I saw a video today by Bowwow. The song is called Boy or Girl, in the song he talks about the relationship he wants with his unborn child and how he will take care of and support him/her. The message in the song is good, and while I don't have any children of my own I can relate to him wanting the best for the blessing he is about ton receive in the form of his child. The part that got me all in a tizzy was "if I have a girl I pray that she won't be like none of these hoes that I've met throughout my life."
Ninjas kill me with such logic. He even has the nerve to disrespect his child's mother in the song and on blogs. In a lot of cases when dealing with entertainers (rappers, athletes etc.) or men in general when a woman becomes pregnant with their seed she becomes all types of bitches, hoes, skeezers, and the such like. That sh!t is so annoying.
I'm under the belief that if you are having sex with someone with whom you would not be comfortable combining chromosomes with take every precaution to make sure that doesn't happen. If a man cannot think past his penis then he is no man at all. I'm sure we have all taken health, sex ed, or had the talk with a parent, we know how babies are made. If you don't want kids don't phcuk without protection! It's really not that difficult a concept.
Ninjas also kill me with the logic that they can't stand hoes or golddiggers yet that is all you align yourself with. There are numerous good women in the world but let's be real some men would rather smash something quick and easy and then wonder why he is getting served with child support papers. The only reasons groupies and golddiggers are snatching money out of men's pockets left and right is that some men are to weak minded to say no to pussy. You do not have to smash every random chick that gives you the chance, but you do. She is not a hoe, you are an idiot!
Men don't let your dicks control you, because once you can get past the pussy pursuit better things will await you. I can assure you there are better things than new pussy, and besides no good woman wants to have a baby by your roachin arse anyway.
This song made me really dislike Bowwow, and that's not saying much because I haven't been a fan since like 2003.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Are you African?
Since I have been home from Ghana I have been asked about my cultural origin numerous times. It perhaps is because I have been sporting the bags and jewelry that I purchased in the motherland. It could be that my afro has enjoyed being out and about more frequently, or it could be because my name is so "exotic" sounding. Heck a boy in Ghana asked me if I was Ghanaian after hearing my name.
I have not gone a week without someone asking me or a person I'm with if I am African, and to me it is the most fabulous compliment. Lots of black Americans though take it as an insult and calling someone African has been used as a cutdown for as long as I can remember and that has always hurt my feelings.
But, not to go into a rant about the African diaspora and the brainwashing that black Americans have gone through about the continent, I am totally estatic that my Africaness seems to be so pronounced these days. In fact I have been asked out by three African men and one from Trinidad in the last month. What can I say I'm international baby. I do wonder what has been so appealing to these men from across the ocean that is attracting them to me, so I asked of course.
One said I looked like an interesting person, he later admitted that my hair being on one hundred thousand trillion the day he met me. He said I looked like a "free spirit." Another said "my smile was breathtaking" which is weird because I totally hate my smile.
To make a long post short, or bring this short post to an end I now tell all new people that I am from Ghana and cheese super hard when someone ask me if I'm African.
I have not gone a week without someone asking me or a person I'm with if I am African, and to me it is the most fabulous compliment. Lots of black Americans though take it as an insult and calling someone African has been used as a cutdown for as long as I can remember and that has always hurt my feelings.
But, not to go into a rant about the African diaspora and the brainwashing that black Americans have gone through about the continent, I am totally estatic that my Africaness seems to be so pronounced these days. In fact I have been asked out by three African men and one from Trinidad in the last month. What can I say I'm international baby. I do wonder what has been so appealing to these men from across the ocean that is attracting them to me, so I asked of course.
One said I looked like an interesting person, he later admitted that my hair being on one hundred thousand trillion the day he met me. He said I looked like a "free spirit." Another said "my smile was breathtaking" which is weird because I totally hate my smile.
To make a long post short, or bring this short post to an end I now tell all new people that I am from Ghana and cheese super hard when someone ask me if I'm African.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Sometimes I Cry
I've been on an emotional rollercoaster this past week. I have been through a range of extreme loneliness to extreme hate and I will tell you why. Please realize that I already feel like a horrid person for my overt and passionate reaction to an experience I had yesterday so please reserve your judgement or at least try to understand where I'm coming from.
First the lonely.
I often discuss my disdain for all things romantic but I will have you know that I am indeed a sucker for love. Now I have no clue how I will react to love when it comes my way and a part of me secretly hopes it does not. Being in a relationship, a real relationship, not just the friends with benefits kind is awfully terrifying to a loner such as myself. It would force me to confront my 2nd worst earthly fear which is growing up. I cannot even begin to express how uncomfortable commitment makes me feel. Writing about it right now makes me queasy. I am not afraid of getting hurt per say but more afraid of hurting the other person. Truth be told I have issues, having another person that close to me in such an intimate way forces me to take responsibilty for my fears and confront them coming full circle back to the issue of me not wanting to grow up. And as much as I love those of the testosterone elegantly put, boys are stupid.
Second the hate.
I make known my disdain for motherhood more often than I do relationships. Becoming "with child" is my first earthly fear. It has become a running joke of my close friends and family of my nervousness of the "little people." People usually respond to my vow to subject my uterus to a barren grave with claims of me being the one to produce an obscene amount of children (after I am wed of course). Whether or not my side or theirs will prevail is yet to be seen, but the Discovery Channel, and Courtney Cox, slammed me face first into my own paranoia.
