Drop the torch ho.

First and foremost, I hope everyone had a wonderful thanksgiving, a happy holiday, and a wonderful new year. I took a small break from blogging and put in some overtime at work. A lot has happened since I discovered how much I want to date a vampire. I discovered that once you think high school problems are nothing but a glimmer in your memory--shit comes back with a vengeance. I think most of us believe that the events of our high school careers become irrelevant once we start making memories in college. I have learned that this is not the case. After all, childhood trauma can set in at any age; especially when you're a 10 year old acne ridden girl, with a high top fade. But, thats another story. Lately I have been thinking about my high school reunion. If high school didn't matter, then why orchestrate a party where everybody with their newly balding heads, their sagging nutsacks, droopy boobs, and pictures of their bad ass kids can come together and talk about all the "accomplishments" they've made. Phil, the class jock who was voted most likely to have a threesome, is now 40 pounds heavier--claiming that he is a bank executive when his ass really knows he works at the Visions credit union inside of Price Chopper. Lisa, the bumpy ugly chic with the mysterious hump on her back walks in looking like Naomi Campbell excited to tell everyone that her pro football player husband just bought them a villa in the Keys. Oh and the hump--just a bad habit of wearing her flannel over a bookbag.

But what if someone you knew from high school strikes you before the 10 year mark? And what if that person was the
love
of
your
life?
Well diggity dammit, the shit happened to me the day before thanksgiving. The last time I saw Lindonn, was at his house. It was my sophomore year in college, and he had a new born baby. The baby was so cute, but i freaked out and refused to hold her because it felt too weird. I hadn't spoken to him in years. When we started speaking again we picked up from where we left off. Our conversation melted like butter. We decided to link up and chill out.

Dude is married though. Which really puts a damper on the whole thing. I've done the whole married thing before, which really sucks once you get emotionally invested in someone who tries to convince you that they are unhappy in their marriage. The chemistry between Lindonn and I was even more obvious than it used to be and our hearts seemed to really call out to each other.

Recently, dude told me that he still loved me, but didn't want to drag me through the dirt of a rocky marriage that could potentially work itself out THUS leaving me in the dust.
So long story short, his wife calls me because she noticed a lot of outgoing calls on her husband's phone to my number. I hung up on that ho and kept it moving. Lindonn then procedes to call me demanding that i aplogize to his wife for hanging up on her.

PSSSH.

Moral of the story kids?
If she doesn't leave her husband, and if he doesn't leave his wife...either their still shagging one another or the set-up aint as bad as they're making it out to be. If ya'll have history--allow the history to remain as is and move on. Like Alicia Keys said "Its called the past cuz' i'm getting past and i ain't nothing like i was before." Besides dating a married person will get you burnt; if not burnt emotionally, then you'll probably get burnt somewhere you wipe gently with toilet paper.

I'm just sayin.

I want me a vampire

One of my co-workers put me onto a new show called "True Blood". It's a vampire series, but not your typical garlic and crucifix set up. These are vampires--with rights n' shit. They drive, they have cell phones, they can even purchase synthetic blood to curb their appetites. They even have a club called "Fangtasia" which is pretty ghetto if you ask me.

I have to wonder though...what would it be like to date a vampire? I mean SERIOUSLY date a vampire. First of all, you'd only be invited to his house at night time because of the whole sun-light makes me spontaneously combust thing. That would definitely fuck around with my work schedule seeing how i can barely get out of bed when I go to sleep the night before by as early as 9:00pm. Secondly, y'all couldn't even go out and have a meal in public. For one, vampires don't eat solid foods or drink anything else other than blood, and the only place that would be open would be either taco bell or Kennedy's. I'm sure you guys would get sick of that quickly. Thirdly, the sex would probably be off the CHAIN! With his vampire endowments and all, I'm assuming his deeyock probably has fangs too (which would make for an interesting stimulus) BUT you could never spend the night at his house because he has to sleep in the floor or some shit so no sunlight could get through. Dude couldn't even stay at your place for the same reason. You two would be doing the walk of shame like almost every night.

Oh! and you can just forget about a vampire proposing to your ass. He couldn't even hold a ring in his hand considering they're allergic to silver n' shit. If he proposed, he'd probably give you a wooden ring with a smiley face painted on it. The smiley face would have fangs.....Trick or treatin' ass mothafugga-

You couldn't even argue with a vampire. He'd glamour your ass and make you say "yes sire...anything for you. Now suck my neck daddy." Argument over. He would brainwash you so much, you probably would loose sight of who you were. You would become so dependent on pleasing him and ensuring you never crossed certain lines because at a moment's notice--vampire will turn on your ass and suck you diggity dog dry.

Well damn.
Now that I think about it--half of the men I've dated must have been vampires. Most of them fit the description. Only seeing me at night time. Vanishing off before dawn or poking me to get the fuck up before sunlight hits. Men who take me out to eat at night because by default, its gonna be somewhere cheep and fast. Men who won't take the leap of love because they're afraid. Men who buy me cheap shit. Men who are so good-looking that when they hurt me, I'm blind to it when i stare too long into their eyes. Men who suck the life out of me by relying on my body as the crutch for the relationship.

Maybe I don't want me a vampire. Not because I'm scared of them, but because I probably have already dated one. I want someone to love me because I'm their type....not because I'm Type O.



But ladies one good thing about dating a vampire is that you can at least look forward to getting your period.....IF you know what i mean--

Who gives a F&*%?

My girlfriend Talisha is the inspiration for my newest entry. We were talking today about the lame ducks who are addicted to facebook. You know who they are, and if you are one of them, you know who you are too.

I remember back in the day when facebook made its debut. (1) You had to type "thefacebook.com" into your browser, (2) you had to be enrolled in some type of school (a real one with a ".edu" address) and (3) People didn't have to worry about their lives being put on blast. Facebook used to have a real wall, where people could graffiti text, delete stuff and add stuff. Then suddenly, one day without any warning, facebook got a face-lift (pun intended, actually) and decided to rid itself of discretion. I used to check facebook and get excited to see that tiny little envelope pop up to show that I had a message waiting. A message from an actual person. Not from a fraternity or a sorority or an on campus org or an event. Someone actually saying 'hi, i think we should chill.'
Facebook suddenly became an outlet for advertisement and drove itself into a vat of SPAM mail that annoyed the shit out everyone; especially because some of the events going on were just incredibly whack. We could see who was invited and who was going and who was not going and who was on the fence and who had been to the venue, and who was sort of kinda thinking about going but couldn't make up their mind until they got the right outfit etc. THEN with the onset of pictures and albums being added to facebook, people became glued to their computers. Not necessarily enthralled by other people's pictures, but concerned as to how a picture of them half naked on a bar got thrown up on the internet. Mothafuggas was gettin' TAGGED. And TAGGED HARD. And Facebook decided to leave no doubt as to who it was in the picture, because your name would pop up (compliments to the no-life-having mofos who take the time to list every single person in a picture). Even after all of this, I was still okay with facebook. I still missed the original set up, but I was willing to accept that people just started to become more interested in one another.

