Waiting...

I hate waiting. Not in a typical "I'm so impatient" way. I'm not the person who quietly sighs when standing in the checkout line at the grocery store for a little too long. I'm not that subtle. And I'm not the nice old lady who gets a slightly aggitated after holding for 32 minutes just to speak to a rep at the cell phone company. No. I am a monstrousity. I am the enemy of all things slow...or moderate...or hesitant.

I cannot stand the annoying sound of the icons fighting to settle into their places on my desktop...or the visual retardation of a website loading. I hate when the intersection light lingers on red for too long. (What are the extra 15 seconds for? Get on with it already). I grate my teeth when a pedestrian takes too long to cross the street. I contemplate the consequences of homicide when a waiter pours water at a wretched slow pace during my conversation.

And there are more examples. So many more examples...like job interviews. I cannot stand arriving for an interview 15 minutes early and then being forced to wait 40 minutes for the interviewer to wobble his fat ass out of his office and greet me with a fake yellow, moldy smile. Then that same interviewer pretends to be in love with me and promises to call the next day when he, in reality, plans to torture me for two months. I don't like when cashiers take too long to count my change. I don't like Christmas Eve. Because I'm reminded that Christmas is still 24 hours away. I don't like birthday parties in December because I have to wait eight more months to have all of the attention on me. And if you think I'm lying-that I can't possibly be that crazy...you're wrong. You couldn't be more wrong.

But none of the previously mentioned madness compares to the undeniable hatred that I have for the dating/courting process. (My skin is crawling). There is nothing, in this world, that I hate more than wondering...waiting...fiending...hoping...needing...wishing that the person I want would just end the torment and loudly/boldly want me back. I have never experienced torture like the torture that accompanies wanting someone who hasn't admitted to feeling the same way. I mean, shoot me already. It's difficult to explain because the waiting isn't a "middle school crush" kinda thing. It's not like waiting on a phone call after someone asks for your number. It's unimaginable. It's obsessive. There's no appetite, no sunlight, no social life, no hobbies, no phone calls, no texting...no nothing. But waiting. Wondering.

And yes, its unhealthy. But how healthy is love...really? There's the initial bliss-sure. There's the first random accidental date (that no one calls a date) or the kiss that no one planned or the sleepover that only happened because the sun "snuck up" on you both and time "flew by." But eventually, there are just two people who don't know what the hell to do next. It's inevitable. And the trick is...the goal is...to make sure that the other person has no idea how much you think about him/her. Everything is strategic. Everything is calculated. Even if you work double time to appear nonchalant. Inside, you're crumbling with anticipation.

I cannot stand it. I'd rather stand on ice while wearing a bikini...in the forest...at night. I swear. Because, the truth is, being impatient has never bothered me until now. I've never cared about my inability to wait. Everyone else seems more burdened about my disorder than I am. I wouldn't even know I had a patience disorder if it weren't for the thousands of people reminding me every day. But, when it comes to issues of the heart, I know that patience is mandatory. I know that, if I don't change, I will spend the rest of my life with whatever is most convenient and accessible. I know that I will always settle for whoever gives me what I ask for, when I ask for it.

And, deep down, I want more from this life. I want to know what might be on the other side of the whole patience foolishness. I know one thing. Waiting will either kill me...or make me stronger. Hopefully, I'll find out that the outcome is the latter.

I Won't Ever Be...Anything or Anyone But Me.

This isn't much more than a message. It's not intended to change your life or open your feeble mind. It's simply a message for whoever needs to receive it and for those who are in denial about the subject matter.

Disclaimer: I'm not really one to give advice to the masses. That's not my style. That's not my angle. I speak up when spoken to. But there are a few issues that I believe are universal. And the perception of beauty is one of those issues.

I've been a woman for 23 years. (My entire life obviously). And for 23 years, I have witnessed/experienced the volatile side effects of being a woman in this heinous, judgemental society. I've seen gorgeous women starve themselves to look more like Halle or Stacy Dash. I've seen women get hair cuts to look like Rihanna on a Wednesday, then get a $200 weave on Friday to look like Lauren London. WTF...

In the past, I have avoided food for weeks and survived off tea and lemon juice to get ready for collegiate pageants. I remember eating nothing but Atkins bars and broccoli for months in order to get "ready" for my freshmen year of college. And, even still-though I was damn near anorexic, I squeezed any excess flesh every morning in dismay...desperate to be perfect.

And, quite simply, it is sickening to pursue beauty like vampires in search of fresh blood. We are never EVER going to be good enough for our worst critics...ourselves! I am terrified to raise my daughters in a society that is so obsessed with physical attributes. Every image on television is a reminder that calves could be tighter, breasts could be firmer, hair could be more bouncy, skin could be more bronzed, and teeth could be whiter. It's heartbreaking. I know that there are so many women who wake up in the morning feeling beautiful before turning on the television and realizing that beauty doesn't come in a size 14.

Beauty only exists at Forever21 and Charlotte Russe and size XL doesn't mean Xtra Lovely. I've watched full-figured friends buy socks at Forever21 just to prove that they could purchase something in that damn store. And for what? Who gives a hot damn?

We all do. That's the problem. I'm not above the societal influence of beauty. Believe me. I'm not riding a high horse at all. I am no where near a pedestal right now. If anything, I am among those who are the most concerned about image. Even when I rebel against the norms, I fail to feel beautiful or acceptable. I don't walk with my head as high if the relaxer isn't freshly applied. If my waistline isn't referred to as "tiny or well-defined" at least once a week...I start doing crunches in my sleep. Because I care about what people think. And there are days when we all want to look a little more like Lauren London and Stacy Dash.

But, somewhere deep within, beyond the hype and the insecurities, there is a safe zone that exists. There is a light that sheds on everything that is excellent about each of us. There is a reminder that there can only be one you. No one else will have those phenomenal eyes or those perfectly pouty lips. No one else will have freckles that fall across your face like consolations of stars in the sky. No one else will have legs like ladders that tempt even the most dedicated priest. No one will have that laugh or that gorgeous backside. And somewhere, deep below your inevitable hate for your own appearance, you know that God designed you brilliantly.

And I know the same to be true. I know that I was made in His image...perfectly and I won't ever be...anything or anyone but me.

Nothingness.

I punch the sky sometimes. Because it can't punch me back. And I spit on the ground in haste. Because it can't retaliate. I am so used to finding ways to hurt and damage things or relationships that are incapable of hurting me back.

I don't know how to be at peace. I don't know how to let life happen to me. I'm so busy making things happen. I'm so busy forcing the results. I'm so busy analyzing and planning and making and creating. I never just let myself enjoy being a creation. I never embrace the reality that I was designed to do something spectacular. I'm too busy taking my aggression out on the sky and the ground...too busy damaging things. I never seem to find the time to build anything.

I'm in love with possibilities. When I see them coming, I lose all composure and all desire to exhibit my years of etiquette refinement. I stop breathing and start drooling. I indulge myself in the pursuit of possibilities. I start lusting after them, stalking them, chasing them, grabbing them, and then carelessly fumbling...dropping them and watching them scatter like broken glass on a tile floor.

I never let life place the possibilities that are intended for me in my hands. I never wait. I always hunt. I realize now that good opportunities are a lot easier to hold on to when you're prepared to embrace them. And I rarely am. I get so excited when I smell or sense a possibility nearing that I never shape my hands to hold on and own anything. My hands sweat with anticipation when I prepare for a hunt. So when I chase something, I'm never equipped to protect it. My slippery, greedy hands cannot contain such beautiful possibilities.

I punch the sky because I'm lost in this world and when I look up, in search of guidance, all I see are clouds. I don't see a map or a clue. And when I look at the ground and watch it expand in to the distance, I don't see a path cleared for me. I don't know where to go from here. I just know that I'm tired of running...with no destination.

All I feel...when I let myself feel...is nothingness. Everything I've ever hunted and called my prey has slipped through my fingers. I have nothing to show for years of pursuit and careless disregard for the lives and love that I've damaged. I'm tired of chasing. I'm tired of being so desperate to have and to be more.

I just want to replace this nothingness with something or anything...worth having and keeping.

Speechless.

There are those moments that take more than your breath away...they take your ailments, fury, and fears away as well. They are the moments that remind you that you really have no control over life and the emotions that rush through its flood gates. When time stands still for you, providing you with the opportunity to view everything you've ever wanted and to reach for everything you've never had, you may run out of excuses and hesitation. You may run out of reasons to run...from everything you've waited for.

I don't experience many moments like those that I've described. I am not often stilled or silenced. Life doesn't often cause me to stand aside in awe. I am always one step ahead, one leap beyond. I'm always ready to assume that I know what is or is not coming. But every once in a while, I am hushed by the miracles that are too profound to be analyzed by feeble minds.

There is something that I want and I want it so badly that words run from me and gestures escape me when I discuss its beauty. I am left paralyzed. And for the first time in my life, I have no desire to control and direct this beautiful process. I have no desire to ruin moments that only my maker could be sophisticated enough to design.

NNL

Listen 2 You.