Last night as I cleaned my room a documentary came on the Discovery Channel, narrated by Courtney Cox, about for lack of a better term "where babies come from." The documentary followed three expectant mothers from conception until childbirth.
Unfortunately they did not show the conception, which as I've heard is the best part about this whole mess anyway, but I suppose that is a whole other documentary. While I'm sidetracking I must say I was hurt to see that out of the three expectant mothers, 2 white 1 black, the black woman's husband/boyfriend/spermdoner was no where to be found. It's like damn could we not find a married black woman to participate? Four words ste-re-o-type!
Anywho fast forward to the birthing process and ummm yuck. New born babies fresh out the womb are the creepiest little life forms on earth. They're all bloody and slimy and crying with big ole heads. They look like aliens. After watching one woman be in labor for 22 hours, one almost die from high blood pressure due to her pregnancy, and one just screaming her head off I couldn't help but think to myself "My God, why would anyone want to purposely put themselves through this hell, some multiple times, only for that little phcuker to grow up and be a pain in the arse?" And then I burst into tears. No. Really. I began to cry profusely. I cried for two reasons.
1. Everything in my soul rejected motherhood on the spot, I hated the fact that pregnancy and childbirth were such a trainwreck of experience for women, I hated that men could never experience the plight of women and our reproductive system, I hated the children that caused their mothers so much pain, and I hated the fact that I was outrightly giving the finger to the whole "be fruitful and multiply" thing.
2. I cried because I felt as though I am a horrible person for feeling all those things and despising part of my make-up as a woman. Like if I never get married and have children I'll be letting my family, and even God down and who wants to let God down right?
So that's been my last week in a nutshell. Probably not the most uplifting post after a 2 month absence but there it is. I should probably warn that the next few will be a little Drake-ish as well.
Drake-ish (noun)- extremely emotional, sad, all up in one's feelings.
First the lonely.
I often discuss my disdain for all things romantic but I will have you know that I am indeed a sucker for love. Now I have no clue how I will react to love when it comes my way and a part of me secretly hopes it does not. Being in a relationship, a real relationship, not just the friends with benefits kind is awfully terrifying to a loner such as myself. It would force me to confront my 2nd worst earthly fear which is growing up. I cannot even begin to express how uncomfortable commitment makes me feel. Writing about it right now makes me queasy. I am not afraid of getting hurt per say but more afraid of hurting the other person. Truth be told I have issues, having another person that close to me in such an intimate way forces me to take responsibilty for my fears and confront them coming full circle back to the issue of me not wanting to grow up. And as much as I love those of the testosterone elegantly put, boys are stupid.
Second the hate.
I make known my disdain for motherhood more often than I do relationships. Becoming "with child" is my first earthly fear. It has become a running joke of my close friends and family of my nervousness of the "little people." People usually respond to my vow to subject my uterus to a barren grave with claims of me being the one to produce an obscene amount of children (after I am wed of course). Whether or not my side or theirs will prevail is yet to be seen, but the Discovery Channel, and Courtney Cox, slammed me face first into my own paranoia.
Last night as I cleaned my room a documentary came on the Discovery Channel, narrated by Courtney Cox, about for lack of a better term "where babies come from." The documentary followed three expectant mothers from conception until childbirth.
Unfortunately they did not show the conception, which as I've heard is the best part about this whole mess anyway, but I suppose that is a whole other documentary. While I'm sidetracking I must say I was hurt to see that out of the three expectant mothers, 2 white 1 black, the black woman's husband/boyfriend/spermdoner was no where to be found. It's like damn could we not find a married black woman to participate? Four words ste-re-o-type!
Anywho fast forward to the birthing process and ummm yuck. New born babies fresh out the womb are the creepiest little life forms on earth. They're all bloody and slimy and crying with big ole heads. They look like aliens. After watching one woman be in labor for 22 hours, one almost die from high blood pressure due to her pregnancy, and one just screaming her head off I couldn't help but think to myself "My God, why would anyone want to purposely put themselves through this hell, some multiple times, only for that little phcuker to grow up and be a pain in the arse?" And then I burst into tears. No. Really. I began to cry profusely. I cried for two reasons.
1. Everything in my soul rejected motherhood on the spot, I hated the fact that pregnancy and childbirth were such a trainwreck of experience for women, I hated that men could never experience the plight of women and our reproductive system, I hated the children that caused their mothers so much pain, and I hated the fact that I was outrightly giving the finger to the whole "be fruitful and multiply" thing.
2. I cried because I felt as though I am a horrible person for feeling all those things and despising part of my make-up as a woman. Like if I never get married and have children I'll be letting my family, and even God down and who wants to let God down right?
So that's been my last week in a nutshell. Probably not the most uplifting post after a 2 month absence but there it is. I should probably warn that the next few will be a little Drake-ish as well.
Drake-ish (noun)- extremely emotional, sad, all up in one's feelings.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Subconscious Civil Rights
I have been reading reviews of the movie The Help that came out this past week. The movie is based on the book of the same name and from what I read is the fictional coming of age story of a white woman in 1960s Mississippi.
After reading the reviews I have mixed feelings about seeing the film, or reading the book. In many of the negative reviews I've read there is much criticism of the stereotypes that are revived by the black characters in the story. The most hated of all, the mammy. The black mammy is portrayed as the overtly happy, frumpy, overweight, asexual black maid that loves the white family she works for.
Of course the word that struck me the most was asexual.