But then out of the blue....without much warning or understanding---the fucking mini-feed was introduced.

Kristan is currently in a relationship. 3:00pm
Kristan has listed herself as single. 3:01pm
Kristan wrote on Phil's wall. 3:02pm
Kristan took a shit. 3:03pm

WTF.

Honestly, I could care less about what ANYONE else is doing, and I don't appreciate facebook putting my entire life on boom blast. I like to share my thoughts and dreams and opinions, but if I wanna say hello to a friend on their wall real fast, not errbody and they mama (who now can actually join facebook too) should have to know. But what I have realized is that anyone who continues to update their profiles or their status or their pictures or anything else actually don't mind if people have an intimate look into their lives. But this is yet another aspect which destroys how people get to know each other. John Doe could see Jane Doe drunk as a skunk on facebook, with her eyes low and with her crotch posing like Paris Hilton's crotch. If he sees her in class one day or on the street--who's to say that the only reason he won't speak to her is based off of what he previously saw. The mystery behind human beings is gone. We actually start to build false relationships with people because we have seen their parents, friends, cousins, rooms, wardrobe etc. ALL ON FACEBOOK

I am still a current member of Facebook, just in case someone from my past is looking for me. In between I dabble in changing my status, my profile picture, and writing on my friends' walls. But I am beginning to think that people who have a frigging suckling complex with facebook need to get off the nipple for a while and go meet an actual person to sit down with in front of a fireplace and tell life stories. Lets stop uploading pictures of our lives for strange ass people to look at and gawk at. You don't know who's jerking off to your picture. Or who's hating on your ugly ass family. Or who's trying to figure out where in Brooklyn your house is located. And don't condone that honesty box shit because if it were really an honesty box--then the shit wouldn't be anonymous.

I'm-
justbeinghonest.

Thanks for having everything in common with me...okaynowbye!

One of the single most confusing phenomenon is when you vibe with someone on so many different levels for the first time, but they make no attempt to keep the vibe going.

Shorty swing my way is one of my favorite songs. Here we have a girl who went out to a club on a friday night, looking for a man that would do her right. I wasn't necessarily looking for a man to "do it" with, but I just wanted to have some good ol' fashioned clean ghettorific fun. My girlfriend and I got all dolled up and went downtown for a few drinks and some kickbacks. Upon arrival, I spotted this I'm-bald-on-purpose dude that was pretty attractive. He wasn't really my type (i like em' dark like a kitchen stove and skinny like kermit the frog). He was beige with facial hair and a little stocky. We made an immediate connection by making fun of the loony bin that was trying to talk to my girlfriend. He was even further impressed by my knowledge of football and how I called the penalty before the referee confirmed my accuracy. I made him laugh a lot. Having a guy laugh at my jokes is a major turn on for me because that means he gets me, and it also means that he's got a killer sense of humor.

Finally after a few rounds of girlie drinks, we advanced downstairs to the dance floor. I danced with dude for a straight hour. Song after song after song. Genre after genre. I went from dropping it like it was mothafuggin hot, to gyrating on some reggaeton tip, to willie bouncing on his deeyock. To me, dancing with someone for a long period of time means a connection is made. Last time i danced with someone for more than 45 minutes, i ended up topless on their washing machine. So with that anecdote in mind, I prepared myself for at least a number exchange when the bartender did her last call.

As the lights gradually interrupted the intamacy of the club, I looked around for my dancing boo who had slipped away to use the restroom. I spotted my friend--pleasantly drunk--dancing with a guy from her church. Finally my boo comes back. He sashays over to me in his dark denim jeans, and he leans into me. I can feel his five o clock shadow gently exfoliate my neck as he kisses my cheek. He takes his big strong hands and wraps them around my thighs. Here it comes I say to myself. He's going to invite me back to his place. He leans in further and whispers in my ear....

"You're mad cool. I'll see you around."



You mothafluckin BITCH!

I stood there in awe. Uhm wtf just REALLY happened? How you hit it off with someone like that and they just tell you YOU'RE AWESOME DUDE and just walk the eff out of the club like ya'll wasn't gonna tell ya'll grandkids how gram and gramps met each other by dry humping to Usher's Trading Places. I stood there, like a lady should, and waved goodbye to him as he walked off. What could I say? "Hey there wait a minute. Here's my number you whack ass game-less loser?" no i could not do that. All I could do was stand there and watch my girlfriend collect a phone number from her church homeboy.

So I guess the moral of the story is--don't expect a man to acquire your contact information even though you're great. Men are about the destination and women are about the journey. If they can't figure you out in 5 minutes, they damn sure ain't gonna take 5 days or 5 weeks.

Next dude I dance with, better be wearing a Rosary.

Come on White Folks...Be a Sport.

After all, you guys are partly to blame for this whole First Black President thing. When the official numbers came in that faithful Tuesday night, I was overcome with emotion. I was not as emotional as my mother however, who stripped naked, ran around the house, cried hysterically, then threw up in the kitchen. BUT my heart was so filled with pride and joy I almost combusted. Going to work that Wednesday morning was eerily quiet though. I sat at my desk for about 10 minutes trying to mush my cheeks together because i could not wipe my crazy both-rows-of-teeth-showing smile off of my face. I am not sure if its because i am the only person of color in my office, but i definitely felt a lull in the atmosphere. When I walked outside, I saw black people greeting each other with congratulations and noticed the young black men walking a little bit more upright. But one disturbing scene took place across the street where 3 police officers on bicycles arrested 3 young black men and had them handcuffed and on display on a sidewalk bench. I thought to myself, ehh they were probably up to no good, but damn. Why the whole public shabang? I retreated to my office and finished out my day with coffee and pleasant customer service.

But today...
a bitch coulda gotten bloshed the fuck up.

So this bitch, who shall remain nameless because she doesn't need any more fame than what she has in the office, stepped over the line today. She talks loud for no reason. She has no concept of an indoor voice and when she whispers you would think she just said some shit RIGHT to you. Anyways, I see her stand up from her desk and walk into one of the attorney's office. She says,
"HEY PHIL, I DON'T KNOW WHO YOU VOTED FOR BUT TAKE A LOOK AT THIS TEXT MESSAGE."
All of a sudden I hear the theme song to none other than "Sanford and Son". Sanford and Son, in case I have to spell it out, was a show in the 1970's about a black, grumpy man who collected a whole lot of crap and was pretty country. So, I can only imagine what that text must have looked like. Was it Barack and Michelle and dem' in a big red pick up truck moving into the white house? Who knows. I heard her and the attorney laugh a big laugh. While she was walking back to her desk I kindly asked her, "What kind of text message was that?" She replied, "a funny one." Then sat her beach blond ass down.

