Category Archives: Question

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.  

 

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Thrift Store Book Finds…And Other Shit I’m Thankful For!

So…yesterday I went into a thrift store. Reason? My super awesome spawn has this thing about finding old shit and making it new. I dig her. And if she wasn’t mine, you know outright, I would lobby like you wouldn’t believe to be her friend. She’s pretty damned dope that way. Anyway, while she looked for the old shit to make new, I did what I always do (you heard me) anytime I’m in a place with used books. I perused the shelves and this time, I happened upon a book that was a three-in-one deal by Author Felicia Mason, who I learned after a little research when I got home resides in my home-state of Virginia. I was super stoked by the find because one, I had never even heard of her, two, I love to find good books at the thrift store, library sales, wherever. The shelves of the bookcases throughout my home are lined accordingly, and there is no shame there (yeah, don’t you go judging me, you bastard. I buy new books as well, so suck it. Ha!). Even though I own a Nook in just about each generation, with the exception of the Nook touch, I still like flipping the real pages to a novel.
Digression.
Anyway, the point is, I like finding good books for cheap. Whatever. Like I said I buy new books too, but cheap good ones are the best.

(ASIDE) Is it just me, or does anyone else feel like, a “That’s what she said” line would be perfect after the latter part of the last sentence. *Shrugs* Whatever, it was funny to me.

Anyway, there’s other shit that I’m thankful for as well, and that’s the ability to have patience. The ability to stick with and too my guns, the ability to not give-up when all signs pointed to giving up. Yeah, I’m thankful for that. The decision to write seriously wasn’t one easily decided upon (see other entries, and no, I’m not linking them because it’s Labor Day fools and that’s too much work) however, once the decision, no the need to do this was so overpowering, I poured most of my all into it. The end result was a summer or researching, reading, re-writing, re-inventing, emailing, postal mailing, questioning, querying, and not sleeping wondering if anyone else out there in the world would believe in my stories, my work as much as I do, but I wouldn’t trade a moment of it for the world. Why? Well, it’s because I received approximately twenty-three Nos to one YES. Now, tell me which one matters the most? Yeah, you guessed right. So, I’m thankful for the Nos, I’m thankful for the doubt, and I’m thankful for the tears and fears, because without them, without the deterrents, that one yes, wouldn’t amount to shit. Best YES of the year…and really after that, does aything else matter?

The moral? Fuck them No’s, your yes will come. Write-On! (Oh, and in case you’re wondering, that sentence is PERFECT.)

~Vive Sine Paenitentia~

Res Ipsa Loquitur

~Uncaught Recidivist

Note: This is a happy post, which means, it was only spelled checked and I don’t have the ability at the present moment to give a whole damn about the grammar. Consider this free-writing, and if you don’t…kiss my sass.

Knowing When to Fold ‘Em…and other shit that I should’ve done a long time ago! (Part 1)

I was eleven when I first met him. I was eighteen when I first kissed him and I was twenty-eight when I finally left him.

 FINALLY LEFT HIM.

 Between eighteen and twenty-eight, there were several breaks, retries, and more breaks, but none of them took.

 Not even the retries.

 Nor the Breaks.

The first year after my break-up, I convinced myself that I loved him too hard. That’s why I didn’t leave before our ten-year tenure. The second year after our break-up I finally came to grips with the fact that love was never in the equation. I didn’t love myself enough to leave him and I didn’t love him enough to really give him a chance. That relationship and all hardship embedded lasted way too damn long.

 Way Too Damn Long!

 I realized that what I’d pacified myself with during our time together, the statement about about opposites being attracted to each other was a bunch of BULLSHIT! Opposites? You ask. Yes, opposites.

He was a Tupac fan. I was a Biggie Fan.

He was a Nas fan. I am a Jay-Z fan.

He was a Pippen Fan. I was (AM) a Jordan FANATIC.

He was a UNC-Chapel Hill Fan. I was (AM) DUKE BLUE DEVILS ALL DAY AND TOMORROW!

He was an Atlanta Braves Fan. I was a Chicago White Sox.

He was a Huge Redskin’s Fan.  I am a Huger JETS fan. (Don’t Judge Me)

He liked old school music and cars. I’m an eighties and above type of music lover and none of my cars have been older than five years.