Asexual-a person who is not interested in or does not desire sexual activity, either within or outside of a relationship.
This word often pops up when naming the unflattering stereotypes given to black women, and I am starting to believe that I have subconsciously made it my mission to combat that awful, awful word.
I have been teased by others, and have also made jokes at my own expense about my flair to write about things of a more carnal nature that I haven't experienced. I ama horny virgin subconsciously on a mission to show black female sexuality in a non animalistic, Jezebel way which is the total opposite end of the stereotype spectrum.
Black female sexuality is not to be constrained or exploited, it should be respected and desired. And I for one intend on leading the charge if I have to write a a freaky soliloquy everyday for the rest of my life.
This is all really a bunch of self-righteous nonsense that I am using to justify my over-zealous attraction to exploring my lust on paper and do with my pen what I'm to afraid to do in person, nevertheless it is an issue that is an unfortunate part of being a black female.
Sucks to be me.
After reading the reviews I have mixed feelings about seeing the film, or reading the book. In many of the negative reviews I've read there is much criticism of the stereotypes that are revived by the black characters in the story. The most hated of all, the mammy. The black mammy is portrayed as the overtly happy, frumpy, overweight, asexual black maid that loves the white family she works for.
Of course the word that struck me the most was asexual.
Asexual-a person who is not interested in or does not desire sexual activity, either within or outside of a relationship.
This word often pops up when naming the unflattering stereotypes given to black women, and I am starting to believe that I have subconsciously made it my mission to combat that awful, awful word.
I have been teased by others, and have also made jokes at my own expense about my flair to write about things of a more carnal nature that I haven't experienced. I am
Black female sexuality is not to be constrained or exploited, it should be respected and desired. And I for one intend on leading the charge if I have to write a a freaky soliloquy everyday for the rest of my life.
This is all really a bunch of self-righteous nonsense that I am using to justify my over-zealous attraction to exploring my lust on paper and do with my pen what I'm to afraid to do in person, nevertheless it is an issue that is an unfortunate part of being a black female.
Sucks to be me.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
If I were a poet
If I were a poet I would say
When I met you I was reminded of the time in Dr. Jones African-American history 2 class, while we were discussing Malcolm X, when he pointed to one of the black boys in class and said "Ladies, I would like for you to meet God" the realist in me would say you are not God, but the poet in me would say my God, you are a divine creation, inspiration that leads me to believe that if Jesus was similar to your nature no wonder Mary Magdalene stayed so close
If I were a poet I would say
You have skin the color of homemade syrup, and you smell like my grandmother's breakfast on Saturday morning and when I'm with you all I hear are 90s love songs and lonely, lonely is a curse word
If I were a poet I would say
That the time you walked up behind me in the crowded MSC and whispered hello in my ear my insides liquefied in that manner that on the most intimate of occasions a woman can tell a man without words he has made a very good impression
If I were a poet I would say
Thinking of you takes me back to the days when I painted masterpieces on concrete with sidewalk chalk and played Brown Girl in Mr. Rowe's music class and I always hoped to dance in the circle with you
If I were a poet I would say
That if God were to give me one gift it would be this, that I could make footprints over the sands of time with you by my side and we would make babies and have grandbabies and both sit at opposite heads of the family table at Thanksgivings and Christmases and be the first to go down the soul train line at the family reunion, for you to open my door and all the young girls say I want a man like him, and for me to bring you your food and all the young boys say I want a wife like her, and for us to sit together in church and the young couples say we want to be like them
But I'm not a poet and its not easy for me to think of creative metaphoric ways to say that everyday when I roll over and see you on the right side of my bed that I just love you.
When I met you I was reminded of the time in Dr. Jones African-American history 2 class, while we were discussing Malcolm X, when he pointed to one of the black boys in class and said "Ladies, I would like for you to meet God" the realist in me would say you are not God, but the poet in me would say my God, you are a divine creation, inspiration that leads me to believe that if Jesus was similar to your nature no wonder Mary Magdalene stayed so close
If I were a poet I would say
You have skin the color of homemade syrup, and you smell like my grandmother's breakfast on Saturday morning and when I'm with you all I hear are 90s love songs and lonely, lonely is a curse word
If I were a poet I would say
That the time you walked up behind me in the crowded MSC and whispered hello in my ear my insides liquefied in that manner that on the most intimate of occasions a woman can tell a man without words he has made a very good impression
If I were a poet I would say
Thinking of you takes me back to the days when I painted masterpieces on concrete with sidewalk chalk and played Brown Girl in Mr. Rowe's music class and I always hoped to dance in the circle with you
If I were a poet I would say
That if God were to give me one gift it would be this, that I could make footprints over the sands of time with you by my side and we would make babies and have grandbabies and both sit at opposite heads of the family table at Thanksgivings and Christmases and be the first to go down the soul train line at the family reunion, for you to open my door and all the young girls say I want a man like him, and for me to bring you your food and all the young boys say I want a wife like her, and for us to sit together in church and the young couples say we want to be like them
But I'm not a poet and its not easy for me to think of creative metaphoric ways to say that everyday when I roll over and see you on the right side of my bed that I just love you.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
The List
It seems as though when it comes to love and life the heart and the mind like to wage war. Even though I have had those all nighter conversations with myself about certain someones I believe that I have always been sensible when it comes to choosing men, so sensible in fact I stay away from the decision altogether even have a list, I like to call it...