There will always be people watching your life, evaluating it and you…attempting to tell you what you need to do and what you should have done. There will always be someone putting on a Jesus costume and pretending to be all-knowing. There will always be those who judge you more than you could ever judge yourself, who whisper “lose weight”…”have an abortion”…”get a real job”…”date someone of your caliber”. There will always be those who seek to destroy you-before you even have a chance to embrace who “you” really is.

You see, the thing is, those people are like free weights. They’re designed to make you extend your limits and build stamina. They’re in place to help you mold yourself and strengthen your weaknesses. They won’t break you unless you let them. Though they taunt you and intimidate you, you can control them and their voices. You decide how much pressure they can actually put on you and what they’re really worth. You will always walk away a conqueror. They’re trapped in their circumstances…dead weight. They can’t move out of their circumstances so they spend their days criticizing yours.

All you have to do is have a goal, have a vision and press on. When you stumble, though they’ll laugh, remember to get back up and keep moving. Don’t become stationary. Don’t let them steal your momentum. Focus on all that is good within you. Focus on your desire to have more and to be more. And eventually, those who watched your life with criticism in their empty, black eyes will watch with envy as you prevail and overcome.

Just remember, the only person that you’re obligated to listen to…is you.

Blogging...

Blogging gives me an opportunity to inspire, to enlighten, and even to educate. I share wisdom from a life full of experiences. I have the chance to the say the things that I've always wanted to say, to those who are incapable of judging me. And even when there aren't comments or feedback, I am verified by my own efforts. I am proud of my consistency thus far. I am glad that I have been able to share so much and open my heart in order to, potentially, open minds.

Thank you "oh great four fathers of blogging" for providing us writers with a way to heal. :-)

Pursuing Happiness.

There were days when I would day dream about having all that one person could want. I thought about wine red Range Rovers so much that I'd scribble images of them on my notebooks in Psychology class. I drew floor plans of massive houses with 9 holes out back for an occasional afternoon of golf with friends. (I don't even play golf). I imagined over sized closets with shoes from SoHo lining the walls. I planned on having it all. And I pursued it all. Diligently.

Then I woke up from that day dream, because I found myself trapped in a nightmare. The constant desire to attain more and to be more and to win more...turned me into someone that I didn't recognize or relate to. Status started to outweigh sincerity. People's perception of me started to matter more than my own opinion of myself. I got lost in all of it. I got lost in the pursuit. Although I thought I was pursuing happiness, I wasn't. I wanted society's version of success. I wanted everything to be bigger, more boastful, and more impressive.

But the idea of having more than everyone else just to feel more significant than everyone else got old so quickly. 1) It never worked. I was never satisfied and 2) I was exhausted from chasing after the wind all the time. Simply put, I was chasing what I could never catch. Everything slipped through my fingers because I didn't hold on to anything long enough to appreciate it.

At some point, destiny intervened and I got trapped in a bubble. I stopped winning, stopped gaining, and stopped seeing my money multiply. (I'm young but I've seen some pretty wealthy days). That bubble saved my life. I had an opportunity to see myself for what I really was. I had time to evaluate my intentions and the motivation behind my efforts to get rich and be "successful". To be honest, I really didn't like what I found. Needless to say, I started changing my concept of "happiness".

Now I just want peace in the midnight hour. I want to be able to sleep through the night without worrying about my family, finances, and future. I want to be able to feed myself every day, drive myself from point A to point B. I want to be able to hug the ones I love and dance with them instead of mourn over them. Range Rovers, as beautiful as they are, can't deliver me to the gates of heaven. Only my walk, in this life, can do that. And I'm not professing to be holy and sanctified. There are still "things" that I want. But, those things are not directly correlated with my happiness. Happiness has a lot to do with love that outlasts the pain, good food after a long day, laughter that resounds through my life, and the opportunity to be more educated.

I am only in pursuit of a few things now. True happiness is certainly one of them.

A Better World.

A voice within says, “What is your vision?” To it, I say, “I want to better this world.”

I want to better this world through love and compassion and patience. I want people to know that there is still hope and there is still a reason to wake up. I know that I will never be like everyone else. I know that I will never walk like…or talk like…or live like anyone else. But in spite of my differences, I feel connected to every person that I meet. I immediately feel concerned and attached to the wellness and the overall growth of each individual I make eye contact with. And no matter how much I fear my potential or my purpose, I cannot run from who I am. I cannot hide under the bolder of ignorance or dance with the devil in the realm of denial. Who I am is who I am.

If I could, I would wake up every morning and share the wisdom of heaven with people everywhere. I would speak out against hatred and limitations. I would tell audiences (of any size) that miracles are far more interesting than practical pursuits. I would encourage young women to stand on their own feet and refuse to let anyone make them prisoners. I would beg my sisters to value themselves and their bodies. I would encourage members of my generation to care about something…anything.

If I could, I would write until my fingers bled. I would write until there were no more trees and no more paper and no more storage on my big, bright laptop. My words would change the lives of children who never saw themselves as “talented or beautiful or capable”. My words would heal the hearts of those who had never experienced “love or confidence or appreciation”. I would write about the depths of depression. I would write about the simplicity of beauty. I would write about obesity and sexuality and family. I would write until my words bled together and became a language unknown.

If I could, I would hug every child who couldn’t find her father. I would dance with every veteran and cry with every ailing mother. I would serve until my days were gone. Not because service is admirable, but because service-among the children of God-is mandatory. I would never, ever waste another day entertaining fear. I would change the world, one determined moment at a time.

Because, I visualize a world much more beautiful than the one we currently reside in. I visualize a world where people still believe in tomorrow. And if I could, change this world alone, I would.

Wear Down of the Week: Babies on Leashes

I only have question. Why? Why is that optimistic, innocent young man being dragged around on a seat belt? Perhaps it's none of my business. Perhaps I need to be more empathetic and understanding. Or...maybe, the individuals who usher their children around on leashes should be imprisoned. This woman is committing more than one crime. Her pants are annoying and her son is being victimized.

I know this isn't the most in-depth, philosophical blog post I've ever written. But, damn it, it's funny.

When all else fails...

...God's love won't. On the darkest days, in the loneliest hours, He holds me. And I'm grateful.

"I Just Want to be Successful..." -Drake

I chase destiny through the darkest corridors of life and the thickest forests of desire. I hunt joy with the shot gun of desperation. Because I deserve more than this life of uncertainty. I deserve to fall asleep at night certain that when I wake up in the morning, the sun will shine in my favor.

I know exactly who I am. I am the daughter of an almighty King who has never abandoned or forsaken me. I am a woman of integrity and beauty designed with the pearls and powders of heaven. I am here to change this world through compassion and love. I am determined to be everything that I was born to be.

So, even there are days that take my breath away...days that suffocate my creativity and stifle my ambition...I am sure that I will come out on the other side of this battle with a medal for courage and consistency. Even now, I pray for a way out and a way up. I wait to stop falling and finally hit rock bottom so that I can start climbing toward all that is good.

I am not foolish enough to believe that the Creator has abandoned me. I know that I will have all that I've dreamed of and all that I've ever aspired to become. Because I deserve to be successful. I am of Moses' lineage. I am in the same blood line as the Messiah. So I can not be conquered. I cannot be destroyed.

I am not a quitter. I am a believer. And I have every intention to get all that belongs to me. No one will steal the glow that beams through my child-like eyes. No one will take the optimism from my bosom. I cannot lose. My status as a warrior is permanent. My sophistication is untouchable. My confidence isn't for sale. This is priceless. Who I am is who I intend to forever be. There is nothing, no one...that can break me. And that's not cocky. That's reality.

I am everything that I say I am. And as for the critics who don't agree...frankly, I don't give a damn.

And that's real.

5-4-3-2...(Cr)appy New Year!

So...January is coming around the corner like an ambulance pursuing a 10-car pileup and I can't say I'm very happy about it. Because, 2009 is not done providing me with the opportunities that I was convinced I'd have before the year ended. As a matter of fact, 2009 hasn't delivered in a lot of areas. I thought I'd be a millionaire by now with Iman's body and a wine-red Range Rover ;-)

I don't know about anyone else but I don't want to start another year with the same damn resolutions. I don't want to get a new gym membership on the 2nd of January and end up using it twice, then cursing out the gym's bill collectors on the 22nd of March. I don't want to plan to have the perfect relationship with no bruises and blunders. I'm not interested in trying to lose 1,000 pounds by eating lemons and drinking 20 cups of water by noon each day. Most importantly, I don't want to force my dreams to take flight just so I won't have to endure the process of life and avoid working for "the man" for just one more year.

Every January, I make huge-unrealistic plans for the upcoming year and every October..I end up looking back at the year that was supposed to change everything with animosity and regret. I make a potentially happy new year into a crappy new year by trying to turn my entire life around in 12 months. It's sincerely absurd. The truth is, I am probably going to be in a very similar place 1 year from now. I don't anticipate that the sky is going to open up and drop 3 million dollars through the sun roof of my Passat. I am not going to be able to attend one weekend seminar and earn my master's. I won't be able to melt 600 pounds away in a magical sauna. None of those things will ever happen to me. But I know what WILL happen if I continue to make these unrealistic goals. I will die before 2011 peaks its head out next winter.

