved. Okay, okay, it wasn’t all bad. The times that I didn’t spend crying, or angry, or pissed, or worn, or battle weary, I spent laughing, smiling…loving him. I’m not angry that it happened; I’m angry at how everything happened. It was hard losing a best-friend, a lover, a partner, a confidant, just…a what was once a wonderful human being, but I’m thankful that I opened my eyes and saw what really needed to happen. The first year, (three years ago) after our break up on a day like today, I thought that I’d never laugh, smile, even love again because I was a woman scorned. I was hurt, I was angry, and I felt foolish. Foolish? Yes, foolish. Why? Because I, from a family of WELL educated African-American, strong, independent (yet dependent when warranted) women, raised by a father that said take no shit and give lots of hell, had succumbed to what amounted to an unhealthy relationship. There was no violence, (that I’ll admit to now, because…well, I want you to come back and read more whenever I decide to open my heart up and write part three or four –I can’t remember and I ain’t going back to fact check, so shut up—of the saga of that crazy relationship in which I speak.)  (I was going to type “speak of” right there, but the prepositional ending got me, so I changed it. You’re welcome, critics.) There was no mental abuse, none of that stuff (or was it…stay tuned. o_O) Anyway, the point is it wasn’t all gravy and I should’ve known better. I was warned, I’d been told, I’d even given advice to friends and some family members to stay away from the exact situation I was in, but I didn’t listen to myself or anyone else.  So, yeah, on days like today, three years ago, I was puke-gut sick. Like for real y’all, sick. Sick, because I reminisced about all of the good dudes that I had maybe passed up to stay with this one guy that deep down in the pit of my spirit I knew was never any good for me, but for whatever stupid reason that I may have had, I stayed. I was sick because I remembered on days like today, what I wanted to remember. I remembered the flowers he brought me, the candy he brought, the envious and jealous looks that I received from co-workers, the wowed eyes that I got from the students in my class, the jittery feeling that I got when I knew those roses, those candies, those cards were from me, and they expressed how he felt. I didn’t remember the next night sending silly messages of “Where are you?” I didn’t remember calling too many times, never getting an answer, but listening to that stupid voice message over and over and each time getting excited that this might be the time that he might pick up and tell me the current lie of the day.. I didn’t remember feeling puke-gut sick when I found out that those cards, those roses, those candies, those sexy pieces of lingerie were all just tangible items that held me over until the next heart break and brake. But on today, three-years-later, as I prepare to have a wonderful evening—something that I never thought I’d be able to do, because as stated, I was battle wearied, I was hurt, broken, confused, angry—I’m glad to remember it all. The good, the bad, the worst, because without it, I wouldn’t know how to be thankful, I wouldn’t know what a real relationship was, and I wouldn’t have had fodder for my soul. Damn the chicken soup.

 

The point, ladies and gentlemen, is that no matter how bleak it looks right now, no matter how bad being alone (if you’re alone) right now may hurt (what you think hurts), absorb this feeling. Enjoy it; be thankful for it, because there’s a lesson there somewhere. There’s a story there somewhere, there’s a reason there somewhere. Instead of crying or being angry, or wondering…just try figuring it out…or you know, don’t. What the hell do I know, I’m just out here tryna make money to feed muh daughta, it’s all good baebe babaee (RIP Biggie Smalls…you hip hop heads will get that that, for the rest of you, who the hell cares?) Anyway, if no one else has said this to you today, then let me be the first. I love you and I mean it…you know as much as I can without knowing who the hell you are. Whatever to your faces! 🙂

 

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Vive Sine Paenitentia

Res Ipsa Loquitur.
~Uncaught Recidivist

 

As for the other shit that hurt. Y’all, I’ve got a brand new pair of Spanx and I promise you nothing has ever been more uncomfortable (sans childbirth) but damn it, I’m kicking ass in this shape hugging dress. Suck it universe and society that are trying to make me lose weight. No way. No way! I laugh at you, because these Spanx are doing the trick. Never mind I can feel all of this chubby pushing against my bladder. Never mind it, I say!