I was steaming.

I got up, went to the bathroom and came back just in time to see a crowd of people around her desk laughing it up to the same haunting Sanford and Son theme song. As i walked towards them--the laughter came to a screeching halt and everyone dispersed like roaches and went to their desks. I immediately went to see my supervisor (who is def cool) who then emailed the bigot bitch and told her to come into the office for a meeting (minus me of course). Later on when I asked my supervisor what happened, she informed me that Bitch refused to show her the text message. hmmm i fucking wonder why.

Look, white people. I have always been really big fans of you guys. I'm not color blind, rather I am color conscience and I am always willing to give people the benefit of the doubt. But when you work at a company for hundreds of years and you think you can get away with any type of shit you want, there might be a rude awakening. white folks, you should be proud too. You should be rejoiciing with us minorities and consider this as a favor to yourselves for electing such a fine-ass, intelligent man. Forget him being black. And for you white folks who voted for Obama "in the closet" persay...thank you too. But don't front like you're all mad now because Blackie won. This was a small step for man, but a giant step (in some new Jordans that just dropped) for mankind.

Black president

I expected haters from different races, but not from black men.

I was talking with my friend who claims that this presidential election was not a victory for black people because Obama technically is not black. He believes that if Obama were apart of the Black-American heritage as it pertains to slavery, segregation etc., then that would qualify him as being black. He continued to point out that Obama's upbringing was that of no black man due to the race of his mother and grandparents.

You know what I say to that shit?

PIPE THE FUCK DOWN.

Listen, just because Barack is kinda gray lookin' and has a bryant gumble accent, does not mean his ass ain't black. (he's way blacker than bryant gumble by the way). Obama was raised by a white woman and white grandparents--yes--but his father (god bless his soul) was not an active member in his daily life. Sounds to me like the quintecential story of every black dude I know. And come on. What black person WASN'T releived when we saw what Michelle Obama looked like? A black woman. She isn't ambiguously black....she is blizzack. Obama let us all know that he played for our team and knew how to pick them too.

My friend also tried to down Obama because of his Harvard education. Excuse the fuck outta me, but I thought Black people were allowed to attend the same ivy league schools as white folks. Brown vs. Board of Education was the court ruling that allowed it in high schools...mkay there buddy? My cousin Marlon went to Harvard undergrad, and Yale law school. Even though he's yellow like me and doesn't need an S-curl system, he married a woman who is (congratulations) blizzack!

What qualifies someone as black? It pissed me off that my friend tried to exclude Obama from the Black community because of his.... credentials? Tiger Wood's ass is whiter than a mothafugga, but put his ass in a time machine and he'd either be on a damn plantation or in a railroad concentration camp.

Blacks and whites alike need to redefine what it means to be apart of a culture. Just because Barack Obama doesn't sport a perm (cough al sharpton cough)or talks like a babbling idiot (cough Jessie jackson cough) doesn't mean he ain't black. Behind closed doors, Barack probably whoops his kids, and eats his chicken wings with the insert-entire-wing-in-mouth-and-pull-out-bone-method that us folk are pros at. Barack Obama is that MUCH blacker because he went to Harvard Law and that much blacker because he changed the face of politics forever without selling out. So black men...if you ain't working, don't have an ivy league education, and/or choose NOT to code switch--don't be mad that ur ass ain't president of the United States.

Can a Thug get a hug?

Ever feel like a lonely son of a bitch?
Well I surely do.
Someone with as much potential energy as I, who lives in the burbs, is destined to be bored with life. I sit and write. I sit and read. I stand and cook. Then i flipping sit and eat. Across the table from me sits no one. While I'm cooking, no big, brawny, 8 mile-lookin bwoy comes up behind me and whisks me away to a slumber of love making and adult swim. I religiously wake up, go to work, sit there, come home, sit some more, sleep, then wake up in my bed...sitting.
I'm tired of sitting all damn day, and I know that it is up to me to find things to do with my life. Its hard though when you're broke, and you live a considerable distance away from the epicenter of your town. A club is like a pilgrimage every weekend which comes down hard on gas and impedes on my drinking desires. Social life in Rochester is also kind of wizzack. I don't mind seeing the same faces, but when those same faces are wearing the same clothes they wore in high school--eh--thats a bit of a problem.
So i grumpily become the heavy load amongst my friends as my forced smile is tainted with my actual disgust and my dance moves turn into an R. Kelly two step that ages me about 15 years.
Have people really forgotten how to have fun? Our going out habits have even become routine . Get wasted, risk life getting to club, drink more, dance, risk life going back home, wake up, drink Gatorade and ginger ale, eat ramen, and do it again. I basically just described every weekend of my college career. But now, at the ripe old age of 22, I'm looking for a different type of fun. Intimate fun. That corny, disgustingly cute kind of fun. Someone to pop popcorn with--to sit and watch an over-rated movie that we can pick apart and criticize. Someone to work out with or just flippin chiiiil. But nooooooo. We can't have that kind of fun anymore, because all of our friends are in relationships so they have no time for us. Or, any dudes or gals we might fancy--are too busy fancying someone else.
I fit into the category of someone who is generally afraid of love (or lough for that matter) only because I have invested so much time into something that obviously has not rendered any meaning to me yet. So, people like us are really just looking for a friend of the opposite sex who can hug us in a way that our same gender could not fulfill...but not necessarily someone to shag. I don't think what i'm looking for is a friend because I already know that males and females can't be close friends unless distance keeps them apart, but what i am looking for is a companion who i can chill with and who doesn't feel the need to drop to one knee and propose--


but who can drop to both knees and make it rain.
j/k...sort of.

synapses

A series of serious cerebellum-breaks surreptitiously bestow me so I'm forever in debt to my conscience.
No Katrillion dollar bail out in phallic amounts feather down on me like a pimp raining on hoes.
Buxom bosom of blossoming blemishes from hurts past,
Done in by my little red corvette that was definitely much too fast.
My ficus fights for dear life on a ledge of dusty granite. Grasping rays of sunlight. Battling obstructions of its justice.
Perfumed neck, and jaundiced skin.
Lotioned back and rotting teeth.
Dancing by myself--
I fall between the cracks of my seat.