When it really comes down to it, there isn't much to make resolutions about. I know who I am and I just want to be a writer. All this other fancy shit is giving me wrinkles. I don't want to plan to take over the world. I don't want to make a timeline to be just like Oprah. I just want to be 23 years old for as long as I can. I want to read by the lake on Tuesday mornings. I want to listen to Kanye while I endure my morning work-outs. I want to meet people and collaborate on wonderful, inspiring projects. But I don't really want to exhaust myself with the burden of networking beyond necessity. I don't want to plan to go to church more or take vitamins every morning or visit my parents once a week.

I just wanna throw my shot glass in the air at 12am on January 1st and commit to never having another anxiety-inducing, crappy New Year again. My only resolution this January will be: to live more and obsess less.

I'm Coming Home.

There is nothing like being 20-something. There is nothing like having life-altering decisions to make every day and having no means of answering the questions that life is constantly asking. I am lost in the midst of all things essential. There are so many avenues, so many opportunities, and so many pot holes. I love being young, don't get me wrong. But I would love to have a compass that actually works out here in the wilderness.

I moved back to Pleasantville 6 months ago with the intentions to grow as a journalist and an individual. I was excited about attending school at a respectable university in the area in order to get my masters. I thought that it was finally time to really "be somebody". And what I found is-the reality that I really already liked who I was becoming. When I left this region of North Carolina, 5 years ago, to go to undergrad I was a completely different young woman. I was dependant on my parents for everything. I couldn't even wash clothes, cook anything besides scrambled eggs, or wash my hair by myself. I was beyond crippled. I was just shameful.

And now, I fend for myself the best that I can. My decisions are my own and I am in love with my ability to survive in spite of obstacles and limitations. So, moving back to this town and trying to pick up where I left off....is not as fulfilling as I'd hoped it would be. I don't feel at home here. I feel like the people who reside here are (for the most part) shallow and materialistic. Everyone is worried about brand names and square footage. And, though I grew up appreciating those same things, I really no longer give a damn.

All I want now is piece of mind and to give the world a piece of my mind. I want to spend my days in love and my nights making love. I want to sleep in on the weekends rather than at a second job that helps pay for my expensive habits. I want to enjoy art and watch good movies. I want to keep learning and growing. I want to enjoy being young. I don't want to start having kids just because that's what everyone else is doing. And, in this area, that's exactly what everyone else seems to be doing.

I never thought I'd say this about the little city in which I went to college, but...G-boro...I'm coming home. I miss your pot holes and broken sidewalks. I miss your dark alleys and random side streets. I miss Elm Street and the lack of activity on Friday nights. I miss that delicious Japanese food that can only be found at Kobe. I miss Bellini's at Bravo. I miss Guilford College's fuunny smelling library. I miss it all. And after all these years, I'm smart enough to know that if you miss something enough...you'll find a way to get it back.

That's just what I intend to do. I'm coming home.

What Lola Wants

There is a woman that I know very, very well. She stands gracefully at 5 feet and 11 inches. Her swagger is unapologetic, raw, and intentional. Her skin is coffee-tinted...two creams and three sugars. Every inch of her frame is poised with an uppity aura, yet she manages to blend humility with privilege in order to remain grounded and approachable.

This woman is strategic and relentless. There is nothing that she has ever pursued, that she has not attained. At a young age, she developed the innate ability to demand her way into blissfulness. Those who did say no, were eaten for dinner or worse. Her tantrums were nationally acclaimed and her Christmas list was so long...she had to hire a tribe of midgets to record her desires.

She was worse than spoiled as a child. She was rotten and odor-infused. And the saddest part of this story? Nothing has changed.

Her name is Lola and her selfish habits are destroying her life. Nothing is ever enough for her. No achievement is worth celebrating. No purchase is significant enough. No purse is sparkly enough. Lola is a slave to the idea of "wanting". And what she wants...she gets.

The only problem is, Lola fell in love 4 years ago with a sexy, Southern lover who convinced her that there was no nook that would be left unexplored and no cranny would go un-penetrated. And Lola believed that this lover would finally free her from the confines of "want".

Lola was wrong. And now, Lola has a decision to make. She can either spend the rest of her life chasing the wind and trying to capture butterflies that she can never own or she can let this lover love her. For most, the decision is clear and the right choice could be made by an infant. But for Lola, for this woman who has everything, everything is never enough.

I hope that Lola, this woman I know better than anyone else in this world, realizes that love isn't like a shopping spree or a shoe collection. It can't be scheduled, budgeted, re-designed and altered at will. Love is a gift that cannot be purchased in a boutique in downtown Charlotte. And once it's gone, it's really gone.

It's time for Lola to stop thinking about what she wants and to start thinking about how to preserve what she has...

Pursue Life.

I spend a lot of time planning. I spend more time planning than I do living and that reality is both unfortunate and disappointing. When I was a little girl, I planned my life out on a tiny timeline constructed with a marker and a clouded mentality nurtured by the expectations of those who raised me. (I was brainwashed).

On that timeline, sat all that I sought after. I wanted everything that little girls who wore bows and polka dots should want. I wanted the big house with the 4-car garage, the man who could mold a replica sculpture of David out of cement...with his bare hands, and a job that only required me to show up on Tuesdays around 3pm.

I wanted to attend an Ivy League college, drive the most expensive foreign car that parents can buy, and weigh just a little more than Paris Hilton. I, essentially, aimed to be the "quintessential" American woman. Even more hilarious, all of this was supposed to be accomplished by age 25. (I'm laughing hysterically now). Because, at 23, I am no where near Paris Hilton's size. Perez, maybe, but not Paris.

Additionally, my Ivy League education is on lay-away. I am too busy burning the envelopes that contain the threatening warnings from Sallie Mae about my upcoming balances to think about paying a dime toward my Harvard graduate studies. My "big house" is a two bedroom condo in Pleasantville that makes me tired whenever I attempt to clean it. Subsequently, I don't need a 4-car garage. I need a scooter and a fanny pack to get me from point A to point B. And as far as the husband with the hands of a Greek god, I'll pass. I've made other arrangements ;-)

My point? Who gives a flying fu** about time lines and plans and arrangements and deadlines? Really. If life went according to plan, we'd all be bored out of our minds. I am convinced that, in this life, I am nothing more than a stubborn main character in the novel that God is authoring. I try to control the plot, fall in love with easily intimidated co-characters, and express my disgust with how He's designed me. But, in the end, I have absolutely nothing to do with what happens in the end. I'm just here to make this journey sexy.

I am throwing my time line away. I am throwing a lot of stale expectations and due dates away too. I have no desire to live this way. I have no desire to wake up to a voicemail box full of expectations. I'm making a new list now. A bucket list complete with everything that I want to do before I kick the bucket. Item #1? Take a nap whenever I want.

...I feel a yawn coming on...

Friendship.

I've spent a lot of time wishing that I had the friendships like those in movies, the "ride or die" friendships. I've always wanted to sit on a huge porch, at age 60, with lemonade and the one person that I have always been able to be honest and open with.

I was convinced that those friendships had to be flawless and unfailingly positive. I had no intention of believing that "real, life-long friends" argue and grow apart in order to rebond and grow together. My reality was based on the fallacy that is Hollywood. Women in movies are so outrageously lesbian-ish. They rarely wipe their asses without first consulting their friends about what type of toilet paper to use. They have slumber parties every weekend. They never take their husbands anywhere and they manage to attend the same yoga classes, live on the same block, and wear the same size everything!

So, I've spent all 23 of my years searching for that friendship. The friendship without bumps, bruises, and blunders. But eventually, the Hollywood facade must fade away and authenticity serves as a default that liberates even the most brainwashed "friend seekers". To put it simply, I really had to get over myself and embrace the reality that if I spent the rest of my life searching for this utopia friendship, I was going to die lonely and fat.

No. My friends and I don't have slumber parties every weekend. We don't paint each other's toes or brush each other's hair on Saturday nights while watching the Little Mermaid. We are grown ass women with obligations, bills, relationships, problems, unhealthy obsessions, untameable libidos and all kinds of unattractive attributes. But, when it's all said and done, we are there for each other.

I have known one of my dearest friends for more than 13 years. That's really rare for someone my age, but I am grateful that-in spite of our differences-we manage to check in on each other and wish each other well. Another friend, who I met later in life, is one of the most sacrificial, beautiful women I have ever met. She has saved my butt...one too many times from the pits of depression and lack. And I could never repay her. Literally. But still, she loves me.

I am lucky to know women who host me in their homes, feed me delicious food, and always know how to provide me with the reality checks that I so desperately need. My friends may not go to yoga with me every Tuesday, but they love me beyond description.

And that's real.

Are You There God? It's Me...

I call His name in the middle of the moments that burn the worst, hoping that I will actually get the slightest response in the form of a pot falling or a bird chirping. I wait for Him to interrupt my day with a random bolt of lightning that signifies the beginning of a life of abundance. But God...doesn't check His own voicemail and whatever administrative assistant He does have needs to be fired. I've been trying to be gentle yet persuasive, but the gentle angle must go. There are some things that I need and I need them now. Like a purpose.