 Note: I legit didn’t edit this, this time, becuase I’m fixinta go *virginia drawl*. I mean, I caught what I could, but I didn’t go back and proof, so if there’s something out of place, grammatically incorrect, or misspelled… keep it to your damned self, you judgemental shrews. No, seriously, though, I love you. Really. Whateves.

 

 

 

Enough

I waited for a while

Nothing happened.

I listened for a while

Nothing happened.

I hoped for a while

Nothing happened.

I prayed for a while

Nothing happened.

I still believe

Nothing happened.

I’m tired

Nothing happened.

I’m fed up, I’ve had enough

Something happened.

And that’ll be enough.

Vive Sine Paenitentia

Res Ipsa Loquitur.
~Uncaught Recidivist

Seriously Detrimental…and Other Flippant Shit

So, here’s the thing…this year I’m making NO resolutions. Why?  ‘Cause every time I-do, I break ’em. (Read that in southern and you’ll laugh)

i.e. I tried to psych myself out and  make an end of the year resolution that would just carry over to this year, it was fairly easy, one that said I would blog every day. Totally attempted to for three days. Went strong. Rocked. Day four? It all went to pot. Not the drugs, stupid. That’s a saying from the ultra southern (read country) women in my family.

So yeah, no resolutions. Why? Because I’m tired of lying to myself and I’m tired of silly internal failures.

I take those things to heart.

This year, I win life. No resolutions. No failures.

Only took me thirty-two years but I got it. Got it good, too. And with no hands. Damn right, I did. Thanks. (Insert sassy head nod and long eye-blink)

Digression

I get the whole new-skin of it. New year. New chances. Different outcomes. Etcetera, Etcetera.

Sidebar: Listen, was that a little pretentious of me to spell it out? Yes. Who cares.

Anyhoooo, like I said I get it. I get that we all revel in the chance to start over, but here’s the thing, do we really ever start over? Do we really ever completely begin again? You know, brand spanking new? I do NOT think so. Unless one of you bastards have crawled back into the uterus and demanded a do over, let’s move along. So yeah, no, no starting over. We can try again, yes. We’re always welcomed to try again, give it another shot, whatever “it” may be. And I will, I will continue to try until there’s no tries left.

i.e. If like I’m on world 8-4 or 8 and that’s the last world in the game (read life) and Jesus is all like, “Well, you didn’t slay the dragon, so you’re done now.” (Read that in a sanctimonious Jesus voice and you’ll laugh and get it) then I guess all my tries are over. I imagine I’ll be okay with that. But then, satisfied is something that I’m no longer willing to be or accept so I also imagine that there will be some sort of Jesus-Me debate…not saying that I’m going to win, but like for real, I think I could give it a good go. Is this sacrilegious, smite-worthy, and/or blasphemous? Yes. You sure? Yikes. *commences to rectify*

Side bar: Jesus, listen, I’m a writer, I’m colorful. No harm, no foul. K? Thanks…oh yeah and Amen. *looks around for determined lightening rods”

Digression.

No resolutions was what we were talking about, right? Yes. Good.

So yeah, no resolutions, only a very resolute promise to myself to continue to try. After all, that’s all we can ever do…right? (I think you get it.)

Happy New Year!

 thCA7PH73W

 

Vive Sine Paenitentia

Res Ipsa Loquitur.
~Uncaught Recidivist

Note: Refer to the unedited part of this blog.

Note again: Soon I’ll stop giving a damn and let you correct me all willy nilly, you pretentious, good spelling, grammar having, no-editor-needing, no-proofreader-needing, snobs.

Note again, again: And I’ll still love you just the same.  