Ugly Peoples

Trying to score? Go out with your ugly friends. I'm a 5 foot 2 semi-cute, thick, yellow skinned girl who really cannot compete with my friend Stacey who happens to look like a cross between Gabrielle Union and Kelly Rowland. Love her to death, but the girl is a giant cock block. While walking in her shadows as a circus freak, I am overwhelmed by the number of responses she receives from men by merely "doing her thing". Doing her thing includes wearing the newest styles (fitting into them is also a plus) having her hair did at all times, flawless make-up, and a good dance game. I on the other hand, dress semi-cornball, my hair is decent to say the least, my makeup is aight when i try, and my dance game is not what it used to be my freshmen year of college. Nonetheless, I throw myself into the club scene looking like my friend's personal assistant rather than her partner in crime.

All of my friends are actually really pretty, attractive young women.
I can't really say that I have an ugly friend. So this leads me to believe that I am actually the friend that is ugly. It was easier for me to avoid this conclusion however because my group of friends were so diverse in college. We looked like the muses from Disney's rendition of Hercules: all beautiful but distinctively different. There was Janelle: the stlyish-conversationalist that g-ed the hell out of any dude she spotted. Interesting touches roused her ensemble, her hair, or makeup. There was Yamel: Who resembles beyonce in the face (minus the lace-front). She's a Dominican girl with simple elegance, who's blatant personal standards kept men drooling, but afraid. There was Talisha: the girl i call the chocolate bunny because her skin is flawless. Her skin is like a brown, silk sheet--smooth, soft, and radiant. She's got a nice rack and a baby face to die for. Then there's Amy: the pseudo-Christina Milian looking lady with the small frame and the commercial face. She was the one with the bubbly personality who was easy on the eyes.

And then there was my ass.
Your average chic with a short coif who knew her fashion potential but clung onto it by a string because of financial hardship. I was the one who only danced her ass off when drunk like a skunk; otherwise i was a grumpy mess. I usually danced afloat in the midst of my temporarily wifed up friends as they danced with their temporary boos for the rest of the night.
Then suddenly without warning, i would feel someone come up behind me and start dancing. OHHH i got INTO it. Then i'd turn around and it would be fucking Cleofus Jones n' shit... tryna cop a feel.

Life ain't fair.
My friends would always say, "Kristan, the man of your dreams is not going to be someone you meet in a club." I thought about this notion and decided that there might be some truth to that indeed. But I know that I am the woman of SOMEONEs dreams--so maybe I should stop going out all together. Or perhaps I should find some ugly friends. Or maybe I should begin to see myself as others see me. Do people think i'm cute? Or pretty? Or gorgeous? Its all relative. My friend Stacey seems to be the prototype for what is attractive, but is a prototype necessarily everyone's type?

Who knows. Until then, I'll play my position as the wingman, but soon--very soon---I'll be taking flight.

Thoughts on Technology

Now,

It is way too damn easy.
How are women (or those who take on the female gender role if you choose to do so) suppossed to keep standards? How are we to know what is good and bad when the art of courting has been watered down to nothing but a mere text message and a large popcorn at a romantic comedy. Is that suppossed to be sufficient? I am fully aware that the topic of chivalry has been discussed time and time again, but I would have to agree that chivalry is GONE mothafuggas....GOWN! Who's fault is it? It's technology's fault.
I'm sure that back in the day when we were running around loined and uncombed, there were lazy males out there who didn't do shit but sit around waiting for a saber-tooth to die instead of killing the beast themselves. AND I am sure that the ones who weren't deadbeats actually carried things for their significant others while they went on their nomadic adventures. But then came the wheel. And suddenly we had all these cave men rolling shit around--and shit just got too easy. I'm sure the cavemen I'm talking about aren't as refined as the ones who work for Geico, but even they have become victims of technology. Cavemen used to have to stand next to cave women in order for them to pick up their scent. Now, with the wheel, cavemen could rub their genitalia on the wheel and roll it down a hill for all the females to smell. The cavewomen would then leave their scent on the wheel and send it back. Anthropologists say this was an ancient form of text messaging.

Of course I am being facicious, but these "ttyls" and "lols" and "lmaos" are overused. They water down raw, human emotion into something that can be represented in an abbreviation. Males seem to think that texting is sinonmous to calling, and that calling is sinonmous with "time spent". And sadly, males think that spending time with a female is predicating some sort of wifing. And we all know that many males are not looking to wife.

Technology has served as a stiff arm for females to become complacent with having phantom boyfriends. Ones they can hear but can't see. Ones they are feeling, but can't feel. Men they know, but can't trust. So i say eff you, technology! You have destroyed the art of human interaction as we know it!

(i still dig blogs though)

He's perfect...but not my type

I have recently discovered that all nice guys are ugly. And if you are a good looking guy who thinks he's nice--then you're probably ugly too. There is this guy at my job. He's about 4 foot nothing with a gap on the top and bottom row of teeth.
Okay, am i being mean?
I apologize in advance.
He seems like a really nice person who probably knows how to treat a woman (since he looks like he's been in the biz for about 30 years) and he invited me out to lunch several times. At first he invited me out to eat breakfast because he knows that I usually enter the building really early. But I dodged his ass and went right upstairs to eat breakfast at my desk. I called him once, and his thick ass accent turned me off. Now let me segway into something here as it pertains to accents. I looove accents. I am apart of a lovely Jamaican family so I'm used to all types of accents. But if you're gonna have an accent, have a voice that's deep and robust like that dude from the Allstate insurance commercials or Barry White. Please don't come at me with a Haitian accent sounding like Mike fucking Tyson. That is such a turn off.
So with his gap + lisp + lack of height + large head + falsetto voice...i avoided his phone calls at all costs and gave him a quick friendly I-don't-want-to-talk-to-your-ass hello and kept it moving. Reflecting on my actions, I felt quite shallow as I should.

But then again...should I? Aren't looks important? They sort of ARE. You see, before this incident with the short guy, I dated this 6 foot 6, athletic, dark chocolate, long-haired, perfect bone-structure lookin-boy, who beat the crap out of me at a moment's notice. I allowed his physical attributes to excuse his iron fist clocking me any and everywhere at anytime. His abuse led to his ugliness; An ugliness I had never seen before. An ugliness that oozed from his pores with a viscous-like consistency which made my stomach churn. It was an ugliness that surpassed any physical ugliness a person could have.

Finding a happy medium between a guy who looks like T.I. and who has a heart like Steve Urkel is difficult. After all, Steve Urkel turned into a douche bag when he became "Stephan Urkel". Barack Obama comes pretty close to fulfilling both ends, but how many more Baracks are there out there? Will Smith comes pretty close too but I'm looking for someone a little more local. Hopefully the man I marry won't be too ugly. But if I had to choose between looks and personality, I'd surely choose the fugly prince charming...



as long as he had a car and some rubber band banks in his wallet.