The kinky conundrum of why I can't have coitus with you
2. You have no attainable goals.
I want to be a lawyer and a successful blogger. What about you? Men who can't finish school, can't keep a job, or have no inkling of what they want to do in life make me itch. I don't mind a brotha with dreams. If you want to own a ribbon making factory great! If you majored in dance in college cool, open a dance company and get your Alvin Ailey on, but you got to show me some initiative. I have seen too many women in my life get swindled by some man into being their sugar mama and I just can't do it church.
3. You are with child.
I have some guy friends who are fathers. Some are great, some could use a little work. I am more than happy to be apart of a child's life as auntie kinky, not step-mama kinky. I am still at a point in life where children seem more of a burden than a blessing, and to be honest I am way to irresponsible and/or selfish to be put into the position of rearing a little person. I have had men try to tell me that their child is not my responsibility and all I have to worry about is being their woman but I have to disagree. If our relationship is to be long term then at some point or another I will be directly or indirectly be responsible for the well-being of your child. That is a lot of pressure, then there is the chance that your child won't like me and who's to say I'm going to be head over heels about Jr? The most important issue however is the mother of your child. You are now linked forever with a woman who has seen you naked, that is a problem for me.
4. You are to "eurocentric"
All my life I been black and all my life I been happy as heck to be it. I've had this nappy hair for over a year now and I'm not turning back. I'm trying to get back to Africa next summer and I have read the Autobiography of Malcolm X. A sista is quick to throw up the black power fist ok? If you ain't down to fight the power every once in awhile or at least have a conversation about it then to you sir I say good day.
5. Non-argumentative
You can blame this on my highschool sweetheart. I've always been slightly confrontational but thanks to him I now need a couple good arguments a month to keep me on my toes. The strong silent type is good in theory but I need a little passion in my life. Not thug passion or anything that one may find in the urban section in Walden Books just someone who doesn't mind going toe to toe with me. Plus if we never fight how will we ever make-up? wink. wink.
There it is, the top 5 things that I look at to decided if I am worth a man's time (I didn't type that wrong, that's what I meant to say). I suppose I should back door with a list on what increases a man's coital chances. So I guess this post should be called The List pt.1? Well join me tomorrow kids for part 2 of our segment. Same kinky time, same kinky place.
The kinky conundrum of why I can't have coitus with you
- We're unequally yolked.
2. You have no attainable goals.
I want to be a lawyer and a successful blogger. What about you? Men who can't finish school, can't keep a job, or have no inkling of what they want to do in life make me itch. I don't mind a brotha with dreams. If you want to own a ribbon making factory great! If you majored in dance in college cool, open a dance company and get your Alvin Ailey on, but you got to show me some initiative. I have seen too many women in my life get swindled by some man into being their sugar mama and I just can't do it church.
3. You are with child.
I have some guy friends who are fathers. Some are great, some could use a little work. I am more than happy to be apart of a child's life as auntie kinky, not step-mama kinky. I am still at a point in life where children seem more of a burden than a blessing, and to be honest I am way to irresponsible and/or selfish to be put into the position of rearing a little person. I have had men try to tell me that their child is not my responsibility and all I have to worry about is being their woman but I have to disagree. If our relationship is to be long term then at some point or another I will be directly or indirectly be responsible for the well-being of your child. That is a lot of pressure, then there is the chance that your child won't like me and who's to say I'm going to be head over heels about Jr? The most important issue however is the mother of your child. You are now linked forever with a woman who has seen you naked, that is a problem for me.
4. You are to "eurocentric"
All my life I been black and all my life I been happy as heck to be it. I've had this nappy hair for over a year now and I'm not turning back. I'm trying to get back to Africa next summer and I have read the Autobiography of Malcolm X. A sista is quick to throw up the black power fist ok? If you ain't down to fight the power every once in awhile or at least have a conversation about it then to you sir I say good day.
5. Non-argumentative
You can blame this on my highschool sweetheart. I've always been slightly confrontational but thanks to him I now need a couple good arguments a month to keep me on my toes. The strong silent type is good in theory but I need a little passion in my life. Not thug passion or anything that one may find in the urban section in Walden Books just someone who doesn't mind going toe to toe with me. Plus if we never fight how will we ever make-up? wink. wink.
There it is, the top 5 things that I look at to decided if I am worth a man's time (I didn't type that wrong, that's what I meant to say). I suppose I should back door with a list on what increases a man's coital chances. So I guess this post should be called The List pt.1? Well join me tomorrow kids for part 2 of our segment. Same kinky time, same kinky place.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Photographs
I f*cking hate to take pictures.
Somewhere between ages 18 and 19 all the cameras in the world said "we gon f*ck this girl up." Very few pictures taken of me after my 19th birthday do I find flattering. The worst part is I hang around picture happy bishes that have Tourette's syndrome with their effing camera phones. Any random event that occurs is a photo op for these skeezers and its freaking annoying.
For instance the birthday dinner that my friend planned for me was very sweet and I enjoyed every minute of it. Except for the pictures! The fake smile plastered on my face is now plastered all over Facebook. Which means I have been tagged in these awful arse pictures for the f*cking world to gawk at.
My friends, as lovely and kind hearted as they are, simply don't understand that I don't care if they think the pictures are cute, I don't care if the entire world thinks that the pictures are top model status, I hate them and that reason alone should be enough for them to stop forcing a camera in my face everytime I f*cking turn around. In my opinion the camera does not love me, that bish hates my f*cking guts and is out to get me. I aint never ran from a nigga but I will sprint right past a camera everytime.