He was a smoker. I am NOT.

He was a drinker. I am NOT.

He was a cheater. I am NOT…well listen, sometimes things happen. Yeah, I need your judgment. *rolls eyes*

He played a Brass Instrument. I play woodwinds. <That’s true. I’m clarinetist and a Saxophonist.

He didn’t like words. I need words to breathe.

He didn’t like to read. I can’t live without it.

I could go on, but I hope you got it by now. We didn’t match. Opposites were a sever understatement in our case, but I needed something to hold on to, to answer the question of why I was staying with this man. And the answer three-years after our demise, is that I value friendships…but sometimes you have to know when to fold ‘em.

 It took a while, but I got there.

 But I didn’t arrive there by myself…I was forced there. And here’s how it happened…

For the sake of diplomacy and because one of these days a lot of people will read this and I wouldn’t dare throw this man under the bus like this because I do believe in redemption, anyway, for that sake, we’ll call him, “Dee.” And for the sake of full disclosure and because I’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain, we’ll call me the Uncaught Recidivist. You can put a Ms. in front of that if you please.

 Digression

Dee and I met when we were in the sixth grade. We became instant friends and then later the best of friends. Dee confessed then, with a boyish charm and a wonderful smile that I still find endearing which is a trait that he’s known by in our circle of friends, his want to be with me (as more than friends) early. I politely declined. As far as I knew, friends didn’t date friends. That was a rule that I held near and dear to my heart throughout middle school and high school.

 And then there was college.

 Well at least the summer before we went off to college.

My memory is rather fuzzy on how this next part came about, but anyway before going off to college we kissed. I remember the kiss doing something to my insides and then walking away feeling like…Holy hell, I just kissed my best-friend and also, in the spirit of full disclosure, I’d felt a tingle in my nether regions that I previously had never felt before…and I’d like to remind you that all we did was kiss.

 KISS.

 KISS!

A kiss had done that. The next day I felt all sorts of ways, but the one feeling that I wasn’t expecting to feel was guilt. What the hell had I done? How had it got to that point? But then, I remember feeling that it was so fucking perfect. That kiss was the kiss that little girls dream of. It’s the kiss that has been forever relayed through emotional rhetoric in every romance manuscript that I’ve ever written. (See Previous Post for that explanation) Trudge with down memory lane, won’t you…

 The moment was perfect. There were creatures of the warm summer’s night cheering us on in the distance and near as we stood outside of his parents’ home in a quaint suburb of Richmond, Virginia. Though I had been to his home may times before; this time was different. I could feel it. My skin seemed to warm with the realization. My breasts felt it. They were heavy with anticipation. All I could think about, all I could feel, was that in this moment, in this time, something was changing with us, and I wanted to, I honestly wanted to fight it off with all of my might. But, I knew that it would’ve been to no avail, I was to be no match for him. How ironic that he was the Athlete of the Year. He wrestled, played football and baseball, so there weren’t many that were a match for him. It was sheer irony, I decided in that moment, that I would even dare to try. He smiled at me. The smile nearly predatory, but not quite enough to make me cringe. It was a smile that indicated everything he’d planned to do to me. A warning smile. That’s what it was. I smiled back, not nearly as bold as he, not nearly as assured as he, but I smiled nonetheless. It was my please-do smile. I knew what he wanted, I knew what I wanted, I knew what he needed, and I knew what I needed. What I didn’t know was why. Why was this moment, the perfect moment for this to happen? What had changed, what had happened, what was going to happen. My thoughts roamed as I searched my tousled brain for protocol of such a thing. Sure, I had been kissed before, many times over, but I had been asked, I had been coaxed, I had been urged. Now, all I had was a smile. A warning smile. Did I need to say something? Was I to make a statement of some sort to give him the go ahead he needed? What was a young woman to do in this particular situation? A young naïve woman, that stand before this young man, that was highly assured of himself, and what he wanted out of the situation. Fortunately, I was spared the burden of more thought. I had the right to remain silent and I obliged. He walked closer to me, he had been standing at a good distance away, and when he was within arm’s reach. Smelling distance—and damn, he smelled good—I could feel the heat from his body flow into mine causing me to feel even hotter. My lips parted of their own volition; perhaps it was to catch a quick breath, because as I felt myself sway a bit, I knew I hadn’t been breathing. I righted my actions quickly and then gasped. He pulled me around my thick waist with one of his strong hands and arms. I was flush against his body and felt everything about him that spoke to being a male. I was shocked and I jumped accordingly so. He was calm and didn’t move. He held me tighter and looked into my eyes a second more, and then he kissed me. When I felt his full lips over mine, the probing tongue urging my mouth apart wider, I relented and relaxed in his arms, and gave in to everything he’d ever wanted from me.