My really good friend/non-sexual life partner

My friend Amy introduced me to this idea of having a non-sexual life partner. Essentially someone who you are attracted to, but understand that the relationship will only stand through friendship. I think this phenomenon is great and fucked up. I have a non-sexual life partner who means the world to me. We speak almost everyday, we share intimate details of our daily happenings, and we engage in deep conversations about life which probably stemmed from me talking about what I ate for lunch. The thing about non-sexual life partners (NSLPs) is that sometimes you might just wanna freakin' get sexual. Not so much because you are interested in building something with that person, but it serves as protocol. Just to GET IT OUT OF THE WAY. It is almost inevitable, especially when you and your NSLP are both attractive ass people. I have a NSLP that I actually kissed before. It was absolutely fantastic. Its a story you would tell your grandkids. It happened like it happens in movies. Speaking of movies, someone actually filmed it. BUT he and I have come to the resolution that the kiss was less about romance and more about drunken publicity. AND even though he confessed to me that he wasn't that drunk and that I was a great kisser AND I in turn told him that i wouldn't mind if it happened again--
for him, he probably just got blinded by my big ass red shiny lips that night (and felt sorry for me)
and for me, well...I hadn't kissed someone i cared about in a long time. (Mom, dad, cousin, aunt all fit in that category). And so does my NSLP. I won't say he's like my brother, because then that would rule out any possibility of the unpossible being possible. But I'll say he is my family. I am truly honored to have him in my life, and I like being in his. Everyone should have a NSLP. They give you a perspective that is explicit and sometimes harshly true. Just try to find one that is ugly. It will make the whole "being friends" thing a lot easier.

To work or not to work?

So,

My ex-boyfriend decided to call me the other day. We politicked a little bit, and then he threw me off completely. He thinks that because we are in a recession, its pointless for me to have a job. Meanwhile his broke mid-30's ass has no job, barely a place to live, and irritable bowel syndrome which costs him $30 a month for prilosec OTC. (Guess who payed for that shit when we were together?). He then continued on his ghetto rant by insulting my intelligence; telling me that my job doesn't pay enough because I don't have the latest "gear". Bitch please. I mean, he is right. Currently I dress a little on the corny side because I just graduated from college (like a real one with a campus n' shit) and I'm trying to pay off some bills I accrued trying to survive on my own. And hell yea I live paycheck to paycheck, but thats because I'm sustaining my life right now. I was so pissed off that i decided to hang up the phone on him. He told me to "hang up forever, bitch".---Then he ended up being the one to hang up first. He thankfully reminded me of why we didn't work in the first place. I don't know but I think the moral of the story is staying away from men who don't believe in jobs. I don't ask for much. All I want is a wonderful man who has a job where taxes are deducted from his pay. I'll be the first to tell you, I'm no ride or die bitch. You won't see me looking for 5-o down the street and throwing out signals. Nah. I'm good. Just work in an office. Clean a toilet. Wipe the mayor's ass. Just make sure you're contributing to the world in some way and more importantly--contributing to me.

Will he?

Soul got arms stretched out like family hugs, but marriage makes the indifferent shoulders shrug.
Vibes got waves like radio airplanes.
like Holiday reverberation, but predestined obligations produce foggy weather.
Sexual tension got cat-like claws climbing cedar trees ignoring climate's brittle breeze,
but home, career, and other shit got the curious cat's claws clipped.
Radical conversation got static cling like silk on pantyhose, but curfew ruins that because you have to Bounce.
Attraction got a white on rice affect but family photos in the wallet makes a person forget.
Curiosity got power over a breath like a sigh, but "home is where the heart is" tends to choke the relief.
I don't believe.

Crutches

I had a crush on Matthew Freshmen year,

But so did every other girl in case you did hear.

Tall, collected, caramel complected, he didn’t like me back so I sat and reflected cuz my heart got rejected as I had suspected.

So I moved on quick to Alpha Dwayne,

My tummy got soft when I heard his name.

He was fierce, debonair, and his talk was mean,

And we shared a mouth moment on his washing machine.

Through my crush good friends we became,

And I kept my crushes Greek all the same.

I always had a crush on Alade,

We made so much sense,

But really—I shouldn’t be using the past tense.

He had me open with poem,

His eyes were my home,

I would answer his phone calls when my phone was on digital roam.

But I was mistaken because I think he was taken.

And if my heart had a scent it would have smelt like burnt bacon.

But then one night, I had a strange ass dream,

I was getting ready to marry Akeem.

He encapsulated me with symmetry and creativity and he was a unique entity.

A man that’s profound yet brief, with a beautiful mind and cute ass teeth.

But then one day when I was walking to class,

I saw Troy Hailey just a shaking that ass.

He had a country ass walk and a country ass talk.

All the girls would flock when he waved his dreadlocks.

Not to mention his good court game,

But then I looked to his left and forgot his name.

Because there stood this man, and I made sure he saw me,

After I introduced myself he said “my name is Giovanni”

Oh my god oh my god! This man is really god.

I liked him so much he sent my heart to the moon,

I wanted us to travel off in the sunset—a sunset in Cameroon.

Ghirardelli chocolate skin so special,

But then one day I stumbled upon a professional.

I went to a BSU meeting and I was glad I could go,

Because that’s when I first saw Dr. Pogue.

Yikes.

Then after a while I had no crushes,

Because Binghamton boys just stopped using brushes,

As I walk around campus and see all my crushes,

It reminds me of why my heart is on crutches.

BUT

I met somebody that I like a lot

Oh so fine, and always hot.

Takes care of me and makes me dinner

And always prefers me a little less thinner

Cherishes my soul and takes me for rides,

Feeds me, bathes me, and sticks by my side,

Understands me, loves me, and is always there to listen—

So for now, I’m gonna stick with my baby—Kristan.

Lough

Have you ever destroyed yourself because of love?

