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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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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.

 

 

 

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.

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