Seriously, I just relieved that moment, and “Dee” if you’re out there reading this, I really want to thank you for that moment. It was perfect. Simply perfect.  Anyway, back to the point, that kissed changed everything in me. That kiss made me a woman in every since of the matter. That kissed, changed our lives forever. And, that kiss was the demise of our friendship. As stated the next day, I wasn’t expecting to feel guilt, but I did. I wasn’t expecting to feel grief, but I did. It wasn’t because the experience was so terrible, but it was because I knew I had lost a best-friend. After something like that, one couldn’t go back. There was simply just no way.

 But, I did try.

When he called to see if I had gotten home safe, I answered his questions with affirmatives and spoke nothing of the life-altering kiss. I could tell that he had questions, I could tell that he wanted to say something, and I’m sure he could hear the hinder in my voice, but I wouldn’t. I couldn’t allow him to query, I couldn’t allow myself to query.

 And then the sun came up.

 The grief mentioned.

 The guilt mentioned.

 The mood mentioned.

All awakened me as if they were the rooster crowing for the earth to rise. I spent much of that day in despair and elation. I knew what the fuss was about! I knew why kissing meant so much to some people. I knew what it felt like to be wanted for not just my body, but to be wanted in general.

And I hated it.  

I hated with a vengeance that rivaled the Devil. I hated it with all of my might and heart; because I wasn’t suppose to feel this way with a best-friend.

Thus, I shoved his friendship away…at least I tried.  

We had made plans to spend some time together before the summer was out, but they were nixed by corresponding car accidents. We both totaled our cars within days of each other. I like to fashion that as divined intervention. Oh, and did I mention, I had a semi-boyfriend at the time? So yeah, I would’ve been cheating on him and no good could come of that. NO good! Kiss withstanding.  So, we didn’t see each other until the day before we were all to leave for our respective colleges. That night we (a group of our friends) had a going away gathering at a local restaurant. We said our goodbyes, took our pictures, and wished each other well. At the end of the evening, Dee and I found ourselves alone again. This time there were to be no moments, no nature’s creatures cheering us on. Nothing. Just pure unadulterated awkwardness. We tried smiling it off, laughing it off, pretending like things were just the way they were before we kissed, and it worked. Barely. The next day, I was off to my respective HBCU and he was off to his and our new lives begin.

 Without each other.

During the spring semester of our freshman year, the boyfriend that I did have and I split and without thought, without reservation, without sanity, I called “Dee.” And said. “So, you want to be my boyfriend or what?”

 His reply. “Hell yeah.”

 And that’s how it all started to end…stay tuned.

 The best is yet to come

 For now, however;

 Res Ipsa Loquitur

~Uncaught Recidivist

Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome…and other fickle shit!

  DISCLAIMER: I AM NOT A DAMNED DOCTOR; HOWEVER, I DID STAY AT A HOLIDAY INN ONCE!

First, let’s start with a definitive definition of what Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome is; according to the ever so rusty trusty WebMD, Polycystic ovary syndrome (say “pah-lee-SIS-tik OH-vuh-ree SIN-drohm”) is a problem in which a woman’s hormones are out of balance. It can cause problems with your periods and make it difficult to get pregnant. PCOS may also cause unwanted changes in the way you look. If it is not treated, over time it can lead to serious health problems, such as diabetes and heart disease.

Now let me tell you my interpretation of the above mentioned and what I heard when I was diagnosed:

“Blah, Blah, Blah, Kid, you’re screwed.”

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Yup, that sums it up rather nicely!

