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That New-New

Happy New Year, guys and gals!  I hope your holiday season was filled with love, joy, food, booze, and what ever else tickles your fancy and makes your spirit smile.  I know mine was.  But first….

Notice anything different?  Anything missing?  I’ll wait.  Figure it out yet?

I AM NOW A .COM SITE!  Check me the fuck out!

I know I’ve been absent for some time now.  I hope I was missed and I’m sorry for being so negligent.  If any of my readers are writers, you know how it is when you’re in a rut.  I’ll be honest with you, I got lazy.  Nothing was happening in that part of my soul that makes me want to write.  It was like I’d fallen asleep in class.  Not to mention, my laptop decided that she’d had enough of me and refused to work with the kid for some time.  Thats no excuse though.  I allowed myself to stray away from my passion.  I became stagnant which is so not fetch.  But I’m back with a new attitude and a new drive (and a new laptop).

Many times, New Year’s posts are about reflection.  My fellow writers have written about reflecting on the lessons they’ve learned in the past year, things that were happy, things that were sad.  And while I’ll give a quick nod to the events of 2014 in this post, I want to also put in writing all of the things that I want for myself in 2015.  I want to write it down, type it up and put it out into the universe for me to snatch and grab on to for the next 361 days of 2015.  But first, here is my brief review.

In 2014 I…

  • Got a full time job (BIG MONEY! [not really])
  •  continued to acknowledge that Beyoncé remains queen of the world
  • made amends with a friend
  • strengthened my relationship with my mother (a little.  still work to be done)
  • strengthened my relationship with my gals
  • received analingus for the first time and enjoyed it
  • got a boo-thang (hi, squishy)
  • saw Lavel for the first time since I left Baltimore
  • got drunk
  • got high
  • got pizza
  • laughed
  • loved
  • cried

It was a colourful year for me, I must say.  However, I’m more excited about what I plan on doing in 2015 that will hopefully kickstart more plans for the rest of my life as a twenty-something as well as bring the good things from 2014 with me.  For starters, I dropped that dingy “.wordpress” from my URL!  And now, I want for my full time job to lead to my settling into a career that I love and enjoy.  I want to get better at saving so that I can tell Sallie Mae to fuck off.  I want to travel and fill my passport with stamps and my photo albums with memories.  I want my relationships with my family and friends to continue to grow and change and be beautiful.  I will try to moderate my pizza intake because I want a body like Pam Grier’s in her prime (God willing).  I will stop blocking my blessings and allow a man that has been right under my nose for about a year into my life and we will be happy and I will let him give me orgasms regularly.  I want to be a more positive person and spend less time beating myself up, but instead build myself up.  I WILL WRITE MORE!  I want to continue to connect and build bonds with other beautiful black women who write or draw or paint or play a sport or sing or whatever because sisterhood is crucial. I want to learn more.  I will build my relationship with my God and be more spiritual.

I want it all and I want to keep believing that in 2015 I can and will have it all as long as I keep this attitude going.  That is most important.  I want to hold on to the good feeling I’ve had so far.  Too often I let my bad feelings suck me into a dark place and I neglect the people and things I love, myself included.  I do not want that anymore.  So here we go.  May the year 2015 be in my favor.  Happy New Year!

In The Next 5 Years

In the next 5 years, I will be 30 years old. Excuse me while I have a minor panic attack.

Okay I’m done.

When you’re a kid, 30 just seems so…old. Ask my 10 year old self where she sees herself at 30 and she will tell you that she is married to Justin Timberlake and has a career as a school teacher. She also has children and a dog. Ask me now, as a 24 year old woman, and I wouldn’t be able to respond because I’m too busy trying not to throw up on myself due to anxiety. I tend to get this feeling that I haven’t accomplished enough for someone my age. I haven’t even gotten my license (don’t judge me. I live in NYC and I’m afraid of driving). I feel as though I’m behind the curve. It’s more comfortable to just not think about it.
In the next 5 years, I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’m pretty sure life is gonna do what it’s gotta do and no matter what my plans are, they’re subject to change. I’d like to have settled into my career, made a small dent in my student loan debt (insert silent cry here) and maybe have traveled more.
I can’t call it.

