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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

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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.

Ersatz Apathy…and other shit I did wrong!

The thing is…is that there are a lot of things that I just don’t give a damn about. Two examples of such would be:

How much your house costs?
How much your clothes costs?

In other words, superficiality isn’t one of my strongest points. I could wholeheartedly give a damn about what you have and how you got it. All I care about is if I want it and what I need to do to get it? I don’t covet my neighbors lives or things or ideas, I do however, want to know what made you this way? No, I’m not a Philosopher, Anthropologist, or Culturist for that matter, I fancy myself a Writer, but then, doesn’t half of the world? Whatever, that’s their shit. Unlike the halves that claim to be infected with the idea to create, I actually have the damned disease.

I can’t not write.

There’s not a day that goes by that I can’t create something via the written or spoken word. I have to tell a story aloud or via blinking cursor on a blank screen. I don’t know how to live without having the ability to create another world in which I chose to live. My entire adult life (thus far) has been plagued with a war in which my sane self has taken a complete drubbing. I feel often times very Janie May Crawford in Their Eyes Are Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston like, you know yearning to be free, but not sure how to get there and stumbling upon it, one mistake at a time. As a matter of fact, that aptly describes my adulthood. At my day job(s), I’m most of the time so unhappy because I find/found myself thinking that I shouldn’t be here, I should be writing. I closed off friendships because all writers know that idle time is our damn playground.

We live for that shit.

We love it.

More so, MORE SO, when we have a character, when we have an idea, it must get out. It most certainly cannot stay within the confines of our mind. There have been characters inside of me that have ruined my damned life. No, I don’t have schizophrenia, but seriously, sometimes there’s a story that just has to be told, and someone has just got to listen to it. And I refused outings; I refused to speak with anyone until they’ve heard what I had to say. I know, it’s a sickness, but didn’t I mention that I had it bad.

It’s not joke.

And it’s definitely more than just a notion.

I fought it. I fought it for years, thinking that as an only child, my imagination was just very over active and that, eventually I would just get over it. I feigned indifference when reading a book and coming up with the sequel to the damned thing before the author. Not in the literal sense, but I spent time, too much time, thinking of ways that someone else’s characters could live on forever. I wanted to give them another story, I gave them a family, I gave them kids, I gave them more hardships, and then one day I got mad.

I got angry stinking mad.

Why?

Well cool your boots, I’m getting there…I was angry because I spent time dreaming up things for someone else’s character and no time focusing on my own.

So, I started.

And then I couldn’t stop.
Today, here I sit with approximately eight and half (I’m still working on this last one) completed manuscripts (rough drafts), that have not been edited or shopped around, because up until about a paragraph ago, I never considered myself a writer. I was too afraid to.
Fear, that pretentious bitch, I won’t allow her to get to me again. But she had me for a while. A good long while too. I wanted and prayed to be normal, you know, the type that liked the nine-to-five gig, the type that didn’t have to sit up all night until the thought was complete, the type that didn’t see a person and wonder what his/her story was, and if you couldn’t figure it out, you’d make it up.

I didn’t want to be that type.

You know the type that is afraid to switch to android-like phones, because with her Blackberry she could open-up a word document and allow her thoughts to flow freely without having to ensure to push the right touch screen button. The type that in the wee hours of the morning and night had finally shut down her laptop but picked up said blackberry when in the bed because the short walk from the computer to the bed had offered her an idea of how this character must’ve felt when finally laying down for the night. No, sir or ma’am, I didn’t want to be the type.

Thus the faux apathy.

I tried to ignore it, I tried to fight it, but I knew I couldn’t. Because while working on some important project or another within in my “Day Job” I knew that the feeling of hate that I had towards said project or another wasn’t normal. But what was normal, what felt right, what felt real was the honesty in which I knew to be a truth that nothing in this world could shake and that is…I’m a damned writer. LITERALLY!

Damned you ask?

Yes, damned. Damned, because with this comes a great responsibility and granted I’ve kicked fear’s ass to the curb, I have yet to have conquered anxiety, thus the finished unrevised, unedited, unshopped manuscripts. Baby steps is what I’m taking. I’ve made a vow to go back and start the revision process and the goal is to by the end of the summer to look for a literary agent that believes in my work just as much as I do, for now however, I’ll blog. I’ll let you all find pleasure and humor in my misery and I’ll be okay with that for the time being…unless you’d like to share yours. As you know, we all love a good story and I’d love to know that I’m not the only one out here that feels that way. Please…say, “It ain’t so!”

Cheers!

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

Creative Blah’s…and other messy tidbits

Tyler Durden’s 8 Rules of Innovation:

1. “No fear. No distractions! The ability to let that which does not matter truly slide.”
2. “No fear. No distractions! The ability to let that which does not matter truly slide.”
3. “I say never be complete, I say stop being perfect, I say let’s evolve, let the chips fall where they may.”
4. “It’s only after we’ve lost everything that we’re free to do anything.”
5. “You’re not your job. You’re not how much money you have in the bank. You’re not the car you drive. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You’re not your fucking khakis.”
6. “People do it everyday, they talk to themselves…they see themselves as they’d like to be they don’t have the courage you have, to just run with it.”
7. “Sticking feathers up your butt does not make you a chicken.”
8. “This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time.”

I start out this post with the above posted because, hell no, I’m not trying to teach a lesson. Nor am I hoping you learn a goddamn thing…I just thought this spoke to my need and like the ever-present divined intervention that I believe is my life, I stumbled upon this nugget and decided that, yes indeed, Ye Ole Intervention struck again. Look at the Lord…won’t he do it? *Smacks teeth and performs the ever formidable and sometimes ethnicity defining neck roll.* This little gift was bestowed upon on twitter (@pcosstinks) from a person that I don’t even follow, haven’t a clue who this person is, but it was retweeted and I happened upon it, and I know this may be a little self-righteous, but I sweadagod that it was meant for me. Whatever, it’s my blog, you can go write your own and deal with it. Anyway, as I read these rules and truly began to understand them I, in all of my unknowledgeable and sometimes too knowledgeable glory decided to apply them to my way of thinking. Now, if you’re reading this as one of my friends, family, close acquaintances, you know that I am struggling with self-definition at the moment. If you’re not any of the aforementioned and happened by, “Welcome, my name is Uncaught Recidivist and I am pleased to have you eavesdrop on the mess that is my life at the moment. Thank you and your comments are welcomed.” Being that at this season in my life I am caught in that ever fermenting battle, this was like a breath of a fresh air (seriously, I hate clichés and analogies, but this one nails the feeling); these 8 rules spoke to everything that I need and want to be and it speaks also to everything that I despise I was. Having said that, I’m bored with this typing now and really just wanted to share this great bit of information, so now, I’ll let you talk amongst yourselves! You’re welcome. *Shoos you away with a flippant right hand vaguely remembering your presence.*

Res Ipsa Loquitur,
~Uncaught Recidivist

 

Addendum: I think Tyler Durden…whoever the hell he is, is savant.

Note: To Self, do a little research on this dude, may have something sustaining to say. hmm…oh, is that a cookie, yeah, what was I saying. Oh yeah, I like cookies.

Note: To You Guys….HELP!