With this disorder, there are so many things malfunctioning that eventually you just start thinking everything is a part of it. Some of that may be true and some of it may not be. I choose the former. I’m inclined to believe—though not medically so—that with a lot of the things that have happened to me health-wise, from the balding of my head, to the hair growing in places that sugar shouldn’t be extracting—NOTE: CYSTERS WITH PCOS DO TRY THE SUGARING PROCESS IT F’N ROCKS!—that this syndrome/ disorder/disease/pain-in-the-ass-and-ovaries, is out to get me, better, the women that have this disease are out to get me. I have read a lot of blogs, twitter comments, naturalist, herbalist, faux dieticians, advice from other women afflicted with this disorder, give their own perspective of what the “fix” is for this wonderful disorder. Well, take a look at what our rusty trust WebMD has said about that: Regular exercise, a healthy diet, not smoking, and weight control are all important parts of treatment for PCOS. Sometimes, also using a medicine to balance hormones is helpful. There is no cure for PCOS, but controlling it lowers your PCOS risks of infertility, miscarriages, diabetes, heart disease, and uterine cancer.

 Now let me tell you my interpretation of the previously mentioned and what I heard when I asked the question to my doctor about what I needed to do to get rid of this shit, or in more intellectual terms, “Doctor, what’s the cure for this?” This is what I read and heard:

“Blah, Blah, Blah, Kid, you need to get healthy, and if you don’t you’re screwed.”

Yup, that sums it up rather nicely!

I wouldn’t dare sit on a throne of apathy and pooh-pooh others that are trying to help us all out, because Lord knows we need it. However, my gripe and reason for this post is, A., let’s keep it real, what’s your day job? If it’s Doctor—more specifically endocrinologist—by all means spread the word about PCOS and all that you can do for it, for us. Please, dear God, explain and help us all, but if you’re not…know your place. I’ve read so many things leading women, especially the younger ones, astray. When basically, if we all put to use our college educations, or even our high school educations, hell, our grade school educations, we can all read in between the lines of what this disorder is and how we cope with it. And, plain and simply put, as I mentioned, I’m no doctor nor is this what I’m reccommending to you, this is “What has worked for me” having said that, I feel getting healthy, a little prayer doesn’t hurt—if you believe in that—and listening to what YOUR SPECIFIC DOCTOR HAS TOLD YOU, goes a long friggin way! My next point for this post is that, B. if you have found something that works well for you, then woopedew for you! And, please again, by all means, spread the word! Let us all know, maybe it’s something that we can try, but let’s not forget that there is NO CURE (yet) for this, and that this disease/syndrome/disorder/pain-in-the-ass-and-ovaries, can vary from woman to woman and as with life and the female species in general, no two women/females are the same.

I’m just keeping it real.

Don’t spread the propaganda of being a guru of all things Polycystic related. It’s quite irresponsible, especially to the little cysters out there that are searching blindly for the light at the end of the tunnel, when unfortunately we older cysters know that there may not be one. I, am by no means a pessimist, and I want to believe in the greater good of everything, and I choose to believe in the greater good of this disease, like forcing women to live a healthier lifestyle, but sometimes a spade is just a spade. Why have we, the chosen ones, been afflicted with this disease, I do not know, but if you feel it in your heart to spread the word about it, then be responsible. Thus, the disclaimer at the beginning of this blog. Again, I won’t proselytize, because a newly diagnosed Uncaught Recidivist wanted to spread the word of this ailing bastard of a disease and I may have even handed out unsolicited advice. But when I actually did the research, listened to what my doctor was saying to me, and joined one of many support groups, (check them out ASAP any of them, they’ll help with the mental stuff that having this disorder plagues us with) I kicked my booted foot slightly on the high horse’s side in which I sat upon bravely, as if I had the answers to all, slowed him down, and got off. I decided that I would no longer go that route, because it was, as stated, irresponsible. Every case, point, and diagnosis is different. I still hold these truths to be self evident, if asked about a certain anything; I always disclaim the “what has worked for me” (see above) and then go on with my answer. I’m sure any one of us older cysters out there are well aware to do this, but if you’re not, then here’s my gift to you.