Not the philisophical purpose that I have previously carried around in my left pocket like an emergency flashlight, ready to lead the way to victory and fulfillment. I mean a "day to day" purpose. I need to feel like I am contributing something to this flat world. And the truth is, I don't feel that way. Not often enough anyway.

When I was a little girl, I was so sure that by 23 I would be feeding whales or saving penguins or housing the homeless. I thought that I would be fighting for human rights or using journalism to fight oppression. I thought that I would be working for CNN or The New York Times. But instead, I am viciously disappointed in mainstream media and I am not really sure how to do anything about it. I am a paycheck away from being homeless myself and needing someone to house me. And I can't feed a damn whale because I can barely afford to feed myself.

So. Where do I go from here? If you can hear me God...days like these confuse the hell out of me.
And I sincerely pray that tomorrow will be a better day. Not just for me, but for everyone who has been leaving urgent messsages on your answering machine.

Dedicated to the 20-Somethings

I know it hurts to dream of better days. I know that the ability to open your eyes in the morning and see life with optimism, is fading into nonexistence. I know that you often wonder what your purpose is and why you're here. We all do. And even though we robotic ally stroll through each day hoping no one will figure out that we're faking our way through life, there is a pain that surfaces when no one is watching. There is doubt and there is denial.

These are times like none we have experienced before. Nothing is certain and everything is questionable. Our hands burn from filling out job applications for positions that we hoped we would never need. Our eyes sting from calculating the balance due for all that we use to survive. (Electricity bills dance through my dreams while I sleep). It's all so much less funny than it used to be. There is no punch line when everyone I know is standing in the unemployment line at 8am, hoping to receive a little relief for the next few weeks.

I know it seems impossible to aspire to quench the fire in your gut when everything you want seems so unattainable, so unrealistic. It isn't easy to be a part of a generation of students who are graduating into nothingness. We used to laugh about the idea of moving back into our parents' houses. We use to talk about what kind of cars we'd be driving at 25. We talked about retiring at 30. I talked about being wealthier than Oprah by age 40.

And now all I talk about is the damn water bill (which is $115 by the way).

I didn't ask for this life. I didn't ask for these circumstances and I know you didn't either. But, I'm here to tell you...and myself...that there is no way that this drought will last forever. There is no way that this life will fail us all. Though my day dreams are now few and far between, I will continue to believe that all that I've ever hoped for is reachable. And I hope you'll find a way to do the same.

Frozen by Fear

Numbing, brain-shattering, tear-drying, snot-inducing fear washes over even the most victorious of us during days like these. There is a level of doubt that will erase even the most beautiful of accomplishments and wash away the confidence that birth gave to each of us. When the next day is not promised and the current moment seems shaky, we all have a tendency to look to the sky and surrender ourselves. Eyes enlarged, arms stretching wide-as if to receive a blessing, and head tilted back waiting on an idea or a sign...or a purpose. This is the current stance of our country. America, as a land mass, is waiting. America, as a collective of people and cultures, is waiting.

The fear is capable of keeping each of us from everything that we have ever dreamt of becoming. It's enough to keep a writer from creating and a painter from sharing. These are the days of uncertainty. These are the days when the wildest of men pray to be more practical, dreamers are abandoning sleep in hopes of finding a means to pay the rent. Fear is replacing the simplicity of love. All that we love to do, all that we seek for solace, is being tucked away in an attic of optimism-stored for brighter days.

When the world becomes so cold that smiling seems like an unnecessary extracurricular activity, we shall perish. Because this fear, this mind-altering fear, is the only emotion that I cannot endure. I would rather be angry enough to burn down my own house....or pained enough to cry a bath tub full of tears than to be afraid of what the future has for this nation. For my generation.

Forgive me for the philosophical tirads. I can't write about Saturday night drunkenness or the purse that I saw at a swanky boutique yesterday. I cannot write about sexual escapades and the love affair I wish I were apart of. I can't post details about celebrity lives that I know nothing about....not right now I can't. Because I am too busy relentlessly pursuing the truth. I am too busy wondering why I attended a university for 5,000 semesters in order to find a "dream job" that no longer exists because of the recession and hiring freeze. I am too busy trying to make sure that my tomorrow is brighter than the analysts predict it will be. I wasn't born to watch this world fall apart and do nothing about it.

I may not have the billions that it takes to make sustainable change in this world, but I have my ways of spreading positivity. I refuse to be frozen by fear. I refuse to just sit still and let this life and this recession happen to me. Being real through language and using words to share a significant message...is my purpose. I'm comfortable with that now. And I intend to be as real as I can, for as long as I live.

What I Miss About Childhood.

I miss the summers that lasted forever. Winter was only two days long and even it was blissful. I miss the days when every stranger was harmless and caterpillars were able to take my mind off even the most lofty burdens. I miss peaceful Saturdays with my mom.

The Saturdays that I lived for...with a woman I couldn't live without. I miss Santa Claus and his mysterious habits. He had the ability to transform poverty into a plush, picture of abundance. I miss love in the sweetest form. No sex, no complications...just friendship and cookies and flashlight tag.Childhood had a way of teasing me, tugging at me, and making me believe that it wouldn't disappear into the abyss of memories. I thought that I would have it forever. I thought that we would be together and laugh at the obligations of today. But life doesn't work that way.

Eventually, you wake up to an alarm clock and a spouse...in a house that you don't remember buying with a mortgage that you couldn't have possibly agreed to. Eventually, every stranger is suspicious and every caterpillar reminds you that you need to call the exterminator because summer is around the corner. And the thought of summer makes you sigh with exasperation and frustration pours from your pores because you have to research summer camps for the kids, you have a list of "to-dos" and "wish I dids". There's no more time for flashlight tag or water day in the backyard. There's no more time for laughter and chatter and chocolate.Because chocolate is now the enemy. I swear, adulthood doesn't make any sense to me. Womanhood is even more of a mystery. We all used to love chocolate. We used to eat Hershey's bars until our tummies ached, now we do crunches on a yoga mat until our bellies ache. Geesh. What for, I ask? What for?

The little girl inside is yearning for an opportunity to jump on a trampoline again. She wants to spend the night at Lindsey Rabidou's and watch the sun rise with her 5 "best friends" (all of whom she would die for). Those were the days. We all examined ourselves in the mirror every five minutes, claiming to be so fat but never being able to prove how we came to those conclusions.I miss all of that. I miss that optimism I had when nothing was tragic enough to steal my joy. Every boy was "the boy" and pink was my power color. Seventeen magazine was my novel of choice and I was fearless. Back then, I knew the world was mine.Now, I'm just trying not to lose my mind. I miss childhood...

Who's the Boss?

I don't mean to be redundant. But I have a problem with bullies. I have a problem with the people who are often in power. I have a problem with "managers" and "supervisors". Even the terminology is incriminating. The little people are constantly being reminded of how little they really are. And I hate it. I'm not suggesting that we emphasize that benefits of communism. I know that leadership is necessary, but I also know that slavery isn't necessary. People shouldn't have to tolerate being talked to like their worthless and incapable of finding better opportunities.
Most of the managers I've had or known, have been a special breed of human. They're typically heartless, with really bad hair, and high water slacks that make everyone uneasy. According to The Big Book of Fake Statistics, 97% of all of the stupid people in the world are managers at retail stores or...spas.

Why is it that the people who were "nobodys" in high school, grow up to be the managers of grocery stores, video stores, and...spas? Why is it that the people who were stuffed into lockers during middle school, manage to break out of the lockers, graduate from law school and start creating policies? I don't understand who put all of the bitter, lonely people in charge. There is some kind of phenomenon taking place all around me. The most unattractive, evil people are filthy rich and immune to the recession while the talented, warm-hearted people are standing in the unemployment line from 8am-3pm waiting for relief.

Something has got to give. We are all worthy of fair treatment and respect. No one person is more valuable than another. When I see "managers" treating other workers like shit, I just want to start beating someone with a random baseball bat. I'm thinking, "just because they gave you a special colored vest at Wal-Mart and you get to "oversee" the registers, doesn't make you a celebrated citizen of the United States." Just give me a break already.

The people in this world who are really valuable, don't have to make other people feel insignificant in order to feel better about themselves. When I am forced to work for people who have no families/no spouses/no significant others/no friends/ and no sense of personal style, I just want to yank God out of the sky and say, "why has thou forsaken me?"

The Realness is Contagious.

There's an award out there for all of the outward, forward, bold, relentless writers who have no problem telling the truth...regardless of the consequences. And that award has been given to me by a dear "blog world" friend whose work I adore. His posts are always enlightening, slightly satirical, and optimistic. This friend of mine? Well, on 20SB we call him Garf. Garf gave me the Honest Scrap award which is intended for those of us who "keep it real". And if there is one thing I'm really good at...its keeping it real. So, with all the gratitude in my heart I say, "thank you my dear friend".

I accepted the gift with the understanding that I am now obligated to share a few details about my life that my readers are probably unaware of. For an open book like me, that's not exactly easy to do. Everything you all need to know, I've already shared. I will, however, dig a little deeper and find some juicy secrets that I might be able to unveil right here and now...

Here goes...

1) I am afraid of the dark. Really, sincerely afraid... and I have a night light. It's a sexy nightlight.

