I’m writing in an opened space.
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.
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!
My 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.
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.
Happy Birthday, Baby.
I love you, lights out!
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! 🙂
Vive Sine Paenitentia
Res Ipsa Loquitur.
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.
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)
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”
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!
Vive Sine Paenitentia
Res Ipsa Loquitur.
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.
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.
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!”
Res Ipsa Loquitur
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.”
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.
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
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
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,
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!
Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past eight?
~ Grown-up, Edna St. Vincent Millay
The idea to blog isn’t new to me, it’s just that today the idea became a bit more attractive. Dressed and sexy. After a proper downward spiral into the abysmal in which I’ve created to be a life, the idea of getting people involved in my world started to make me tingle. “Why not?” some inner voice asked—one of many—prompting my sane self to give it thought.
Thought. Thought? Thought!
That is most certainly the derision of my procrastination. Thought. I’ve spent much of my life thinking about it, that, those, this, things in general and not enough acting upon it, and so…I acted. For the first time in many moons, I acted. Not that I’m a couch potato type gal…well at least not in my head, I am, however, perhaps, a slow starter. And I, quite frankly, am okay with that. Enlied the problem. My inward motto has been “Satisfaction is the bullet into the head of success.” Stay with me here, really, I’m going somewhere. Have you ever taken the time to wonder how, “they got there” and how “you ended up here”? No? Just me? That’s fine, I’m used to the oneness, I’m an only child, so I’ll paddle through this anyway. To answer the question…yes, I have, many times over and it wasn’t until this very day, this very night, this very minute that I received the answer. And that was, successful people are never satisfied. I am now thirty-one years past my birth and up until recently, all I’ve ever wanted to be was satisfied. Is that just the most insane shit that you’ve ever read? I mean seriously, have you ever laid eyes on such utterly ridiculous and filthy rhetoric? Fodder? Gibberish? Listen, there’s no need to enumerate or shake your pretentious, all-knowing heads in disgust. So, I’m late to the party, the point is, I’m here. Yes, world (that means you) I just wanted to be satisfied and as I worked different job after different job after finishing with school for the moment, I sought satisfaction only to be displaced by such natural disasters as being okay, settled, and swallow this for kicks and giggles, just fine. Those three words should be banned from the vocabulary! I’m serious. When was the last time you saw someone who was in their minds successful being just okay, just settling and all right being just fine. My guess, never, and so in lieu of prolonging this post a moment more and to give my thumbs a rest (posting from my blackberry—duh, they still exist) I am here today to renounce satisfaction. I don’t want to be satisfied! I want to be successful…
I just don’t know in what? Thus, the Blah Conundrum…
Res Ipsa Loquitur,