 

Knowing When to Fold ‘Em…and other shit that I should’ve done a long time ago! (Part 3)

 

Part 1

Part 2

 

The Conversation 

I left the computer lab in a daze. I walked back to my dorm room in a daze. I left my best friend there. I didn’t talk to her. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I wanted, no, I needed to talk to this man that I called my best friend. The man that promised that he wouldn’t do anything to hurt me, disrespect me, deter me, or harm me, that’s the guy with whom I needed to speak.

That one.

I entered my dorm room, my roommate wasn’t there — thank God,—I hated her. Really, really hated her. She was the absolute worst, but whatever, that’s a blog for another time. I got there, and she wasn’t there. I looked in my desk for my calling card—yeah, can you imagine, calling card, not a cell phone, not just pick up the phone, calling card. Damn things have changed and I feel officially old right now. Whatever. I found the calling card. I looked at it numbly, picked up the cordless phone in my room, dialed the number to his dorm room, and then entered the numbers of the calling card. He picked up. You heard me. He picked up. He hadn’t been picking up for days, remember, but this time, as if he knew, he picked up. I could hear the noise in the background, it was a room full of a guys, I believe it was a football game on TV. I said in as much of a monotone as I could remember. “We need to talk.”
I surmise that at this time, he could hear the seriousness in my voice, so he said, “Okay. Give me a second.” Perhaps it wasn’t even the seriousness, perhaps he just knew that his time was up? Perhaps he just instinctually felt that he had been caught. Whatever the case, he left the mentioned noisy room, found a quiet space, and said to me, “I’m back. What’s going on?”
I sat there and couldn’t decide what was going on. I couldn’t understand what was happening because I believed that this was my first bout with heartbreak. The severe heartbreak that will have you thinking that when Angela Bassett burned her husband’s car and other personal shit up in Waiting to Exhale he got off too easy. It was too nice. She should’ve killed him. Yeah, that type of heartbreak, the kind that left you with your very own episode of Snapped via the Oxygen Network.
Suffice it to say, I was hurt.

Numb.

Flummoxed.

I didn’t speak for a moment. I sat quietly. I heard him say, “Babe? You there?” I remember because anytime I think of him until this very day, it’s those words that I hear.

I answered. “Don’t call me that.” The ire in which the four words came out, left me a bit out of sorts. I had been crying. I didn’t even know it until I felt the tear stream my face. “Don’t you dare call me that.” I warned again, still in a trance at my wearied tone.

He had the decency to oblige. “Okay…well, what’s going on?” the query as skeptic as they came.
It was probably the skepticism in his voice that bought on the next part of this blog, or perhaps it was blind furry that that turned my tears into a rage like you wouldn’t believe. Anger that heated my skin, my soul, whelped my being, and singed my core.

Skepticism.

Here’s what I said, “How could you sit there and act like you’re concerned when you weren’t concerned. You weren’t! You were out here f&*ing girls. You m$$#%*in  ass. You simple son-of-bitch. You lowly f!#%er. I hope you die, you good for nothing, *(*^*UOII! I*UWIOP*7827u! … {The rest was truncated do to the adult nature of the blessing bestowed upon him and the length in which it transpired}

Yeah, so I said that.

And get a damn load of this.

When I was done, when I had no more words, no more tears to cry, no more of anything, I was spent. Depleted.
He said. “I’m sorry. I never wanted to be this guy. I got into this mess, and I couldn’t get out of it. I don’t like her, I don’t love her. I love you. You’re my best friend…I don’t know how I did this to you, and I haven’t slept well knowing that I did. We’re best friends remember, best friends. I know you’re hurt and I hope that you can forgive me. Please forgive me. I don’t want to lose your friendship.”

My being stilled.

My soul cooled.

My body relaxed.

I opened my ears.

I listened.

My heart softened.

I listened again as he pled my forgiveness.