2) When I was a kid, I played house way too much. Things got rowdy. Often.

3) I am actually afraid of being too honest. The truth may set you free...but it also sets you apart. And standing out can be terrifying.

4)I don't eat seafood. Not because it smells and looks funny, but because I sincerely believe that my mother ate so much fish while she was pregnant that the very sight of tuna makes me nauseous.

5) I cry almost every day. I call my episodes "cleansing". My hunny calls them "tantrums".

6) When I was a child, I believed that everyone could be whatever he/she wanted to be. And truthfully, I am still convinced that that statement of innocence and optimism is true.

7) I fib quite a bit to people who I am not too comfortable with. I tell them what they want to hear. It's unfortunate. But it's how I avoid their endless prying.

8) When I grow up, all I want to be is a writer. Everything else is frivolous.

9) I turned 23 last Sunday. It was one of the most painful days of my life.

10) I dance naked a lot. It's liberating.

There. Now you know more about me than you would ever want to know. I want to offer this unique gift to one of my favorite bloggers- Jasmine. Her taste in new music and the hip hop culture is always accurate. Her reviews are always honest and on point. Therefore she deserves this honor.

Shit on you.

There are things we're told we shouldn't say. Things we supposedly shouldn't do. People we shouldn't write off. Friends we shouldn't lose...blah-blah-blah. Reality Check: From the ripe age of two...you're encouraged to allow people to shit on you. And truthfully, all of those disgusting appropriations make me want to vomit without apology. I'm puzzled. I don't understand why it would ever make sense for me to spend all of my days tap-dancing around the truth and attempting to avoid the hurt feelings of people that I really can't stand anyway.

I was born into a household of apologizers. I am related (by blood alone) to people who are constantly saying sorry without ever speaking out loud. They're terrified of not being agreeable and kind to the individuals who supposedly paved the way for them. It's enough to make a sane woman run down the high way naked screaming, "FREEDOM IS ALL I NEED."

Anyone who spends too much time being quieted and being forced into silence will eventually lose the ability to function as a warm-blooded human being. We were never intended to be robots. We were never intended to walk, talk, and breathe in the commonalities of mankind. To feel anger, heart break, and fury is to celebrate existence. It is pure madness to avoid conflict at all times in order to reserve relationships that aren't slightly beneficial in the first place.

I know a lot of people who spend all of their time talking about bosses they can't stand, mother-in-laws they loathe, and friendships that expired in 1992. Most of those people spend every waking moment kissing the asses of the people that they would probably murder-if murder didn't guarantee such a lofty consequence. I know even more people that won't admit that the very people they can't stand...sleep next to them at night. And look, I don't know about you...but I refuse to waste my (insanely brief )sexual peak years laying next to someone who doesn't know how to make love like a trained champion. I'm just saying.

Not only is this life short, it's difficult. And I need every opportunity to make the painful moments a little more joyous. I don't have time to cater to selfish fools or barbaric bastards who fail to realize that I need love in return for my kindness, time, sacrifices, efforts, and sincerity. I turned 23 years old this past Sunday and on that day I decided to redefine friendship, family, and love. I am who I say I am. This life is what I decide it is. My version of reality is the only reality that matters. Ultimately, I don't care what you think. Not because you aren't valuable, but because you aren't God. Therefore, your opinion means less to me than the penny that I dropped under the driver's seat in my car today.

I'm just being real.

One Size Does Not Fit All.

Lately, I've been catching wind of a new trend. A new norm perhaps. Lately... I've been seeing fabulously full women in the media more and more. And it excites me like no other sensation could. Now, I'm certain that my opinions are contradictory and I am promoting a double standard but I have to admit...I don't think that men who are chubby are going to be considered hot or delectable in the media any time soon.

Hey. I said it. That's just my opinion. You'll have to live with it. I do, however, believe that girls who fill out all the right angles of little black dresses are the new sex symbols of America. I've seen the term "voluptuous" every where lately. Young beautiful ladies like Whitney (from a few seasons back on ANTM) are changing the pace of fashion for curvaceous women everywhere. Even Latifah, the face of Cover Girl, in her latest campaign reminds all of us to wear whatever size we feel beautiful wearing. And I intend to jump on that band wagon and ride it until the wheels deflate. Because if anyone thinks that a woman with a little more to love is the sexiest thing since McDonald's fries on the dollar menu-it's me.

It took me 22 (I'll be 23 tomorrow) years to realize that being a certain size doesn't guarantee anyone a membership to the super-sexy-society. There are women who are toothpicks and could wear a rubber band as a bathing suit, that aren't hot because they aren't confident. Then there are women who can't fit into anything that says "one size fits all", but they are fierce because they refuse to feel less gorgeous just because they're full-figured.

All I am saying is that I love women who love themselves. I love women who know how to be unapologetic for the unique attributes and generous assets. There is nothing more intoxicating than a woman who takes care of every inch of her body and revers herself with the utmost respect. For example, Kim Kardashian* is the Marilyn Monroe of the millennium. She has curves and she doesn't hide them. She is sexy because she isn't the same size as every other woman in Hollywood. She's custom-made. And there is nothing hotter than being original.

*Kardashian was used as an example for body image purposes only. I don't know her personally and I'm not endorsing her personality, public image or lifestyle choices.

Thanks for reading. What are your thoughts about body image issues among women?

Work Hard. Play Harder.

Blogging is therapeutic. It allows me to share my woes and "wear downs" with all of my readers and it allows me to remove myself from this small world of picket fences, apple pies, and Harris Teeter grocery stores. I launched Relentlessly Real about 6 weeks ago and I've been telling the truth without apology-ever since. I share my opinions but I avoid details about my life in an effort to protect the people I love...and even the people I can't stand. But some of my new bloggy friends tend to ask the questions that we writers are terrified of answering. Including: who are you beyond the blogging? What do you do when you aren't making people chuckle, or nod, on the other side of computer screen?

And I, being the bold blog author that I am, am more than willing to answer those personal, invasively fascinating questions. I have no problem talking about the life that I live when I'm not jotting my thoughts down and "broadcasting" them for the entire globe to gaze upon. So, without mentioning names, I'd like to tell you a little about myself. I hope that's alright.

Let's start with the basics. I live in Eastern North Carolina where the summers are hotter than a sauna in hell and the winters are depressing and gray like sex with an incompetent ex-boyfriend. The spring and fall, however, are more beautiful than any photograph I've ever seen. To live here is to fall in love with nature again and again. We're a couple of hours from the beach and just a day trip away from the mountains. The side walks are perfect. No cracks, no gum-just cement and an occasional rebellious flower. There's a coffee shop or a sandwich shop on every corner and seeing a frown is as likely as seeing a shooting star. People are sincerely happy. Despite the economy and the war...there is joy here. And that's why I settled here. I hunt joy.

As far as my daily routine, I am lucky enough to have the two things in life that we all spend eternity searching for, love and purpose. When I wake up in the morning, I do so with gratitude and with the intention to make the current day better than the last. I blog in my room from a small indoor/outdoor table that I found at Target. The entire room has a North Carolina Wrightsville Beach theme. My bed is plush and warm...and the windows in my room are large and urban. My entire community is quirky just like I am. Some brilliant builder just dropped urban, inner-city condos in the middle of suburbia and farm land. It's random and it's excellent. At 22 years old, I already live in my dream home.

I work hard to maintain the standard of living that I'm accustomed to. Believe it or not-this rebel has a day job. I don't do cubicles...or conference rooms, but I'm a part-time manager at a local spa. When I'm not there, I am meeting with potential investors and writers for a magazine that I'm launching this Fall. It's a magazine for modern, innovative and independent women. I'll share more details later. (I'm bashful when it comes to my life's work). My days are long but my weekends and my nights are longer. I play so much harder than I work. The special person in my life owns my free time. When I'm not working, I'm loving. Simple equation. I'm all about good love, fine literature, great mixed drinks, and excellent pedicures.

What I care most about though- is people. I'm convinced that I'm here to do some good before they put me 6 feet under. I'm convinced that compassion will make this ailing world a better place. And I'm certain that love will heal even the most battered heart. There. I've given you me. Now I want to know more about you. It's only fair. ;-)

Love.

I know exactly what love is. Love is white sand against an army of waves...on a Tuesday in March. Love is being wherever you want to be, whenever you want to be there. No permission slips, no calling in to work, no guilt, no apologies. When you can begin your days with praise instead of pains shooting through the center of your skull and when passion begins to pay the bills, love is present. Blue beach houses on the North Carolina coast, protected by white picket fences and sea gulls are more precious than gold to me. Stilettos that still smell like the shoe store three years later,with polka dotted bows just above the elegant peek toe, cause me to forget every ailment I've ever known. Holding my little brother's hand as we cross the street in pursuit of the best seats in the movie theatre is the only sensation that surpasses orgasm. Love makes pain look like a grain of sand next to an Egyptian pyramid.