That kind of love that leaves you waiting at the bus stop. With the leaves n' shit. Sitting. watching people walk their dogs as they stop to shit. Shitting as you compare yourself to the shit coming out the puppy's anus because it's like, you're heart is mad tight, and you yourself become tight when you see a young couple holding onto each other tight and you try to be realistic, but anything realistic to you becomes pessimistic and sadistic because you know the kids in the bitch's wristlet aren't his kids. And as a father he's probably a misfit as you check the old man's hand for a wedding band and you continue to mind your bidness wondering who at your wedding is gonna be a witness so when you're hawled off to divorce court, your homegirl can say I told you so, kupid. You say kupidaintstupid, but you settled for cleofus jones and now you're crying on the phone because you're alone and you settled for a love you aint even want in the first damn place. What a mothafuggin disgrace. You better wipe up that salty shit up on your face and forget about love because its nothing. She's right, love is nothing unless its with the one you place on a pedestal, the one you zone out when you thinking about them when ur about to pay for your groceries at the register, wondering what he's thinking while he's telling you his thoughts and cherishing everything for you that he's ever bought. Even if it's a number 3 from mickey d's, each bite represents the intensity of the cuddling nights watching TV, making love in the closet because the bed's too wet, and saying love you baby baby with no regrets. I mean the last sip of the soda kinda love. The warm spot on the sofa kinda love. The move over lemme lay on your breast kinda love. The move over lemme lay on your chest kinda love. The there's mad people around but imma rub ur knee in public kinda love. The kinda love where you communicate through words and throw the text messaging bullshit out of the window kinda love. That no facebook kinda love. That no AOL kinda love. That real live, hug me, court me, wear my name on your shirt kinda love.

I have destroyed myself because of love?

Cuz it seems to me that the love I want is out of reach, and the love I want, I gotta teach. And the contract I made with love got breached because he tells me at least once a month that I'm on his mind and not because of the picture message I sent him of my behind. I mean I put it on the glass for my love. I twiddled my thumbs in the rain, by the bar, in my car, by my laptop waiting for his screen name to pop up so I could say hi because he forgot to. This love right here is pulling me by a string, making me think of wild shit that I would never even dream of. Picture this dude in a black tuxedo with winged tip shoes, walking down the isle to say I do. And me in my black dress in the back of the church, I stand up in defiance right after the preacher says, object or forever hold your silence. And I'll be there with a copy of his wedding license standing on the pew ripping it up in a million pieces as they cascade gently to the floor of the church. And I run to the front and I get on my knees and beg the love of my life to reconsider please. Because I know I'm the one that's best for him. The best fit. The best shit. The best wit. And the best tits. He pics me up from off my knees and looks me in my eyes and sees, the love and all her desperate plees. He closes his eyes and pushes me to the side, and takes ahold of his unfit bride. He says his vows so proud and loud and I look and there's consent from the crowd. My figure slowly starts to become static. Coming in and out like stolen cable TV. I'm fizzled out…nothing but an important memory. I was never the priority.

I'm still destroyed because of love,

Cuz like I'm a damn good friend, with a guilty conscience. No bitter apple could replace the lodgings of coagulated blood that runs through my veins like slugs and no bear in a forest could kill me like I've been killed. No clay bowl could be kilned like I've been kilned. That love.

Love?

Lough?

Love?

Lough?

Love?

Lough? What does it mean? If I can't be with him then it can't be. Love? That word is nothing to me. Love only applies when I discuss my mom or my dad, or the best friend I ever had, or my favorite drink, or my time of day, or the sarcastic way I display dismay or how I feel about CSA. I have a shirt that says I love new York. But the heart is replaced with a cardiac model, displaying the ventricles and the whole damn aorta. It's bloody and drips down the side of my sleeve, and seeps through like nectar in a sieve. Love ain't shit unless it's with the one you want to be with. But if the one you want to be with is the one you plead with then go smoke some weed shit and take ur heart off your sleeve. Cuz if I can't have his love the only love that keeps me feening…then I spell love l-o-u-g-h…because it has no meaning.

One Night Stand

So I decided to sue the people in the mall for harassment trying to sell me the nail buffing kits. Harassing me on the sideline with their one line "do you have natural nails?"

I felt like telling that little Grey man, I’m a Jamaican girl from New york state "of course I don't have no goddamn natural nails." But its cool though because I'm understanding of the fact that a hustle comes a dime a dozen but often enough it's a bakers dozen with the lucky number 13 leaning serenly on the back drop screen behind the city skylights and in a crackhead's pocket.

Lemme stop it.

As i cruised around the mall, little cousin in hand, i stumbled across this man, Pablo.

Not normally my type. no attractiveness license. I usually like em dark like a kitchen appliances and with the soul and passion of lets say...mike tyson. but he started to slow down and i searched his eyes to find the game he had in mind.

He signaled a sign to his wrist as his male ego said watch this and he reluctantly asked me the time. He wanted to to know where foot locker was

and i said its over there and I'll walk with you because,

I'm going in the same direction....knowing damn well i had to piss like boxed wine, but this man, this papi was absolutely breathtaking. But despite that shit, but despite that shit, but despite that shit, I could tell he was taking apart my profile as we cruised side by side, admiring my freshly curled rizos and how i flashed my platinum visas and he gave me all the reasons for all his sentimental jesus pieces and he introduced me to his nephews and nieces as we stopped by CVS and he bought me a reese's pieces which made us think of chocolate. Chocolate, he said, is a metaphor for life. For instance all this political drama…look how I can break down obama. I aint never heard no shit like this before. he said,

"Boxes of chocolates, some of the pieces of chocolate running for office. Not the real kinda chocolate persay, its kinda like the grey fluffed up shit you find in a milky way. Not really chocolate, but not really marshmallow. Kind of an in between thang that appeals to all mans across the land. Sort of like a Mounds bar with the velvety reality on the outside, and the corrupt as coconut flackey filling on the inside. And throw in its almond joy counterpart, because of course a good candydit—always gotta have some nuts. "life is like a box of negroes" ya gotta bid high to get the best guy. And the same goes for a box of latinos, just look in the same box as the cream filled negroes."

This dude has me past my limit. This Puerto Rican man also has me over my minutes. We talked about different kinds of weed, and how to warm up the seeds. He admired my African Pride which oddly enough is the name of the perm i use to smooth down my African sides. He said that in a lot of black females, their pride is missing, but as he talked I still stay concerned about my kitchen. I engaged him and he engaged me with heavy conversation for the masses. Worthy of extra credit in classes. It was that nerd type shit worthy of taped of glasses,

Our ryhthm was that of you and me and flowed like viscous poetry and the one day he cheerfully invited me to meet his family. Family? What would they say? If they found out I religious ate curraayy. That I don't have jesus hanging over my bed and That my dad come from yawd and my mother is dread. Shit, I'm a black girl, thats matter of factual, although I'm light skinned, these curls are not natural.

And even though i'm yellow as day, I'm still eligible for micro braids. We can be friends pablo, buts thats all we can do, your mother would think i was too black for you.

Pablo took his olive fingertip and leaned them against my congo lips.

he said

The Africa that you believe is the Africa inside of me, with whips and chains and connected necks approaching ships on wooden decks. I was laying next to you side by side with parched lips and desolate eyes. As we departed from our land, it was me there holding your hand. I witnessed you working in the heat, you rubbed the caluses off my feet. I wept the night that you were raped, and you bore a child by nature's fate. The child you bore turned out to be me destined for the life death. I watched you as my beautiful mother with bails of cotton atop her head.