I listened and heard him say, best friend. I was his best friend. He was my best friend. I hadn’t been completely honest with him when I decided that I wanted him to be my boyfriend. At the time, you’ll remember, that I had just left one guy. Like, same day broke up with one, later that night, called this guy to fill the void. Too, I kissed him, while I was still with my ex. No, I convinced myself, I hadn’t been the perfect girlfriend. I had a little fun in the boy’s dorms—not that way you perverts—during the earlier part of the semester. I still kept in contact with my ex-boyfriend. We talked on the regular. We remained good friends—we’re still good friends today—all the while I was with this guy that I was supposed to call a best friend and boyfriend. So yeah, I guess I wasn’t that innocent.
With the depreciating realization, perhaps it was a balm for my hurt pride, I said, “Okay, I forgive you…let’s work on it.” Whatever the hell that meant at nineteen, being a damn sophomore in college, separated by a two-hour difference.
And you will never guess what he said to me next.

Shit, I have a hard time believing it now.

I simply fucking can’t believe that I actually heard the words, because listen, it’s not the words that you want to hear after swallowing your own pride, coming up with reasons yourself for forgiving a cheating bastard. Listen, you simply don’t want to hear this…but here it is:
“I don’t think we can work on it. I don’t. I don’t think you‘ll look at me with the same eyes. I don’t want to be that dude in your life. We have to break up.”

What?

In.

The.

Complete.

And.

WHOLE.

ENTIRE.

FUCK.

JUST.

HAPPENED?

After relegating his actions to that of my own, because you know, according to my fucked up thoughts I had not been the perfect girlfriend, that’s what he said to me. That’s what he said to me, after me having, swallowed dwindling pride. After realizing that my best-friend/boyfriend had cheated on me, in some very descriptive details, that’s, what he said to me. Those were the words that he used. Those were the ones that he chose. Of all the things, that was it?

Really?

Really.
I wasn’t afforded the opportunity to ask him. I wasn’t given a chance to request an explanation.

He hung up.

Vive Sine Paenitentia

Res Ipsa Loquitur.
~Uncaught Recidivist

As far as the other shit I should’ve done a long time ago, this blog’s regrets, not taking my braids out last weekend. They’re past due for a taking-out. That’s it.

Knowing When to Fold ‘Em…and other shit that I should’ve done a long time ago! (Part 2)

Part 1

So…where did I leave off? Oh yeah. College, second semester freshman year.

So yeah, I asked did he want to be my boyfriend and he, without thought, or hinder, said “Yes.”

See, now here’s the thing with that yes. While I was pretty happy to have my best-friend as a boyfriend, this same best-friend, had another male friend, whom I had…let’s say, dated. We didn’t really date, and seeing as how someday a lot of people will read this and no doubt judge me—if I were to be completely honest—I’m calling it dating, and if you chose to draw your own sassy conclusions from the words in between lines, then that’s your stuff. I’m going with dating. Yeah, so we dated. Did I say date a lot? Yes? Then good, you get it, we dated. Dated! Anyway, with him having a friend that I dated, it put him and the friend in sort of a bind, but my best-friend, being the good friend that he was, decided that after saying yes to me, he would check with “dated-guy” just to be sure. According to my history, “dated-guy “said, “He did not have a problem with our—best-friend and I—new relationship.

Onward.

Right after we made our relationship official, we ended school for summer break. Both of us coming back to Virginia, to do what most college students do during that time. We hustled. I worked at a day care, he worked at some distribution company, which had him working strange hours into the wee hours of the morning. OR. SO. I. THOUGHT.

Onward.

Our summer went off without a hitch, we had a few dates, had a little fun, and made a little money to take back to college with us. I went on vacation with my family, and he went on vacation with his. OR. SO. I. THOUGHT.

Onward.

Oh…wait, I forgot an important fact, before the THOUGHTS or wee-hour schedules, or the summer vacation, we took a step in our relationship not more than a month after making it official, and made it waaaayyy official. OR. SO. I. THOUGHT.

Backward.

That time spent officalizing—Shut up that’s a word—our relationship, was probably the most special, most meaningful, most passionate time that I’d endured. You know, at the ripe age of nineteen, and honestly, ‘til this very day, I wouldn’t have changed a moment of it. Wait. OR. SO. I. THINK.