I realize that I am overreactingyes it is that time of the month and that my friends just want to capture our times together on film seeing as though any of us can kick the bucket at any given time, but sh!t, damn, motherf*cker I think I have a personality that will remain even in the case of my demise, I mean really we don't know for sure what Jesus looked like but we're all still talking about him. Same thing for me, I don't walk on water or anything but I do tell a mean Knock Knock joke so we're basically two peas in a pod.
I am a genius behind a camera not in front of it, I'm part native American anyway the camera steals a piece of my soul everytime someone gets a snap shot. You see what these heffas are doing to me? They're stealing my f*cking soul.
Tramps.
*Fun facts about this post*
The word f*ck was used 6 times.
I'm pretty sure I misspelled Tourette's.
I'm not part Native American.
Somewhere between ages 18 and 19 all the cameras in the world said "we gon f*ck this girl up." Very few pictures taken of me after my 19th birthday do I find flattering. The worst part is I hang around picture happy bishes that have Tourette's syndrome with their effing camera phones. Any random event that occurs is a photo op for these skeezers and its freaking annoying.
For instance the birthday dinner that my friend planned for me was very sweet and I enjoyed every minute of it. Except for the pictures! The fake smile plastered on my face is now plastered all over Facebook. Which means I have been tagged in these awful arse pictures for the f*cking world to gawk at.
My friends, as lovely and kind hearted as they are, simply don't understand that I don't care if they think the pictures are cute, I don't care if the entire world thinks that the pictures are top model status, I hate them and that reason alone should be enough for them to stop forcing a camera in my face everytime I f*cking turn around. In my opinion the camera does not love me, that bish hates my f*cking guts and is out to get me. I aint never ran from a nigga but I will sprint right past a camera everytime.
I realize that I am overreacting
I am a genius behind a camera not in front of it, I'm part native American anyway the camera steals a piece of my soul everytime someone gets a snap shot. You see what these heffas are doing to me? They're stealing my f*cking soul.
Tramps.
*Fun facts about this post*
The word f*ck was used 6 times.
I'm pretty sure I misspelled Tourette's.
I'm not part Native American.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
21
Yesterday was my 21st birthday. My best friend and roommate (same person is case you were confused)planned a surprise birthday dinner for me, we went and got a few drinks and I spent the last couple of days with her and her cousin whom is also a dear friend. I had a good birthday and I'm so touched that I was thought of enough to have her plan a celebration for me.
But while I was driving aimlessly on the freeway last night I began to feel overwhelmed and even scared of what this birthday means. On one hand I no longer have to play the "I forgot my id" game when purchasing alcohol, on the other hand I am about to graduate from college. In a matter of months I will be considered full grown and it is not all it's cracked up to be.
I am not my mama's baby anymore, heck this time in my mother's life she was getting married! I breakout into hives at the mention of commitment. I'm quite confused about what to do or how to go forward. I mean I will be putting in my law school applications very soon, and I will continue this blog because I do indeed enjoy it. I fully intend on incorporating both of these passions (blogging, environmental law) into my life for ummm ever if I can.
I suppose I am not so scared for my future in the "I'm going to be a bum" way because as cocky as this may sound I know I'm going to be successful in one way or another. Success is what I do, it's what I've always done despite the major setbacks that I've had this year. Though in the very near future I could be moving out of my mother's house, dealing with issues like relationships, sex, marriage etc. I mean basically my life is about to turn into an episode of Girlfriends.
Hell, I can't even think of a good way to end this post, so I'm thinking it's all down hill from here. See how backwards and confused I am? Good day.
But while I was driving aimlessly on the freeway last night I began to feel overwhelmed and even scared of what this birthday means. On one hand I no longer have to play the "I forgot my id" game when purchasing alcohol, on the other hand I am about to graduate from college. In a matter of months I will be considered full grown and it is not all it's cracked up to be.
I am not my mama's baby anymore, heck this time in my mother's life she was getting married! I breakout into hives at the mention of commitment. I'm quite confused about what to do or how to go forward. I mean I will be putting in my law school applications very soon, and I will continue this blog because I do indeed enjoy it. I fully intend on incorporating both of these passions (blogging, environmental law) into my life for ummm ever if I can.
I suppose I am not so scared for my future in the "I'm going to be a bum" way because as cocky as this may sound I know I'm going to be successful in one way or another. Success is what I do, it's what I've always done despite the major setbacks that I've had this year. Though in the very near future I could be moving out of my mother's house, dealing with issues like relationships, sex, marriage etc. I mean basically my life is about to turn into an episode of Girlfriends.
Hell, I can't even think of a good way to end this post, so I'm thinking it's all down hill from here. See how backwards and confused I am? Good day.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Natural hair stereotypes. Is it really that bad?
These are my confessions...
1. I'm natural.
2. I have been to Africa.
3. I write poetry.
4. I don't eat pork.
5. I'm a tree hugger.
I could go on and on but you get the picture. I pretty much encompass all the stereotypes of black women who wear their hair in its natural state. A few things on the list I have done before I was natural, the others despite the fact that I'm natural. Either way I embrace all the stereotypes about natural sistas because once a person gets to know me I will either confirm or disprove the assumption.