My beautiful girl can't you see,

we share the same damn history

You're my mother, my sister, my aunt, my daughter

mi madre, mi tia, mi hija y hermana

but this vision of you that stand before me

reminds me of the memory

the one you still exude for all to see

even after all the centuries

of the conquerors brutality
messing with our mentality
the vision of you enjoying the breeze

you standing, not hanging, underneath a tree

with your eyes closed as my queen.

we shared a kiss and went to bed.

like enslaved lovers head to head.

As Latino and Jamaican as we could be.

We were Africa between the sheets.

Disease

I’m an environmentalist and that’s why I smoke.

I painted my nails red because my ex was loc.

I’m a poet and a singer, but I don’t sing folks.

Light-skinned but I got a West African yolk.

Ya think I’m joking?

If sex were a disease I’d have a cancerous tumor that started in my high school like a rancorous rumor. I was the butt and the expense of everyone’s humor cuz with sex at 14 I was the first consumer. When the sky was lunar he’d come over and spoon her. She couldn’t lose her cherry innocence any sooner. Sex was matter of factual, something very casual she loved her daddy a lot so she followed his wanton actions so she was promiscuous and yes she was ashamed so they deemed it as conspicuous. She washes dishes. She used the sponge to wash wash because the soap went down the drain and also washed away the pain.

If love were a disease I’d be a diamond. At first slowly being lied to, and then dying to be buried to 6 feet under as my mother shudders and the cows udder with no brothers. Being flushed to slugs and eaten alive by bugs as my family hugs each other in pain as the years fly by and my eyeballs turn to meatballs for the parasitic hogs; that also eat away at my draws and my heart like he did. And he did. And he did. And he did. And he did. And he did. Oh he just wanted to hit it, he broke it off with me for her, he did her because I wasn’t around as my buns turn to dust and my coffin hinges start to rust and my clothes and shoes transform into CO2 and my skin turns to oil as my hair gets course and coiled and I’m turned upside down in metamorphic mash where I’m heated and cooled and pressured and no longer dying but reborn as a diamond.

Hate.

If hate were a disease then I’d have HIV where no one could possibly save me and I would waste away like shit and pee and be placed in a category of the lowest form of healthy and I understand what hate breeds. Hate breeds separation of species, Hate breaths people who feign for me, like to phenotype me and especially those who wanna be like me try to pretend like they don’t see like me or literally see like me. Please lemme be apart of the pristine, clean, lean, beauty machines. But first I gotta lighten up my spots with cream and get a nose job because my fat nose leans. My dignity keeps me warm but now my brown weave which is a 1B 33 makes my soul freeze because when I look at myself in the mirror I no longer see me. SEE? Bad posture I lean to the side…If ignorance was a disease I’d have an STI. Chillin on a dead campus, that’s why I’m still a GDI trying to make it to grad school so I don’t live on the street side. I grew up on high street that was off of Good MAN, Full of marginalized rainbow kids that was my hood MAN. Then I was ripped away from the ROC where everyone was curious about being black like me and for real for real for real like seriously I was a slave to the white girls raiding my braids. Asking me why the hell my hair was that way.

If my words were a disease

Then ya’ll would all be sick

But I would give ya’ll a cure

Because I’m not that sick

If your minds were a disease

Then ya’ll would constantly sneeze

If your ignorance were soap

You’d be breathing in suds

If your hate were contagious

You’d be coughing up blood.

If your education was chronic, you’d be hooked on phonics

If you want a cure for these diseases then you need to research pharmacies not Eckerd or Walgreens but the one with hope and comfort and a ignorance cream to rub on your friggin noses so the next question I pose is how can I help my sistah rather than diss her? How can I help my brother rather than shoot him under cover.

I’m an environmentalist and that’s why I smoke

Sex, love, hate, and ignorance is not a joke

A disease for the things is a proper description

Just listen and get a prescription.

Listen to me if you can’t see me.

Listen to me if you can’t see me.

His love was like a CD-ROM. I could place and position the cylinder plate and push play and I’d peep the piercing melodies like bumble bees that would pulsate from the pressure pulse of a pelvic push; of palms pleasure player pounding porous powers of pins painless acupuncture of pure pretty passion. My love was rationed into half sections no sex sessions because we used discretion with erections as I caught all of his attention through the wire and we gained desire from lips and phone and keyboards on fire. When the phone rang it used to sound like a choir.

Silently crying in the top right hand corner of my dormitory bed. Knees tucked; hugging my head not wanting to touch my clammy linens and I was quickly losing weight from loneliness, yes I was thinning, and I knew from the beginning that the 185 miles would do us in on those rough weekends when I needed him the most like for instance when I’d burn my toast on the last two slices of bread. Or when I didn’t have enough bread or when I’d get back a good paper with an unmatching grade or when a particular boy abandoned my friendship and then murdered me with an army grenade. When I had so many lemons that I’d just ruin any type of lemonade I tried to make and nights when I sweated and regretted not saying how I felt consistently and persistently not knowing that that faithful night my love would come so instantly.

Listen to me if you can’t see me.

I could no longer take it. Wanting an embrace from him and I couldn’t take it. So I hugged my pillow instead and then I told my pillow, GET OFF ME because you’re not him.

You’re not the slim Jim with the delicious teeth that would greet me in my sleep and sweep me off of my feet. Make me feel as if I was whiling because I would always wake up for some reason smiling. You don’t have forearms marked up and you’re not dark how I like em’. You don’t have clothing style that’s crispier then tempura or the audacity to wake up on a Wednesday and wear a fedora. You don’t laugh at my dumb ass jokes. All I can do is stare at your slobber stained stitching and poke you. You invoke nothing within me. No butterflies or visions of zipped down flies.

So I’d go and take a cold shower just so I could pass some hours. Trying to uncrinkle my heart while my hands got wrinkly and my body became cold and goose pimply and I’d think about those dimples that I’d imagine myself diving into for a warm waterfall of conversation. I’d sing and scream and shout and then I’d feel even dirtier when I came out. My face wet with water droplets…a few of them salty.

Missing him is like missing the news. Lost

Kissing him is like singing the blues. Cost

Holding him is like holding my life. Because

Being his girl was like being his wife. I was

Listen to me if you can’t see me.