Onward.

Nearing the ending of our summer, I couldn’t fathom the idea of leaving him to go to separate schools that were two hours away from each other, but then, there was a silver lining. I was finally allowed to take my car to school. WOOHOO! I would just drive to see him on the weekends that I didn’t have a football game (see previous posts, I was in marching band), this would be just fine. OR. SO. I. THOUGHT.

Onward.

Those of you who know anything about being in the marching band at a Historically Black College and University knows that marching band is a way of life, a culture, it’s everything, and so…there’s no free time. Plus, I didn’t have gas money and I damned for sure wasn’t going to ask my parents for money for gas to go see a boy. What? So I could hear, “We didn’t send you to college so that you could go see men, we sent you to get an education that had better pay off.” Listen, my mother, is very articulate, but that sentence isn’t even remotely close to anything that she would’ve said. Had I asked for gas money to travel from the Albemarle Sound of Carolina to Raleigh, there would’ve been expletives that made you cringe, so I didn’t even bother to ask. I snuck. I snuck and I didn’t get caught. OR. SO. I. THOUGHT.

Onward.

Yeah, so I did go to see him, drove my red 96 model two door Toyota Corolla (it was 2001 at this point) to Raleigh, under the guise that I was going home with a friend for the weekend. That was the truth and a lie. I did go home with a friend, I just didn’t stay there with her. I stayed in a hotel room with my boyfriend.

ASIDE: Listen, mom, when you read this, I just want to say, I’m sorry. I never meant to deceive you, but see, here’s the thing, I was dealing with crazed teenage hormones, and all kind of stuff that made me feel kind of funny inside. So yeah, the excuse/reason, legit. I love you.

Onward.

So that weekend, we spent it held up in a Comfort Inn in Raleigh, experiencing the epitome of being in an adult relationship. OR. SO. I. THOUGHT.

Backward.

When making the plans to go there, Dee (Yeah, that’s what we’re still calling him right?) said that he had a hookup from a boy who could get us the room for cheap. No problem, right?

Wrong. Wrong on so many different levels. Anyway, so, I had to pay for the room (I think that’s how it happened. Listen, as this story goes on, this part won’t even matter and “Dee” if you paid for it, my bad, but seriously, you, you can tell me to change this around? Get outta here). Anyway from there, we went on to have a lovely lunch at Burger King, dinner at some place cheap or another, and then back to the adult version of our relationship. OR. SO. I. THOUGHT.

Onward.

Anyway, when our weekend was done, I drove to my friend’s house, picked her up, and we headed back to the Albemarle sound. We had been back for about three weeks, when I realized…Oh No, I’m a girl, I’m supposed to have a period. Hmmm…whatever could be the problem? Oh no, I’m a girl, I’m supposed to have a period. Damn, I know the problem. And according to Clear Blue Easy, I was destined to have eighteen more years worth of problems.

Onward.

It was not to be.

I vacillated between a feeling of loss and a feeling of relief to a feeling of anger. It was the most hurtful and confusing time of my entire nineteen years on earth that far. Those of you that are close to me, know that I’ve been plenty confused and hurt before, but came out of that lake of shit, smelling like a rose. This time…I just stunk. The day that I called to tell him about what happened, was the day that he didn’t pickup. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t been picking up his dorm room phone regularly since the previous week. Which made me wonder. But then, he was at school on a sports scholarship, which required strict regimes and demands, so I let that go. OR. SO. I. THOUGHT.

Backward.