Though while perusing blackgirlwithlonghair I read a post where some women were adamantly against the tree hugger/mother Africa stereotypes that came along with their decision to no longer relax their hair. I mean these women were mad. Neck rolling, finger shacking, in your face mad (see what I did, I played up another black woman stereotype). And I for the life of me could not understand why these women were so frustrated. Many of them gave reasons such as "I don't want to be put in a box" or "It's just hair, it's not a big deal."
The thing is, most stereotypes attributed to natural haired women are not that bad. People are more likely to assume you're educated, down to earth, politically aware, a freak, and generally an overall nice person. In my opinion that is a damn good box. Its as if these women are saying "don't be fooled by my ability to defy social stigma and wear my hair as it grows out of my head, I can be as ratchet as the girl with the blonde weave, with 3 babies by 4 different men, who works the popcorn stand at CVS."
And in all seriousness black people, we are kinda a big deal. There is rarely something happening in the black community that the world does not pay attention to. Examples? Of course?
1. The African continent.
2. Jazz.
3. The Civil Rights Movement.
4. Rock n' Roll. Yes that was our sh!t, Elvis was the king of thieves.
5. Hip Hop.
6. Booty.
And now Hair. If it was just hair, Madame C.J Walker would not have had the consumer base to amass her fortune. If it was just hair Koreans wouldn't be sending their kids to med school off our Remy weave purchases. If it was just hair there would be no need for workplace seminars on how "ethnic" hair is unacceptable for the workplace, and little black girls wouldn't beg their mothers for relaxers. If it was just hair hell we would all be natural!
I understand that with all the adversity faced by black women everyday some might find it offensive to be judged on something that should be trivial, but based on the fact that natural black hair is still an anomaly in our communities assumptions will be made, besides stereotypes do have some truth in them they may not all apply to you personally but is it really that serious?
1. I'm natural.
2. I have been to Africa.
3. I write poetry.
4. I don't eat pork.
5. I'm a tree hugger.
I could go on and on but you get the picture. I pretty much encompass all the stereotypes of black women who wear their hair in its natural state. A few things on the list I have done before I was natural, the others despite the fact that I'm natural. Either way I embrace all the stereotypes about natural sistas because once a person gets to know me I will either confirm or disprove the assumption.
Though while perusing blackgirlwithlonghair I read a post where some women were adamantly against the tree hugger/mother Africa stereotypes that came along with their decision to no longer relax their hair. I mean these women were mad. Neck rolling, finger shacking, in your face mad (see what I did, I played up another black woman stereotype). And I for the life of me could not understand why these women were so frustrated. Many of them gave reasons such as "I don't want to be put in a box" or "It's just hair, it's not a big deal."
The thing is, most stereotypes attributed to natural haired women are not that bad. People are more likely to assume you're educated, down to earth, politically aware, a freak, and generally an overall nice person. In my opinion that is a damn good box. Its as if these women are saying "don't be fooled by my ability to defy social stigma and wear my hair as it grows out of my head, I can be as ratchet as the girl with the blonde weave, with 3 babies by 4 different men, who works the popcorn stand at CVS."
And in all seriousness black people, we are kinda a big deal. There is rarely something happening in the black community that the world does not pay attention to. Examples? Of course?
1. The African continent.
2. Jazz.
3. The Civil Rights Movement.
4. Rock n' Roll. Yes that was our sh!t, Elvis was the king of thieves.
5. Hip Hop.
6. Booty.
And now Hair. If it was just hair, Madame C.J Walker would not have had the consumer base to amass her fortune. If it was just hair Koreans wouldn't be sending their kids to med school off our Remy weave purchases. If it was just hair there would be no need for workplace seminars on how "ethnic" hair is unacceptable for the workplace, and little black girls wouldn't beg their mothers for relaxers. If it was just hair hell we would all be natural!
I understand that with all the adversity faced by black women everyday some might find it offensive to be judged on something that should be trivial, but based on the fact that natural black hair is still an anomaly in our communities assumptions will be made, besides stereotypes do have some truth in them they may not all apply to you personally but is it really that serious?
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Say my name, Say my name
I used to love this song, I still have my The Writing's on the Wall tape, yes tape. The original Destiny's Child was together, at least until the video shoot, it was a much simpler time then. Unfortunately this has nothing to do with unfaithful men who can't even control their wayward dhick's with their girlfriend on the phone.
Yesterday I hung out with two very dear friends of mine, both male, and from one I was given the idea for this post. As stated on this blog before or on afrolista, I love men. One of the things I love most is a man's voice. There have been times that I longed only to hear the voice of a man friend. And trust me when I say it is in the most innocent of ways that a man's voice can make my whole day or night feel better, but the most spine chilling word a man can ever utter is Coiette.
Whenever a man says my name my entire body perks up, and I am entirely focused or refocused on him. I don't know why I have this addiction to it, maybe it's because throughout my lifetime people have always had trouble pronouncing my name, or maybe because when people know you they just start talking to you instead of calling you by your name. In any case while my friend was rambling incoherently about strippers I (sorry guy) drifted in and out of listening, however when my name slipped out from his vodka stained lips his story began to slightly interest me again.
My name or any variations thereof said with the right amount of bass by the right man gives me butterflies, I get nervous, and this chill comes across my body no matter how hot it is. Even seeing my name written in text by the right man produces the aforementioned bodily sensations. In fact the more times a guy says my name the more it endears him to me. I can't recall anyone else that has such an addiction to hearing their name said by the opposite sex outside the constrains of a horizontal situation, and maybe I'm just a super narcissist, whatever the case may be say my name, you won't wear it out.