I know exactly what love is. Love is slow dancing at 10am on a Wednesday while the rest of the world rushes toward deadlines, conference calls, and, ultimately, depression. Love is playing your favorite song on repeat until the lyrics are imprinted on the walls of your heart. Knowing that comforting arms wrapping around your sadness will heal even the deepest of regrets. That's love. Waking up next to your destiny-the one person who will never remind you of all that you aren't. That's love. Love is the medicine that most people spend a life time trying to find. Most, eventually, stop searching and indulge greed, hate, prejudice, bitterness, and loneliness instead.

I know exactly what love is. Love is believing in something in spite of everyone and everything that has made you feel like a fool. Finding the strength to join one more club, go to one more networking dinner, print just one more flyer, write one more business plan, apply to one more part-time job just to pay for one more certification/degree. That's love. Raising a child and forfeiting every desire you've ever had in order to put food in a mouth that may grow up, leave home and never say "thank you". That's love.

I know exactly what love is.

Thank You. (You There-I'm Talking to You).

There's something about you. All of you. And it makes me wake up in the morning eager to read your posts, giggle, cry, and connect with you. It's something I've never experienced before. I've never felt so concerned about, in love with, and in awe of people that I have never met. So, today's post is just a thank you. Thank you for loving writing, sharing, and expressing...just as much as I do. Thank you for providing leisure reading about life, relationships, and sex as an alternative to the sagas on the CNN news feed each day. Though we won't ever meet, have coffee, or drink martinis together...some of you inspire me more than those I've known for years.

Keep writing. Keep sharing. Even when it seems like no one is paying attention, your words are motivating someone else to open up and change the world...one post at a time.

XoXo.

Today, I was beaten with a Bible (part one)

Ugh. There will never be enough profane language, enough suggestive gestures, or enough satire to wash away the disgust that sits in the pit of my stomach at this moment. I will never be clever enough, immune enough, or powerful enough to stop hating this irritating tug of helplessness and fury. I can't figure out how to make the pain stop and make the joy begin. I'm so battered...so bruised.I was attacked today. I was viciously beaten. And the only weapon used...was a Bible...

I grew up in the church, the A.M.E and the Baptist church to be specific. I was raised to trust God, to believe in Christ, and to celebrate the reality that all who worship the Lord will go to heaven. I was encouraged to preserve my purity and to obey those who fed me. And all of what I was asked to do, I did. For the most part.

But today, I speak out against the oppression and the subsequent depression that can accompany religion. I speak out because there is so much that I do not agree with, so much that makes me nauseous. And though I consider myself to be one of the lucky ones, my heart wrenches each time I think of the beautiful people who have been chastised and labeled "SINNERS" based on the narrow confines of the church. I am lucky because I still love God and trust in Him. Even after all of the destruction I have seen, even after being brutally attacked with the Bible...I still believe. And I'm able to believe because I don't think God has anything to do with the foolish tirads of hateful individuals who spend their days finding innocent people to victimize and criticize. I don't think God hires anyone to be the HOLY HUNTER and capture sinners and force them to repent. I don't believe that God shoves His Word down the throats of those who are not prepared or interested in the intensity of religion. And though I have not met God personally, I don't believe He is half the monster that most of his followers choose to be.

I don't want anyone else to throw scriptures at me. I don't want anyone else to assume that I need healing or saving or purifying. I am tired of being harassed. For starters, I think spirituality is very personal. I think that it should be. What I share with the Most High is authentic and based on pure love and no prejudices. I don't want to be grouped with people who are hateful, hurtful, and ugly. We are not alike. I am not your sister. Until I meet just one other person who loves people the way I do, without all the damn rules, regulation and religion...I don't want to discuss my relationship with God. Enough is enough. Live your life and I'll live mine.

And, in case you're wondering, I wasn't literally beaten with a Bible today...but I received yet another message of inspiration filled with holy tidbits. And I need it to stop. Immediately.

Why Do The Good Die Young?

The good die young because the bad kill them off. I'm sure of it. I've seen so many strong, capable, sincere individuals work themselves to death for a paycheck that barely covers basic necessities. And, all the while, the big bad boss is sitting comfortably on a few million dollars/acres and devilishly grinning as the slaves- I mean employees-build a powerful empire with no suitable compensation.

I've watched a woman that I respect very much work herself to damn-near-death for almost 25 years in order to put food on the table and clothes on our backs. I've watched her smile through the exhaustion, the illness, and the ailments as she dresses for another day of tormentuous labor. And each time I've watched silently, I've died just a little more inside. Because this woman, this angel on earth, deserves to have the stars at her feet. She deserves to rest in a garden of roses while having customized pedicures provided for her each morning at 10. She deserves to wear silk gowns at all times, even in the bathtub. Seriously. Though she's my mother and have a bias, I know that she is one of the most beautiful people on this planet and I am livid. I am so far beyond angry. She, as well as all the other good and worthy people in this world, deserve so much more than long hours and aching bodies.

There is a woman who owns a restaurant here in town. She's Satan's niece. The servers who work for her are some of the most talented individuals in North Carolina, maybe in the country. They're paid minimum wage and treated like animals. The owner has so much money that she's obviously immune to conditions like, oh I dunno, POVERTY or HUNGER or FINANCIAL BURDEN. She has an evil yellow grin and she smiles every time she has the opportunity to do something wicked. She doesn't deserve to own the place. She doesn't deserve to have toes. Yet, and still, she goes home to a big house and a 72k luxury car that ugly people shouldn't be allowed to drive.

And all I'm asking is, WHERE IS MY MOTHER'S LUXURY CAR? This is my dilemma. I want the good to have good and I want the bad to have nothing. But that's not how this world works. That's not the way this life will be so I might as well get my head out of the clouds now. Right?

Wrong. I intend to do something about it. I'm not sure what and I'm not sure when...but I refuse to watch every good person I know suffer until they shrivel up and die. My mother may not know how much I love her and how much I'd love to pull the moon out of the sky and offer it to her as a pillow...but one day, I swear on all that is good, she will have the opportunity to rest-really rest. She will know what its like to not have another bill to pay. She will wake up in the mornings without aches in her body. I promise. And if I cannot make her life more comfortable, like all the other good youngsters that die, I too will die trying.

I'm Too Afraid To Love You

This is a tribute. It is a work of fiction with underlying truths that might benefit anyone who can take something from it. It's a letter from the timid lover that exists within each one of us. It's a letter that is intended for the person many of us wish we could be with but may never be with because of societal norms, racism, economic status, religious barriers, and hate. Here goes...


Dear Forbidden,

You are everything I've always wanted, but everything I cannot have. I'm sorry. I don't want to live without you. I'd rather be dead. To live without you near me is not living at all. I left you, abandoned you, forgot about you, because they told me to. They told me that I couldn't be with someone like you. They told me that love doesn't look or feel like this. We're too different. Our worlds, our values, and our goals are too different. And as much as I want to tell them that I love you and I won't apologize for wanting you, I can't. If I disobey them, if I ignore them, it'll just be you and me against the world.

I won't be able to dine at the country club anymore. Or even worse I won't be able to serve as a minister anymore. I won't be able to walk down main street with your hand in mine. We won't be able to raise children together. They'll be so mixed up. They'll be so corrupt. We wouldn't want that. Nobody wants that. So I think it's best if I listen to them. It'll save everybody so much heartache in the end. Though I love you, though I want you, I need to be practical. I need to stop living in the clouds and be reasonable.

When I was young, I imagined the perfect wedding, with perfect plump flowers, and my entire family beaming with joy. I deserve that wedding. I can't have that with you. My mother always wanted me to marry a docter and though your embrace is medicine to my soul, you aren't what she had in mind. So, we should just quit while we're ahead. And even though I'd rather be dead, I'm sure we'll both be just fine. I can't throw everything else away and spend all of my days with nothing but a life full of love. That would just be ridiculous. Right?

Sincerely,

Puppet

Menage a Trios

There is a tug of war taking place within me. It is painful and flattering, unnecessary yet essential to my existence. I serve two masters…the writer and the socialite.

The writer within is bare knuckled, fierce, unmoved by my need for human contact. She is selfish and creative. She’s talented and driven and consistent. She’s been hunting me for twelve years, begging me to be with her…to belong to her. The writer is like a butterfly, an escaped prisoner. When I was a girl, she lived in me as a caterpillar-a story lover. Stories would linger just beyond my mind like a halo…like a hint. I’ve always heard my own voice narrating my life and the lives of others. I always knew I’d write. But write what? Write where? For who? Now that narrator within says “write for yourself.”

The socialite holds dear to the “rope of fate” with leather driving gloves on…pink, manicured nails exposed. She’s sassy. She’s an asshole and doesn’t apologize for it. Her temper is volatile and her demands are specific. All she wants is the city at her feet. No more sweet tea, no more country roads to meander. The socialite wants cocktails, designer bags, and painful heels. I feel her hyper-ventilating with excitement when I replace flip-flops with pumps. Her excitement is unmistakable. Sex & the City, the movie, gave her hope. She isn’t intimidated by the unfamiliar street signs or the loud honking taxis. Change doesn’t make her nervous…change ignites her libido.