After him not picking up for a week, my best-friend and I went into the computer lab at our school, because using the clunky COMPAQ in my room drove me nuts, because seriously, it was just too slow (Internet wise). Anyway, we went into the computer lab with the sole purpose of emailing him, but then, something clicked and I remembered that I had his password to his email—he gave it to me willingly, you know we were best-friends nothing to hide—so she and I both decided to check his email. Wait! Don’t judge me. We checked it  just to see if he was okay and such. You don’t believe me? Whatever, that’s your stuff. And what I’m about to type is my stuff, and it still makes me nauseous until this very day. I mean stupid sick! We logged on to his email, and my best-friend (girl bf from college) said, “You sure you want to do this?” with the skepticism of a real best-friend, but a nosey bastard at the same time.

I said, “No” and then I opened it.

The first email was from, his ex-girlfriend. OR. SO. I. THOUGHT.

Onward.

So the day that I called him to let him know that we had created a child together, however, my body was not equipped to carry it at the moment, and so, subsequently, we had lost a child together, I had the wonderful knowledge of knowing that; all those long hours that he worked at the distribution center, yeah, he was with her. The family vacay’s that he went on, yeah, he was with her. The day before we made our relationship waaaaayyy official, he had called her to talk to her. Why he hadn’t been picking up my phone calls for about a week or so, yeah, he was talking to her. So, as you can see, my  THOUGHTS were clearly FUCKED UP. Silly me…and yet that’s only the beginning of my stinking think.

You’ll never believe the conversation that happens next. Until this very day, I still can’t believe it…but then…maybe I can…OR. SO. I. THINK!

Vive Sine Paenitentia

Alas, I do. Which is good and horrible.

Res Ipsa Loquitur

~Uncaught Recidivist

Also for the shit that I should’ve done a long time ago, well…I think you get it by now!

Faux Excuberance…and other stuff I wasn’t honest about…

So….

I’ve been cooped up sick for the last three days. I’ve spent a lot of time tweeting, texting, no talking because I sound like  a damn fog horn, but communicating with the outside world nonetheless. In this brief moment of quarantine, I’ve learned a lot, but the most important thing was that, I’m a pretty good liar. When asked the question of “How are you?” casually by anyone during these last few days, my response has been, “Great! How are you?”

Wait!

Didn’t I say I was just home sick for the last few days? Yes, and that’s the truth, so why was it that I couldn’t just say to these cats that have asked a simple question, “Dude, I’m ridiculously ill at the moment.”

What’s so hard about being honest with that?

My initial response would be nothing. The analytical response would be, because you’ve been so use to telling people what they want to hear, you’ve never spent the time or thought telling them what was real.

This is a problem.

Why?tumblr_lzb6ktR7Ui1r2mytio1_500

Cool your jets, I’m getting there.

It’s a problem because, I pride myself on being a straight shooter. A shooter that pulls the proverbial gun from the holster and shoots straight from the hip, but with the aforesaid realization, it turns out that I’m completely wrong. I think I lift the gun with my none stable hand, aim it off to the side, and hope to miss. I’ve done no one a service by this, if anything a grave disservice.

I should’ve said “Hey, idiot, that hurt me.” when it hurt.

I should’ve said, “No, I don’t like this.” when I didn’t like it.

I should’ve said, “You’re wrong,” when I knew you were wrong.

I didn’t, thus the disservice.

My answers were, “No, I’m okay.” when I wasn’t. My answers were, “Oh, I think it’s all right.” when it wasn’t. Lastly, my answers were, “Maybe you’re right.” when clearly you weren’t.

That sounds a bit like a sickness.

I read a tweet recently by a young woman who I follow, and I have no idea who she is, I caught a quote of hers by a retweet and curiosity led me to follow her to see if there was more witty banter where that came from. Anyway, the basis of the quote was “be yourself and not who you think they want you to be.” It wasn’t until about the middle of this post that I realized the reason for that little phrase hitting me so hard, and that was because, I absolutely needed to read that. I’ve been too busy pleasing you, that I haven’t spent enough time pleasing me. So long trying to do what I thought you wanted me to do, not enough time doing what I wanted to do.