September Writing Challenge

I haven’t been as dedicated to my writing as I should have been this summer. Writing every day proves to be a task for me that I just cannot seem to follow through with. And for those of you that know me, you know that me saying I’m going to do a writing challenge is a joke. But here I am, vowing to give it another shot and to actually follow through tis time. So here is my September Writing Challenge. (Yes, I’m 2 days behind. So what)

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I Don’t Like My Mother.

previously posted on 23Summers

I love my mother but I don’t like her. Well, let me try to clarify that. Its not that I don’t like her.  But if she were a regular person that I may know from work or something, she would be just that. I wouldn’t hang out with her or text her and have conversation. She’d just be Joyce: a woman that I work with. Last night we had a conversation (more like a debate) that only proved to me that for every thing we have in common, there are 100 things that we don’t. We’re like wearing timbs in the summer time. It might have been trendy in 1999 but in 2013 it’s forceful and sweaty.  I sometimes feel bad because I know she wants to have a good relationship with me. She tries to talk to me and wants to engage with me but I often feel like Kanye and she’s paparazzi. Out of respect for her and to spare her feelings, I didn’t say out loud that I don’t want to talk to her at all most times. But by me trying to spare her feelings, I come off as cold and heartless to her. How do you tell a mother that her misogyny and over protectiveness is why her first born locks herself in her room when she’s home to avoid talking?  The fact that she thinks I don’t care about her feelings is a result of me sparing them and I will always look like the bad guy. But I’ll take the L I suppose. We just cannot communicate and we’re both frustrated. The difference is that I’ve basically accepted the fact that I probably won’t have the relationship that other young women do when they can say their mothers are also their best friends. My mother still wants it. I feel like I’m trying to break up with her but she won’t let me.

My 8th grade teacher (who was also my ballet instructor for 7 years and math tutor in high school) served as my replacement for a mom/bff. I always admired how she is with her own children who are around my age and she treats me like one of her own too. I can tell her any and everything. She listens without judgment and still delivers sound advice that a mother would give her daughter. I know it hurts my mother to hear me call my teacher “Mom” and maybe I shouldn’t. But part of me wants to show her that this is how I wish we interacted and I hope she would try and chill a bit. She doesn’t though. She’s always wearing her white wig, black robe and has her gavel in hand when she comments on everything from my clothes, friends, and even my sexuality (she’s not sure if I’m gay or straight because I kiss my friends on the cheek).

My mother is an awesome mother and I would be lying if I said that she was a terrible parent. She sacrifices everyday for my brother and I and does everything she can for us. She cares even if I feel like it’s too much at times. As far as moms go, she’s got that down. I just can’t talk to her. I’m writing letters to my future daughter and I can only hope that when she reads them, I will be a combination of the kind of parent that my mother is and the kind that my “Mom” is. I don’t want my daughter to feel that she can’t talk to me because of how differently we see things. I want to her to feel like I’m listening and trying to understand and I hope she will do the same. I hope she will love and respect me as well as like me.  I know very little about parenting but I know what its like to feel like you can’t be yourself in your own home. It sucks.

Help.

Today I typed into google’s search bar “signs of depression” and according to Web M.D., I am depressed. I also have malaria. I’m sure there’s a shot or something for my second diagnosis but I’m not quite sure how to rid myself of my other ailment without popping pills like skittles.
I’m bored and underwhelmed with my life. A result of this is feeling like I want to cry every five minutes. I have nothing and no one to look forward to. My love/social life, finances, and job (not career but regular ass job) are all at a stand still and seem to have been for the past year (longer for some of the other parts of my life).
I can’t remember what day it was that I realized that my existence was pretty much insignificant as well as miserable, or what triggered it. But when it hit me, that shit sucked. It was like getting punched in the throat and gasping for air but not getting any. I want so much to shake this funk but I can’t seem to.
I came close to deleting this blog today because , well, what’s the point? I have nothing worth writing about. Nothing worth saying. And no one to read it if I did. I began scribbling a piece in my notebook the other day and was suddenly overcome with tears after realizing that I had no true interest in what I was writing about. I simply did not give a shit as much as I wanted to. And so I gave up on it.
Giving up seems to be the answer I choose a lot more these days. But I don’t want to anymore. I just don’t know how to go about things differently. Should I move away? Should I chop off all of my hair again? Should I start getting high and drunk more often? Should I behave recklessly and irresponsibly just so I can feel something other than sad? It sounds like I should see a doctor, I’m sure. I feel like I should be doing more but I can’t. I have no means to do anything. I’m stuck while everyone and everything around me seems to be flying by me with ease and without looking back. I’m drowning while everyone sails by. I’m scared.