Who will win this war? Who will own me? Will I spend the majority of my life in t-shirts and basketball shorts…avoiding mirrors? Or will I start brainstorming with heels on like Carrie Bradshaw? The major point here is-I don’t want to be “like” anyone else. I don’t want to pick one career or the other. I am a powerhouse at heart. The struggle within me excites me. I am hungry…like a wolf. Okay, that was ridiculously unnecessary to write, but it is so true. Doing any 1thing for the rest of my life invites nausea to my body. I am in love with the writer within. She’s brilliant and unstoppable. She lives within me regardless of what I’m enduring at any given time. We are inseparable. She’s kept me alive and I love how private she is. There’s no need to be entertained or surrounded by a crowd when she’s with me. Quite simply, she fills me up.

The socialite, on the other hand, is moody. She only loves me when I’m flawless. Or maybe…the truth is…I don’t know how to love her when I’m not. She begs me not to forget that the mojo is just as essential as the mind. She’s impatiently waiting for me to stop being afraid to be the best. “We belong in Manhattan,” she tells me. “We belong among the best in the business.”

They’ll both tug, and cause a wave of uncertainty within me constantly, if I don’t give them both the attention they need. They won’t leave. Because they seem to know (better than I) that we all belong together.

Ghetto 'R' Us.

Tonight, I am going out. Yes. That's right. Me. Because I deserve to spend money that I don't have on drinks that I don't need...and probably won't like. I deserve to wear $200 heels on the rugged sidewalks of Raleigh and have my pretty pink toenails smashed violently at least 15 times by drunk men with tight Levi jeans on. I have earned the priveledge of standing in a line of losers and leaning on the wall of an old warehouse until its my turn to be padded down (a.k.a sexually harassed) by the bouncer with the big belly. And I absolutely cannot wait to enter into the club, full of 17 year olds with fake I.D's, in order to swallow smoke all night and, eventually, enjoy an asthma attack tomorrow morning...

By now...you know that I was being sarcastic. As always. And the motivation for my satirical ode to clubbing was a conversation that I had with a friend this morning. We were innocently gabbing about weekend plans when, both of us, started sharing all the reasons we loathe the typical club scene. And, of course, I have compiled a list of annoyances that have forced me find other artistic, creative, enriching ways to utilize my weekends. So, without further ado...here are 10 Reasons I Don't Do Typical (i.e trashy, ghetto fabulous, raunchy) Night Clubs.

1- I don't like people who smell funny. Nor do I like to stand/sit/dance/drink/laugh/talk next to people who smell like grilled cheese with onions on a Monday afternoon in August...in Texas.

2-I don't like looking at hefty individuals dance in halter tops and skinny jeans. I really hate it when those individuals are men.

3- I don't like listening to really bad music on big bodacious speakers while primary colors (strobe lights) swing wildly in an attempt to make everyone dizzy and confused so they'll forget how badly the music sucks.

4-I don't like having my butt grabbed/poked/carressed/patted by a really large (slightly frightening) butch woman while trying to hack my way through the crowd to get the disgusting, vomit-infested bathroom.

5-I don't like paying $35 for a drink with 1 tablespoon of alcohol that tastes like Kool-aid made by my little brother.

6-I don't like dancing innocently, with my friends, only to have a 72 year old veteran viciously hump me from behind and yell, "Back that thang up, baby."

7-I don't like wasting really cute outfits. It isn't cool to spend a couple of hours getting ready to go out, only to discover that everyone else in the club is dressed like low-budget porn stars...on crack.

8-I don't like paying a $20 cover to get into a club that is about as lively as a bingo game at the retirement center around the corner.

9-I HATE the fact that men can't even dance anymore. I remember when people actually had rhythm and weren't scared to get loose. If I see one more grown man doing the stanky leg, I am going to kick him. Then his stanky leg will be a broken leg...and that's no fun.

10-I despise raunchiness. I really don't like being stared down by bitter prostitutes who wish their pimps weren't so strict. When I go out, I go out to have a (classy) good time. I'm a high maintenence, uppety B with an itch. I have no problem making it known when I'm having a terrible time. And that's real.

So, in all seriousness, I really am going out tonight. But you won't catch me at ghetto-r-us.

A Little Advice...for People Who Give too Much Advice

Just a little advice...for people who give too much advice...

Please shut up. Seriously. It's exhausting, not to mention annoying, to see your lips flapping in the breeze as meaningless nothings come out of your mouth and attach themselves to innocent minds. We don't need anymore silly self-help articles or books about weight loss written by fat people. Enough is enough. And if I see one more talk show or magazine spread about how to be a "successful and sexy black woman", I am going to slap someone. Someone who has nothing to do with my fury. And that's unfortunate, don't you think? It's just getting on my nerves. Everybody is a life coach now. Everybody is a personal trainer. But not many people who pursue those professions care about the health or emotional stability of the client. It's all about money. The sad thing is, so many Americans are missing at least 15 screws and are willing to make monthly payments to idiots who didn't finish the fourth grade but have managed to write a self help book about how to "STOP BEING SAD. AND GET GLAD." I'm just confused.

There are billions of people out there who sincerely, desperately need help. And it's shameful how many wierdos, who are not qualified or legitimately concerned, spend their days advising others. I'm thinking of a few people in particular. I'm not including those who are constantly being pursued for advice. Those who are asked for their opinions are excluded from this clever essay. Those who have earned the trust of advisees are also excluded. My frustration is centered around fallacy. People who are blatantly lying and selling nonsense. I'm referring to people who post notes on Facebook about the tribulations of life and the solutions/ secrets to creating a perfect life. Most of the "authors" of these little posts and annoying notes are depressed, addicted to something, and lonely. So why then, are those of us who are just trying to enjoy our aimless lives, constantly subjected to notes and messages titled "SEIZE THE DAY" and "TURN THAT FROWN UPSIDE DOWN" and "MAKE TODAY THE BEST DAY OF YOUR LIFE." I just want it to stop.

I happen to know at least five of these idiots personally. I know that while they're trying to force us to seize the day when we'd rather be sleeping though it, they are also at home snacking on some 3-day-old Little Ceaser's pizza because 1)they have no real friends and 2)all of their fake friends are busy. What's worse is-so many people are subscribing to the bull. The notes about nothing are usually the notes with twenty-two comments that all say "thank you so much-oh wise one-for helping me find a reason to live." I'm nauseous just thinking about all of the people in the world that are so desperate for something to believe in that they've started praying to Dr. Phil, Joyce Meyer, and Oprah...instead of God.

I don't blame those who are distressed, depressed, hurting, and hopeless. I blame you. I blame you and your fake fixes and retarded tips for living a life free of stress and sadness. You're playing with peoples' lives. And you should be ashamed. My advice to you? Stop trying to fix all the rest of us. And deal with your own failures.

What would you do, if you could do anything?

If I could, I would.
I would leave all of the excuses behind.
I would change my life...because I would change my mind
In order to leave this land of nothing.
I would give up every dime
If I could dedicate all of my time to loving...
Loving.
Imagine that.
You won't. So you can't-
Imagine a life without the fuss and the tangles
(Neither can I).
I could tell you my days are carefree
(I'd be telling a lie).
Because without knowing who I am
Without something for which I can give a damn
I am broken. I am beneath myself, never beside.
I can't stand next to someone who has everything to hide
She is afraid to be recognized, afraid to be accomplished.
So she and I just spend our days shooting shit.
...meaning we don't live life, we just talk about it.
And I'm disgusted.
With my own inability to just enjoy being me.
No suits, no ties, no reasons, no abilies
Just sand, tequila, and late night drives...toward destiny.
(Something so powerful is tugging at me).
I just want to let it rip me apart
Until all that is left are my hands and my heart
So that, for the rest of my life, I'd be able to write
I'd be able to breathe into the only career that feels right.
If I could, I would tuck this diploma under the earth
Better yet, I would start my life over and embrace myself from birth
I wouldn't waste twenty-two years thinking about money
I wouldn't believe mama when she said, "to get what you want, use honey."
Frankly, I'd refuse to give a damn.
About anything and everything besides being who I am.
I would just be my cynical, unusual, peculiar self
I would lavish in my joy and say, "to hell with everything else."
If I could...
I would.

Women make the world go round. (Fact. Not Opinion.)

Let's talk about women today, shall we? Where to begin...Where to begin...ah yes. Here were are. At the beginning.

After God made Adam, He was frustrated. He thought to Himself, what have I done? He pondered, knowing that He (The Almighty) wasn't capable of making mistakes, and eventually figured out how to expand on his creation, in order to perfect the new human race. Alas, Eve was crafted...I know. I know. That's not really how things happened. But, in my opinion, what God was able to do in 6 days would not have been nearly as awe-inspiring if Eve hadn't been molded from a rib during that majestic week. "Why?" you ask. And to you I say, Women make the world go round.

Women are to the world what a caterpillar is to a cocoon. Women give the world a reason to hang in there. Ya know? It's complicated. But I'm almost certain that the earth, as a planet, sometimes thinks to itself and says, "These people don't appreciate me. I'm ugly now. Pollution is defacing me, they're taking my trees...." But, with women here on earth, pushing past oppression, fighting for civil rights, defeating cancer, the world is bettered every day. The earth is inspired to stick around instead of wiping us all out for being ungrateful. The same is true for a cocoon. It's tattered, grey, ugly, and is rarely appreciated for being a natural work of art. But, within it, is one of the most precious miracles of all time. Butterflies validate cocoons. They provide cocoons with a purpose. I believe that women give this world purpose. If it weren't for mothers, sisters, girlfriends, and history-making coaches like Kay Yow, this world would seem like such tattered, grey, and ugly place. But because it houses women, it's a world worth appreciating.