When, in the process of living, had I decided that my feelings, wants, needs, didn’t matter? Well, I suppose that during this exploration of all that I am, I’ll gain the answer. In the meantime, however, that’s a bit to chew on. Plus, I need to wrap this up, because the Bugs Bunny with the red hairy monster thing is on, and that’s my favorite, and that’s the truth!

Until then…

Vive Sine Paenitentia

Res Ipsa Loquitur

~Uncaught Recidivist

Oh yeah…have any of you found yourself in a similar situation, if so, I’d love to hear it…and I promise you won’t find yourself in one of my future stories….well maybe not yourself, but I can’t promise I won’t liken a character after you! Just saying! *Shrugs shoulder*

Fear…and other surly irascible shit…

 I have learned over the years that when one’s mind is made up, this diminishes fear; knowing what must be done does away with fear. ~Rosa Parks

See, here’s the thing…fear is a bitch in heels.

It’s the one intangible force that can stop any and everything it chooses, better whatever thing chooses it. For a while, I chose fear because it was easier to own that, than to own responsibility, obligation, moral validity, values, humanity, and any other adjectives that fits the synonymic phrase. I fancied myself for many years, a pretty brave girl—one would have to be to still dream when her dreams should’ve been deferred—but it turns out that I wasn’t as brave as I thought I was.

The lack of bravery came in the form of caution.

I wanted to be cautious not to overstep boundaries, not to do something that would rub the grain, because being raised in a household that celebrated realism and not romanticism that’s what I was told…well, at best, led to believe. There was a path that one followed; grow up, graduate high school, off to college—graduate, get a job in the majored field, find a respectable husband, get married, have kids, live stably.

That was the formula.

I didn’t follow it per se, but I put forth good effort.

And that was the rub.

At every turn I failed; sometimes miserably, sometimes successfully.

It wasn’t until recently that realized that I kept on with my recidivist-like antics because I wanted to, I sincerely wanted to swim with the current, but there was a part of me that just couldn’t.

It didn’t feel right.

It wasn’t who I was.

But, I didn’t act on the feeling, I acted on fear. Fear was what kept me trying to do what “they” said and trying to do what was “right” and “good” but it was to no avail.

The current called, I answered, and have been struggling to stay afloat every since…and I’m completely freaking happy.

As Ms. Parks, stated, “Once one’s mind is made up, this diminishes fear, knowing what must be done does away with fear.” So true, Ms. Parks. So true.

There was a reason that reading made me happy, there was a reason that my English and Lit classes were my favorites and it had nothing to do with wanting to teach it.

It’s the reason that when I hear a new word, I get tingles.

It’s the reason that I listen to people’s conversations and hope to turn them into a story.

It’s the reason that people intrigue me, not in the wanting to be friends sort of way, in the you’d make a good character sort of way.

The reasons why I idolize, Tony Morrison, Jamaica Kincaid, Rochelle Alers, Brenda Jackson, Darrien Lee, Sylvia Plath, Ralph Ellison, Ernest Hemmingway, Zora Neale Hurston, Sandra Cisneros, to name just a few—there’s so many more—but it’s a reason for this, and the reason is, the written word. It’s sexy, it’s provocative, it’s erotic, it’s nurturing, it’s a feeling, it’s a untouchable emotion that only others like me could identify with, it’s the reasons, that I just couldn’t follow the rules.

And for the first time in…ever, I’m okay with that and I’m not afraid.

I’ve spent too much time wondering how the mentioned iconic authors spent their time before writing, while writing, after righting, and never once, NEVER ONCE, had I imagined that they spent it in fear. Perhaps there was a tinge of something that every author I’m sure gets when they send a new work out into creation, or perhaps there was a tinge of something before they were published wordsmiths, but I can’t imagine for a second it was fear. And if it was, then that’s the type of scared I’d like to be. That scared led to great stories, like The Bluest Eye, Girl, Sweet Dreams, Whispered Promises, Been There, Done That, The Bell Jar, The Invisible Man, The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber, Dust Tracks on a Road, and The Family of Little Feet. These author’s and stories have been published, sold, viewed, and reviewed by millions and yet that’s not the reason that I idolize them, or the reason that I have to be who I am,  it’s because these stories have stayed with me and I haven’t been able to leave them. They mélange of authors have published many more, but these stories made me want to be in the world they created.