Am I My Sister’s Keeper?

The top three tattoos you’ll see on a hood dweller go as follows:
(These are in no particular order)
1. “loyalty”
2. Praying hands with rosary beads
3. “my brother’s keeper” or something of the like

The first time I heard someone use number 3’s phrase, I wasn’t quite sure how to take it’s meaning. I was a kid and so I decided to look up what it meant. I found out that it originates from the tale of Cain and Abel in the Book of Genesis. Cain and Able were sons of Adam and Eve. Cain ended up being the world’s first murder after he murked Abel. As far as the saying goes, when God asked Cain where Abel was, Cain replied, “I know not: [Am] I my brother’s keeper?” In plain English he basically told The Lord, “Nigga, I don’t know. I’m minding my business, damn!”
Now, we know that he was lying because, well, he killed his brother. And in the tradition of Bible stories, there’s a lesson or two to be learned here. Besides the obvious “murder is wrong” motif that is sprinkled throughout all one trillion pages of The Good Book, the story uses the “am I my brother’s keeper?” line to preach that we are responsible for one another. (So, yes Cain, you are in fact your brother’s keeper. As well as his murder. Why can’t your family get it right?)
I never really thought that I applied this rule to my own life. I always thought that minding my business was the safest and easiest way to avoid drama. But after having a Steel Magnolias moment on a street corner in Manhattan with one of my best friends one night, I realized that I do live by this rule when it comes to those that I love.
In a shorter version of that night’s events, Sam and I got a bit emotional after a misunderstanding. Maybe it was the margaritas. Maybe it was the weed. Maybe it was a side effect of our cycles syncing up. Whatever the trigger was, we found ourselves in tears and embracing one another. Neither of us did something to the other to cause the small stand off. It was all a matter of one showing the other she cares.
“So I’m not allowed to care about my friends?!” Sam shouted at me.
She is allowed though. She was only showing concern for me, her friend of 10 years. And after further reflection, I noticed that I do it all the time for her and my other friends. My delivery isn’t always graceful or delicate. I sometimes come off as harsh or mean (to be honest, I’m a shady bitch). But it’s all in the name of love. I care for my friends. They’re the sisters I’ve been afforded to choose for myself. And so I get protective.
Have you ever gotten so upset with a friend because you’re watching her make choices that only hurt her? Have you done something foolish and now you want to prevent your friend from doing the same? You aren’t trying to rule over her. And you aren’t bitter or jealous. You’re only trying to look out for her. You want to keep her safe from heartache because you know she doesn’t deserve that.
Sometimes it’s hard to say what you’re feeling about someone else’s situation. People are funny and don’t always want to hear the negatives that you may see or feel about someone or something that they love. I’ve seen friendships end because one friend thought she was doing the right thing by telling a friend how she feels.
But sometimes you have to speak up even if your friend will get upset.
And sometimes you’re the friend that has to hear the negative things. And you’ll want to tell her to mind her fucking concerns. But you have to try and remember that your friend cares and is only trying to look out for you. If she’s a good friend, her intensions are of the same nature. It’s being done out of love.
It’s more than likely that you won’t ever see me with a star tattoo with my name in the middle (stars are poppin’ in the hood as well). And although I’m not opposed to clichés (insert hint to keep scrolling to read my post on clichés entitled “Cliché” here. [I’m a allowed to plug on my own blog]) I won’t tattoo any on myself. But I will admit that I have added another to my life. I am my sisters’ keeper.