So at this point, all of my male readers are either copying and pasting this to send to a girlfriend in an e-mail, removing themselves from my 'followers' list, or pointing one of their hairy fingers at the computer and, through clenched teeth, whispering, "MissUnderstood is a FEMINIST!" To that assumption, I say, "Boo." I happen to consider myself to be more of a feminine-warrior. A lover of all things female. A celebrator of the accomplishments of everyone who was once quieted but now speaks freely and can serve in governmental positions, leadership positions, etc. I am no bra burner. (Please note that most feminists cringe at the ignorance of those who insist that all feminists hate men and burn bras). I love men. Well, I love two men. My little brother and my step-father. They're men, nonetheless. So, let's move past the notion that I am just all about women because I think men are losers. I don't. I just know that everything men can do, women have already done better. But no one wrote about it.

I wish everyone thought women were viciously capable, beautifully passionate, and vibrantly fulfilled. But, the sad news is, most women don't feel that way about themselves. I was inspired to write today's blog after speaking with one of my closest friends yesterday. Without realizing what she was saying, she admitted the following: "Life would be so much better if I didn't have to work for anything, didn't have to overcome adversity, and didn't have to-try." Then she said, "I want to just marry a rich man so I don't have to worry about anything." While she was talking, I threw up in my mouth a little bit. I kept trying to remember if I'd walked into my time machine that morning and selected the year 1956 on a little red dial. But when we drove past a bank, there was the date, clear as day. June 4, 2009. The friend who was telling me about her outdated fantasy is one of the most intelligent, entrepreneurial, sophisticated women I know. I couldn't even believe that, after seeing so many women disappointed while pursuing that same fantasy, she was talking about never having a fulfilling career or personal goals. Even worse, she is in her twenties. More specifically, she's twenty-two.

There is nothing wrong with looking forward to motherhood, choosing to stay at home and take care of a family, or hoping to find a knight-in-shining-armor. Aside from all of those things, however, a woman should still have her own identity. And for young women who have had an opportunity to see a woman almost become president of the U.S, who know that many presidents in other countries are women, and who know that many of America's most powerful people are women- there's just no excuse. I will never put my entire life in the hands of a man with money. Because, if and when that man chooses to run off with his secretary, I would be left with 3 snotty-nosed children and...my abandoned dreams.

...If women knew how powerful and purpose-full they really are, this world would be a marvelous place to call home.

Post-College Blues (Yes, it's poetry. Read it anyway.)

I wait. And the world moves.
I sleep. And the world moves.
I sit. And the world moves.
I wait.
Until 2 o’ clock on Sunday the 9th
Becomes midnight on Saturday the 21st
I wait and I rehearse.
I plan and I sit…I haven’t accomplished shit
And all I have is a master plan
I stare. And I stand. As I wait for my piece of the pie to land
To saturate me with the sweet essence of success
I wait for life to clean up my mess
To undo and undress
To cater to and to heal me too
I wait. Until I can no longer remember the date
Or the time…your name or mine
I’m too busy waiting; too busy parlaying on the corner just beyond my dreams
I’m too scared to find out what “a life worth living” really means
I’m too intimidated by what could be
Too terrified of what would be
If I were to get off my ass and give the future a chance
So I wait as I stand
Then extend my hand
To a sky that has nothing for me
To a God who has learned to ignore me
When I beg for a life that I don’t need
He has the homeless to shelter
The hungry to feed
He isn’t concerned with my aimlessness
He isn’t moved when I tell Him my life is a mess
My potential is up to me to use
My mind is my own to abuse
No one is going to put the food on my plate.

Yet and still, I wait.

Too Fat For That

Being fat in America is comparable to being a horse and attempting to find shelter in a chicken coop during a snow storm. Simply stated, your fat ass isn't welcome. And do you want to know how I know this assertion to be true? Do you want to know what gives me the right to be so crass? Well, if you must know, I am a lifetime member of America's "big girls" club. I've been humming "watch out for the big girls" since I was in diapers. It's just not cute anymore. I'm too damn old to be getting my cheeks pinched at church. I am tired of being eyed like a piece of rotisserie chicken, by old men with kinky fetishes, when I'm downtown with my friends.

Being fabulously full really doesn't feel that fabulous at all. Not because I don't love my body, because I do. I don't even think I'm all that fat. I don't even like the word fat. But, unfortunately, popular culture's critics LOVE the word fat. It's on the cover of every magazine in the grocery store. "Lose fat now" "Burn fat while you read" "Walk the fat off". I can't get away from the reality that, in this country, there are only two sizes: fat and skinny.

This morning I woke up energized and optimistic. Without preparing myself for the battle ahead, I foolishly headed to the mall with the intention to buy some adorable new shorts for the summer. Because I have been working out religiously for months, I was more than certain that I would be ecstatic about trying on this season's rave selections. WRONG. After I frantically grabbed overpriced "daisy dukes" from the racks, endured the harassment from the angry dressing room attendant, and tore off my street clothes- I exhaled and stepped into a pair of khaki shorts with a matching waist belt. The shorts moaned with discomfort when I tried to pull them past my knees. So I, bewildered and baffled, stared at the tag for confirmation. I whispered to myself, "I thought these were a size --." And they were! I hadn't lost my mind. I hadn't accidentally picked up toddler shorts. They were indeed adult shorts for women...just not for women with curves.

I tried on, at least, twenty pairs of shorts today. Only one pair fit me. I wasn't in denial about my size. I'll have you know, I'm not only relentlessly real with everyone else. I'm relentlessly real with myself too. I know what size I am. And I do not try to squeeze all of this bootyliciousness into the juniors department. Those damn clothes were corrupt. A year ago, a size 12 was a real size 12. Now, women who wore a size 12 last summer, are barely squeezing into some 14's.

I know we're in a recession. I know that the cereal boxes are getting smaller and "family size" really means just enough cereal for you and your 2 year old nephew to snack on. I am more than aware that laundry detergent comes in a soda can now and we're all supposed to believe that the detergent is as powerful as kryptonite. But, I am having trouble embracing the reality that the clothes are shrinking too. The manufacturers are using less fabric to make the same products and instead of admitting that cotton is hard to come by, they are allowing women all over the world to feel fatter every day. Women who are beautiful and voluptuous are dieting fervently in an effort to fit into clothing that is ever-shrinking. It's hard too stomach. I guess until I find the "strength" to stop eating carbs and chew on paper when I'm hungry, I'll just be staring at every little pair of shorts and thinking, "I'm too fat for that."

The Painful Pursuit of Happiness

Pursuing happiness, in all of its divine glory, is like chasing the moon or falling in love with a prostitute. It's just not practical. At least that's what I've been told. My mother thinks happiness (i.e. freedom, spontaneity, optimism, creativity) is childish. She is convinced that responsible people don't walk around thinking about being "happy" all the time. "Life is what you make it," she says. "There are things we don't want to do, but we just have to do them anyway." With that said, happiness, depending on personal interpretation and definition, is an endangered emotion.

I am convinced that it is being preserved in the safest corners of our hearts. Many of us have tucked it away for safe keeping. It's a box which houses photos with an ex, t-shirts from college, basketball trophies from high school, and...childhood. I wake up every morning, desperate to attain the joy that so many spend a lifetime lusting after. I am desperate to live a life that does not revolve around business meetings, conferences, impossible mortgages and company luncheons.

Happiness, in my opinion, has nothing to do with beach houses, Coach purses, Dior fragrances, and foreign cars. It is not synonymous with briar creek country club or seven for all mankind or corner office. Happiness is a decision. To pursue it is pursue self. The secret is to refuse to live another day being miserable and to "do what you feel". I know, I know. I sound like a hippie. But
I've watched so many people, including those who've told me to stop giggling all the time and to look for a real (i.e. depressing, exhausting) job, lose their husbands/wives/joy/minds while funding a life they never really wanted to live in the first place.

Trust me. I live in Pleasantville. The Desperate Housewives are my neighbors. Everybody bakes cookies here, has yard sales every Saturday (to rid of the useless goodies purchased the week before), reads Southern Living, and...cries at night while journaling about how much life sucks. I know women who wanted to be dancers, chefs, designers, models, singers/producers but are now working at BB&T and asking me if I am having a good day while, simutaneously, thinking about jumping off of a bridge. It's madness.

I know that there are bills to be paid. I'm not condoning bumming your way through life. I absolutely love Coach and Dior. I'm not condoning a life of lack and a closet full of no-name clothing. And, honestly, I live in Pleasantville because I love bake sales and yard sales.

What I can't stand, however, is the sadness in the eyes of so many individuals who wanted more for themselves but were too afraid to pursue authentic, unapologetic, filthy, raw, RELENTLESS happiness. Yes-It's painful to reject the norms. But if you've read Tuesdays with Morrie, you know that "if you don't agree with what popular culture is selling, don't buy it." And I agree. Happily.