Yesterday I hung out with two very dear friends of mine, both male, and from one I was given the idea for this post. As stated on this blog before or on afrolista, I love men. One of the things I love most is a man's voice. There have been times that I longed only to hear the voice of a man friend. And trust me when I say it is in the most innocent of ways that a man's voice can make my whole day or night feel better, but the most spine chilling word a man can ever utter is Coiette.
Whenever a man says my name my entire body perks up, and I am entirely focused or refocused on him. I don't know why I have this addiction to it, maybe it's because throughout my lifetime people have always had trouble pronouncing my name, or maybe because when people know you they just start talking to you instead of calling you by your name. In any case while my friend was rambling incoherently about strippers I (sorry guy) drifted in and out of listening, however when my name slipped out from his vodka stained lips his story began to slightly interest me again.
My name or any variations thereof said with the right amount of bass by the right man gives me butterflies, I get nervous, and this chill comes across my body no matter how hot it is. Even seeing my name written in text by the right man produces the aforementioned bodily sensations. In fact the more times a guy says my name the more it endears him to me. I can't recall anyone else that has such an addiction to hearing their name said by the opposite sex outside the constrains of a horizontal situation, and maybe I'm just a super narcissist, whatever the case may be say my name, you won't wear it out.
Monday, July 11, 2011
My p*ssy stock is up, I don't have to sell.
I have never been the type of girl who thought her sh!t don't stink. I have physical and personality flaws just like every other homosapien walking the planet, and however many times a day, month, year, my self-esteem fluctuates I have never been so down on myself that I let a man take advantage of me.
My junior year in high school, the second day of school a young man who shall remain nameless approached in an attempt to "holla" at me. The first time he "holla'd" I politely declined, unfortunately I had multiple classes with him. He continued in his attempts and around 6th period I was tired of this ninja, so the next few times I declined were no longer polite. At the point that he began to get embarrassed he decided to lash out at me in a very public manner.
His exact words were "Oh, just cause you aight(looking) you think you can talk to people any kind of way?"
Me: Yes.
Over the course of the year he began to pick on me, I then began to ignore him. The following year he was back onto my clitoris in all manner of suck uppiness. Until one day on the bus embarrassed by my silent treatment he asked:"Are you gay?"
Me: No, why do you ask?
Him: Because you don't like me, and if you don't like me you must be gay.
Me: *blank stare* reinstates silent treatment.
Him: Or you don't like hood niggas like me, you like them niggas who tuck they shirts in and go to class everyday. (No, but for real he actually said this.)
Yet and still he made it his mission to "get" or "pull" me. Needless to say he failed.
I shared that story to bring you to my current situation. A young man I met my freshman year in college is continuously upset with me because I do not communicate with him as often as he would like. And I believe he has a girlfriend to boot. It's like he's trying to make me a ho and a homewrecker.This young man gets angry and I'm not sure if he can tell by the high levels of indifference when he expresses his anger but I do not give a f*****ck.
He is emotionally and physically invested in me, not the other way around. Which means my p*ssy stock is through the roof and rising daily, and he is losing his time and energy trying to buy shares that are not available to the public. Foolish isn't it? And in his mind I'm the one who can't get right.
He, and a few other gentlemen callers just do not seem to understand the predicament they are in. I don't have to be kind, considerate, or even aware of ole boy cause whether I give him that becky or the finger I'm still getting the "wyd?" text the next day. Let's call a spade a spade. You want something that I have, true you could go somewhere else to get it, but you won't, which means:
KinkyWonder:1. Ninjas:0
Now good people I'm not trying to be a bish, I'm simply stating facts. If my ish was on the market right now it'd be right up there with Google and Microsoft.
My junior year in high school, the second day of school a young man who shall remain nameless approached in an attempt to "holla" at me. The first time he "holla'd" I politely declined, unfortunately I had multiple classes with him. He continued in his attempts and around 6th period I was tired of this ninja, so the next few times I declined were no longer polite. At the point that he began to get embarrassed he decided to lash out at me in a very public manner.
His exact words were "Oh, just cause you aight(looking) you think you can talk to people any kind of way?"
Me: Yes.
Over the course of the year he began to pick on me, I then began to ignore him. The following year he was back onto my clitoris in all manner of suck uppiness. Until one day on the bus embarrassed by my silent treatment he asked:"Are you gay?"
Me: No, why do you ask?
Him: Because you don't like me, and if you don't like me you must be gay.
Me: *blank stare* reinstates silent treatment.
Him: Or you don't like hood niggas like me, you like them niggas who tuck they shirts in and go to class everyday. (No, but for real he actually said this.)
Yet and still he made it his mission to "get" or "pull" me. Needless to say he failed.
I shared that story to bring you to my current situation. A young man I met my freshman year in college is continuously upset with me because I do not communicate with him as often as he would like. And I believe he has a girlfriend to boot. It's like he's trying to make me a ho and a homewrecker.This young man gets angry and I'm not sure if he can tell by the high levels of indifference when he expresses his anger but I do not give a f*****ck.
He is emotionally and physically invested in me, not the other way around. Which means my p*ssy stock is through the roof and rising daily, and he is losing his time and energy trying to buy shares that are not available to the public. Foolish isn't it? And in his mind I'm the one who can't get right.