In The Bluest Eye, I identified. I never wanted a baby doll for the sake of having a baby doll, I wanted one because apparently that’s what I was suppose to want. I envied the protagonist for having the courage to feel what she wanted and not what she thought she was supposed to.

In Sweet Dreams, I wanted to leave my thoughts/dreams in a journal, in a cab, and have someone pick them up and want me because of them…oh yeah and I completely immersed myself into learning the Garifuna language— like the heroine, oh and planning a trip to Belize. In Whispered Promises, I wanted my knight in shining armor to be gruff and tough but tender like the Hero. Too, I love the name Dexter and I can’t shake it.

In Been There, Done That, I wanted to believe that life gave you do overs even when in the first go ‘round you got it right. Because of Mrs. Lee, I do believe that.

The Bell Jar showed me the emotional inside of a young woman coming of age, when at the time of reading this tale, I was coming of age as well. My parables don’t compare to hers, but it was refreshing to have the ability to understand. Though Ms. Plath is no longer with us, I certainly appreciated the work.

The Invisible Man, made me laugh…wait before you judge me, I meant the first chapter of the book, known as the Battle Royal made me laugh. The reason being was because I felt like an idiot for having such an audacity to be afraid when there were people of yesteryear that looked like me that faced adversity far worse than “To write or not to write,” and there I was at the time deciding what type of career I wanted.

I chose wrong then, but thanks to the like of Girl, by Jamaica Kincaid, I’ve made the turnaround. In that short story/poem, it was there that I learned to be the woman that I was going to become, anyway.

In The Short Secret Life of Francis Macomber, I laughed as well, the stupidity of Mrs. Macomber and Francis was overwhelming, but the lesson was ridiculously great. I won’t bore you with what I learned, because Hemmingway is definitely a topic for debate. There are several things that you could take away from the tale and perhaps on another post, we’ll delve into it, but for now, you can think of what you’d like to say when I present the court with MY truths.

In Ms. Hurston’s, Dust Track on a Road, I was for the first time aware that I should be proud to be colored. Black. But not downtrodden because of it.  Not that I was ashamed or down before, but until that tale, I hadn’t fully embraced it, now, I’m too busy sharpening my oyster’s knife and I’m so very thankful for the idea brought to me care of this wonderful work.

And in The Family of Little Feet, I understood all too well what those high heels meant to the little women in the story and I identify all too well of just what those high heels propels us—women—to do in life. <That’ll be up for debate a little later.

So you see, these stories did something to me personally, touched something inside of me and hasn’t let go and that’s why I can’t, I can no longer allow fear to keep her herculean-like strong hold on me. I need with a vengeance that rivals the neediest to be in that number, not because of the success, not because of the fame, not because of the money, but because I have stories to tell, and I’m proud to say that I’m no longer afraid to open my mouth.

I now own the responsibility and obligation that I have to inform my little one and ones to come that it’s okay to do what you REALLY want to do.

I now have moral validity and values that life has given me, and with that, I’m able to relay to you real characters that are well aware of the human process…I hope.

Until then…

Vive Sine Paenitentia

Res Ipsa Loquitur

~Uncaught Recidivist

As for the other shit:

  1. What the hell is going on in the world…Lena Horne is dead? Seriously, these old cats are dying left and right…RIP Mrs. Horne, I absolutely adored your work and my favorite until this very day is “Stormy Weather” listened to it with my grandmother (RIP baby doll)

My favorite quote by Mrs. Horne: “It’s not the load that breaks you down, it’s the way you carry it.”

    2.    What the hell else is going on the world…Bus Driver’s letting kids duke it out in the yard of her house.  

            This whole earth is going to pot!