You’re welcome.2e82118de6fb7fb5e3b6c3263d4866b4

It’s important to know that while research is being conducted every day, people are newly diagnosed every day, and hearts are being broken every single damned day, those of us who have been properly diagnose should carry a responsibility around to make certain to hand out correct information. I would’ve given anything to have a cyster sit me down, real nice-like, and say:

“Kid, what we have is bear, but it’s not the end of the world. Grab your razor; you’re going to need. Join a gym; you’re going to need it. Find a whole-foods; you’re going to need it. Find aREGISTERED dietician or nutritionist; you’re going to need it, and think positive, because YOU ARE GOING TO NEED TO. But most importantly, honey, it’s not the end of the world.”

Yeah, that would’ve been nice to hear. It would’ve been real, it would’ve been honest, and it would’ve saved me the hunt around the internet and countless conversations with women that were just as lost as I was and more importantly, MORE IMPORTANTLY, I wouldn’t have felt like it was the end of the damn world.

BECAUSE IT’S REALLY NOT!

PCOS is hard work, it’s heartbreaking, it’s a pain in several different parts of a woman’s anatomy but it’s not the end of the world. So cysters, get to work…be responsible and good luck with everything we have to face. I love you; in-spite of what may have seemed a harsh reprimand. I just had enough when I read a blog stating that the “cure” for PCOS was losing weight in general. That ain’t the damned cure, that’s part of the treatment. GIVE ME A FREAKING BREAK! AND OH YEAH, IRRESPONSIBLE BLOGGER, NOT ALL PCOS CYSTERS ARE OVERWEIGHT; THERE ARE SOME SKINNY WOMEN OUT THERE WITH THE DISORDER! (Kinda pissed that I’m not one of them..oh well.)

My gripe is done now. Gotta go pluck these strays! *Dips head, purse lips, blinks eyes, with an ethincity defining neck roll, as if to agree* You know what I’m saying.

Res Ipsa Loquitur

~Uncaught Recidivist

Oh yeah as for the other fickle shit…what’s up with Mrs. Chancellor dying on the Young and the Restless? I thought for sure my great-grandmother would be well deceased before her, my great-grandmother is completely out of her mind; as well, she should be, because she’s in her late nineties, but her ass is still around. Anyhoo, RIP CATHERINE CHANCELLOR. I think now, they can cancel the Young and the Restless…is it still on anyway?

Vivi Sine Paenitentia

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Righting Wrongs You Can’t Undo…and other hyperboles

  this is how you set a table for dinner; this is how you set a table for dinner with an important guest; this is how you set a table for lunch; this is how you set a table for breakfast; this is how to behave in the presence of men who don’t know you very well, and this way they won’t recognize immediately the slut I have warned you against becoming; be sure to wash every day, even if it is with your own spit; don’t squat down to play marbles—you are not a boy, you know— don’t pick people’s flowers, you might catch something; don’t throw stones at blackbirds, because it might not be a blackbird at all…

Girl, Jamaica Kincaid

Like the little girl in this poem/story, I was warned. I was warned of a lot of things. I was told not to do a lot of things, and I listened to most of them. Most of them I didn’t. I have suffered the consequences of my actions, and I blame not a soul because of it. However, I’m learning in this process of…growth (I guess we’ll call it that) is that though you’re in a new space, in a new vibe, in a new feel, the person(s) that you wronged, or didn’t help, or lied to, or didn’t believe, or didn’t want, or didn’t love, may not be there and you simply can’t right that wrong. Even if it was a wrong you’ve done to yourself. Most of the time people that want to gloss over facts, rearrange history, make themselves feel, better tend to not want to hash up the past. Well, that’s exactly what I want to do, I’d like to go back and tell the old me that I’m sorry, I’d like to tell some of you that I’ve hurt, inadvertently and advertently, that I’m sorry and I’d like to fix a few hearts that I somehow managed to break, but I can’t. However, if my world was perfect, if my life was perfect, if things were just, I’d start off by saying the following:

 

Dear_______,

I apologize for leading you to believe something that wasn’t true. I apologize for leaving you when you needed me the most, I apologize for not understanding you, I apologize that I really don’t mean any of  this.

 

You heard me.

I don’t believe any of it.

To go back and right a wrong means that you get to rearrange history, and I know we’ve all seen the movies or cartoons or stories what-have-you about changing one minor fact and it possible rearranging your whole life.

I believe that to be true!