They say time heals all wounds but what if you get amputated? Do you become encapsulated in trying to feel elated that you have two good legs and one hell of an arm? But my first mistake was not telling him in a sober state of mind that I didn’t want to leave his love behind. Disregarding his CD-ROM so I resorted to ineedsomeonetoloveme.com looking for black management but I stumble upon a changed bandit who learned his life’s lesson through incarceration but is still living a life I can’t manage. Thinking my love for him is true because I met him sober, thinking he could relate to me because I called my self ms. Startngovah. He’s currently filling a void that any other man would be doing if he was pursuing me. They’d be fillers. Filling a void and passing time while I hobble around with nothing but my girlish charm. Waiting for the love of my life to return because he is my prosthetic arm. Figuratively he completes me. Literally he completes me. Definitely, he defeats me. And physically, he releases me. But everyday it eats me to know that I never realized that when we split, I took his eyes.

So when I see him, he doesn’t see me.

Listen to me if you can’t see me.

Surprise.

Here are your eyes.

AIM-less

YY4Myslf (10:29:17 PM):Living a life and seeing all the diff paths to take. I wonder what it is that caused the pain. What caused the mistakes?

kupidaintstupid (10:32:06 PM):Mistakes? I mistakenly mistook a mistake for a mistake, not considering that it was a risk I had to take. Living life on the brink of acceptance; I must accept my mistakes as fortune.

YY4Myslf(10:32:46 PM):So with this fortune, not just a cookie, I live the life of a new signed rookie. New to the game. Every step, I decided to remember the mistakes for it would only be a mistake to forget.

kupidaintstupid (10:35:35 PM):So what the hell did I get from all of it? Do I move on? Do big things? Or be a bum on the side of street smelling my pits? Do I risk a presently good idea for shit? Or do I wait and sit? Until someone's mistakes become my destiny.

YY4Myslf(10:37:27 PM):Its like all the confusion internal and ex. It’s the only thing stopping me from moving to the next. Plateau, height, no matta fact my zenith, I want to go so far my mind holds me back but at the same time has me feigning.

kupidaintstupid (10:41:20 PM):We learn from the past but the events become monsters...everyone is a snake, a thief or imposter. If your mind is holding you back, you're gonna’ have a slow start, the key is to connect your mind to your heart.

YY4Myslf(10:43:02 PM):And with that connection made standoffish even when afraid it seems I reach the fork in the road and go straight, no dead end but maybe a prolonging of fate? Or preparation...

kupidaintstupid (10:45:41 PM):Preparation....of time wasted. Fear is a bitch. Believe me, I am she. I reached a fork in the road as well, but each prong leads to a cliff that I am more than ready to dive off of.

YY4Myslf(10:48:03 PM):Hmmm so taken the shift and the jump notice jump not dive, for maybe after I fall instead of sinking I will rise, Can u hear them... The leaves dance to the music of the possibilities.

kupidaintstupid (10:52:37 PM):Oh the music...my saving grace. So powerful I’m glad that something can feel the way it makes me feel. Sort of the ways u make me feel.

YY4Myslf(10:54:19 PM): His eyes dance to the rhythm of her fingers on letters on screens, yet inside he hears the silence of the unknown scream, he wants to open up so she can see thru his heart, he wants her to see he is not superman, and the cape is to hide-- not to protect her.

kupidaintstupid (10:57:09 PM):I shitted on superman yesterday... when he came by and tried to rescue me from a burning building. I told him, "This fire feels good. It burns but I yearn for it." Superman is whack because the super man, super, fantastic man I know...is black.

YY4Myslf(10:59:35 PM):He chuckles at the vision of her shittin on the cape, closes his eyes and walks hoping he walks into her arms not his relived mistake, he reaches for her hand hoping that she comes near, little does she know that because of abuse, simply holding hands is a fear.

kupidaintstupid (11:11:12 PM):Well then she tells him not to be afraid knowing her words probably won't help. The same words a mother tells her child before getting a shot or the same words a murderer says before he lets out a shot. She tells him that she is afraid too. Not afraid of what he might do to her, but rather of what the past will do to them. She understands if he doesn’t want to hold her hand, all she cares is that his hands are open

YY4Myslf(11:22:40 PM):Sighs in. A chest eyes closed with emotional direction, yea that's what they say, “love is blind attraction due to personal predilection,” "or is it a depiction or dereliction of a past......love, lover, shyt maybe a mother....shyt maybes its a mother

kupidaintstupid (11:30:18 PM):Well predilection in this situation is a sickening likeness or a healthy infatuation. The dereliction that creeps into your mind is gnawing at your behind and its decaying your cornea because you cant make out what’s in front of you. The neon spots of a painful light are lingering, and that is understandable...scientific even. And you’re right because love is blind. But love is also paralyzing...so hold my hand....heck...you won't even feel it.

YY4Myslf(11:38:54 PM):Hand shakes as it reaches out so much deeper then just holding a hand, its beyond the fear of him not being the best man or that her heart cannot stand and will falter fail maybe even run, for it was him who lived had a mother who didn't want her son but I can’t dwell on what was and what could be. Opens his eyes sees a newfound love shoulder and heart, takes one step, isn't much but it’s a start.

kupidaintstupid (11:47:46 PM):She tells him that comparing apples and oranges will give him one hell of a punch. She reassures him that whatever likeness or love exists from he to she is one that goes above appreciation. The calendar says one thing, but true time says another and she's sorry about his mother who made him afraid of the day that has come. And now his patience is unraveled by the enforcement of a mother who cast him aside and traveled, but she assures that this step he has decided to take will somehow lead him to his fate. And she's happy that she can affect it now, she knows its good, but she does not know how.

A circle

He amuses me.
But He confuses me when he abuses me with the clandestine way he gets away with bruising me as he uses me for illusions see? Like when he accuses me then black and blues-es me it alludes away from his bluesy state of translucent charm with a hard gripped arm marked by post charm syndrome as my face begins to heal and I begin to deal with presence punch and my patience is what keeps me a patient. Waiting in pain like a professional patient.
Is it disgusting that I take pride in these welts and my bleeding scalp? reminders of his excuses to touch me.
to fuck me.
or whats left of me.
He makes me laugh.
He leaves me in stitches. And showed me his philosophy on snitches by literally blessing me with stitches. Calling me all types of bitches in his stagnant snake-like stature with a bitch mode disposition that invited fear inside
like it was a goddamn dinner going on inside of my soul. With no clean bowls and sharp silverware everywhere. He cried over spilt milk which was a direct representation of his milky white guilt that was viscous and thick like shit. His guilt hauntingly dripped off the kitchen table into tiny translucent pools seeping into the wood.
For the better good.
For my sake.
For our sake.
I remain un-raped.
Naked in a romantically inclined air bed. Gave fantastic head like clockwork. Clockwork Orange was more of the mood as he came and tumbled off of my breast cliffs in an abruptly rude way after saying all the romantic things a man could say in one spray of semen he admits his love as he bursts in relief, and i'm in disbelief of how he feels.
And it appeals to me.
And it amuses me.
And it makes me laugh.
A circle.