I believe that every heart I broke, every person that I hurt, and every person that has hurt me and broken my heart has helped shaped me into the character that I’ll become. And like the girl that Ms. Kincaid so avidly illustrated, I’m inclined to believe that there was a good part of the “Warner” that knew she (the girl) would do the things warned against and while I don’t have literary proof, I’m willing to bet it made her a pretty special little lady…I’d bet the farm, and so, I choose, with all of my might to dismiss all warnings now, and just be.  The ones that I thought I listened to, I now renounce them and the ones that I know I didn’t listen to, I’m thankful. And I am forever grateful and you should be too! I’m so damned excited to get to this next chapter in my life that I don’t know what to do, because as a hopeful fiction and romance “penista” (Yeah, damn it, that’s a word…MY word. DON’T steal it) I’m conditioned to believe in happily ever-after endings and once upon a time beginnings. The first chapter of my tale started out perfect. There was drama, lust, lies, deception, peace, good sex, bad sex, all the stuff that Mrs. Ellis, my 9th grade English Teacher, said made for good foreshadowing. And I gotta say, I can’t wait to see what’s next. Stay tuned…

 

Vive sine paenitentia!

 Res Ipsa Loquitur

~Uncaught Recidivist

Last Year My Hair Fell Out…and other scary shit

So I’ll be your clown, behind the glass, go ‘head and laugh, cause it’s funny, I would too, if I saw me,
I’ll be your clown, on your favorite channel, my life’s a circus-circus, round in circles, I’m selling out tonight
~ Clown, Emeli Sande

The title speaks for itself, and the quote brings it all home. And it’s true! My hair absolutely fell out and my life IS a circus-circus! No specific reason…but then that’s not completely true, there was a reason, but I choose not to share that with you guys—don’t worry, it wasn’t anything too bad. I thought perhaps that God had smote me. My boyfriend of ten years and I split because…let’s just face it, I should’ve left his ass ten-months into the relationship, but I stuck it out, thinking that somehow, some way, all the alcohol in the world would miraculously disappear and he would no longer be the drunk that I knew he was. Don’t pooh-pooh me; I’ve lived inside of my imagination for a while, thus the need for this post. I digress (quite frequently). Though, I’m quite sure that I hadn’t been singled out by God to be smote, I did feel however, that I’d been singled out to begin again. Not by God, but by my grandiose sense of self-preservation. When the going gets tough in my life, I get going. I left him, my hair left me. The going was tough for us both I guess.
Seems logical?
No, that’s not quite how it happened, but in my mind and for the sake of sensationalism let’s just say it happened pretty damn close to that. I thought when I saw my once head of pretty curls, thick luxurious locks bid me adieu that I would lose it, but I didn’t, I bought a wig, covered it up and moved on with my life. It was, however, such an eye opening experience. Not, because of the hair falling out, but because of the sheer metaphor that life had giving me. No way, there was no smiting, I was dispensed a gift of literary gold, perhaps one day it will be well apart of my Magnum Opus…we’ll see. The gold/metaphor came because it was in those moments of baldness that I realized, this was a perfect depiction of who I was and fortunately/unfortunately, who I am.
The Uncaught Recidivist.
In the world, people were fooled, they thought that I was a happy go-lucky, longhaired, newly thirty-year-old with her future and the world at her feet. When I got home, I was a bald, single, thirty-year-old with a future/world that she had yet to have figured out. The latter being the truth…maybe? I have been too many times the one that “they” want to be, but I’ve been to me, the one that I’ve never wanted to be. Now, please don’t mistake this for self-pity or varied self-esteem. I’m pretty happy with myself, and I’m pretty pleased with what I see, though, I really do need to lose weight—shut up already, I’m doing it—however, in my span of thirty-one years, I’ve managed to create a world and person that I’m not, hence forth the “Uncaught” business of the blog, and I hadn’t realized until that very moment of missing hair, that that’s what was going on in my world.
In my life.
I had, in essence, been living a wig (a lie for those of you who lack wit). My life wasn’t a complete wig, but it wasn’t all my natural hair that’s for damned sure, and now, I’m in the process of trying to figure out, which one of those women I want to be. The bald woman or the wig wearer? Which would you choose? And think deeply, I’d be curious to know why you chose your answer. Until next time…

~Res Ipsa Loquitur, Caperent me, si potes,
Uncaught Recidivist