He, and a few other gentlemen callers just do not seem to understand the predicament they are in. I don't have to be kind, considerate, or even aware of ole boy cause whether I give him that becky or the finger I'm still getting the "wyd?" text the next day. Let's call a spade a spade. You want something that I have, true you could go somewhere else to get it, but you won't, which means:
KinkyWonder:1. Ninjas:0
Now good people I'm not trying to be a bish, I'm simply stating facts. If my ish was on the market right now it'd be right up there with Google and Microsoft.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
5th period
This poem was written my senior year in highschool, like most of the poems I put on afrolista, obviously I didn't do much work that semester.It was origionally named after the boy in my 5th period class that I was crushing on for about 5 1/2 minutes, but I couldn't risk him finding out so I changed the name.When I first wrote this I didn't like it but 4 years later I found it in my old notebook and fell in love with it, and I was so hyped up on the reaction from Ode to the Brothas i figured why not? So there it is, and here it is....
Needless to say he’s sexy
Yeah, yeah I fell for the caramel complexion and his wavy hair
He’s so lovely
If I had my way in the beginning it would have been me and him
There would have been no thought of a forbidden fruit
Because I would never get to full from sipping and licking of the sweet taste of him
I mean all of him
From his forehead to his toes
No rippling pectoral would escape my tongue’s blatant attack on his masculinity
Pure sex appeal
I would love to make love to him anytime anyplace
His divinity is evident in each long, strong stroke
Hmmm…with just one look the panties drop all on their own
My body moans involuntarily I’m so turned on
I don’t think you hear me though
He is the inspiration behind hot chocolate
And luckily lonely don’t live here no more
Cause I think I’m in love
Needless to say he’s sexy
Yeah, yeah I fell for the caramel complexion and his wavy hair
He’s so lovely
If I had my way in the beginning it would have been me and him
There would have been no thought of a forbidden fruit
Because I would never get to full from sipping and licking of the sweet taste of him
I mean all of him
From his forehead to his toes
No rippling pectoral would escape my tongue’s blatant attack on his masculinity
Pure sex appeal
I would love to make love to him anytime anyplace
His divinity is evident in each long, strong stroke
Hmmm…with just one look the panties drop all on their own
My body moans involuntarily I’m so turned on
I don’t think you hear me though
He is the inspiration behind hot chocolate
And luckily lonely don’t live here no more
Cause I think I’m in love
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Nice guys finish last
There is really no meaningful background story to this. The joint was just funny, at least I thought it was. Enjoy...
From the title you, the reader, might assume that I, the writer, am alluding to the old adage of nice guys finishing last as in they lose out on some of life’s opportunities because they are too occupied with minding their manners when they need to be hitting the crane or the cobra on these n*ggas and doing the Obama walk on these h*es.
Nope, not that finish last.
Yep, that finish last.
As founder and proud member of V.A.P.T (virgins are people too) it might seem to the untrained eye a bit out of place for me to write a post of this nature. I can assure you though, in good conscience that it is not. You see an idle mind is the devil’s playground and well, Lucifer done set up a six flags on me. All day I dream about sex, the who, what, when, where, why, and how of it all plays in my mind at least 342 times a day, which has led me to some theories.
I am one of those silly gooses who watches to many Disney movies and believes that chivalry isn’t dead, he’s wherever Steve Francis disappeared to just in ICU, and that there are many gentlemen that do their damndest to revive him, in all stages of the dating game.
I don’t know the exact statistics but in deliver us from Eva, Gabrielle Union says that the average American couple has sex on the third date, let’s go with that shall we?
We shall.
Kadija: Thank you for another lovely evening.
Raheem: You’re very welcome, I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you these past few dates.
Kadija: Me too! And I can’t believe you paid for everything, I almost gave you some two dates ago, but then I remembered what Monica said.
Raheem: *chuckle* Well, I don’t want to pressure you or make you feel like you owe me anything, I was just being Shemar Moore’s character in Diary of a Mad Black Woman the man my parents raised me to be.
Kadija: You are such a good man. You respect women, have a good career, look like Idris Elba’s younger brother, and passed my DL test. C’mon in this house boy and let me put it on you before some white woman gets a hold of you!
Kadija and Raheem enter the house, they begin to kiss and caress one another. Raheem does all the right things, the foreplay is purposeful and sensual, and right before he gets ready to slide into home plate he pulls out that coveted golden ticket. Magnum b*tches! And it fits!
Raheem long strokes Kadija into euphoria. When she says faster, he goes faster. When she says deeper, he goes deeper. When she says keep it right there daddy, he keeps it right there, until the heavens open up and Kadija hits the Mariah Carey high note from Vision of Love. Then and only then does Raheem allow himself to join Kadija in her release.
I said that because I read to many Zane books to say this, there is a Raheem out there for everyone. He pays attention and puts his woman first. I can’t tell you where to find him, but I would stay away from the Atlanta and D.C areas.
From the title you, the reader, might assume that I, the writer, am alluding to the old adage of nice guys finishing last as in they lose out on some of life’s opportunities because they are too occupied with minding their manners when they need to be hitting the crane or the cobra on these n*ggas and doing the Obama walk on these h*es.
Nope, not that finish last.
Yep, that finish last.
As founder and proud member of V.A.P.T (virgins are people too) it might seem to the untrained eye a bit out of place for me to write a post of this nature. I can assure you though, in good conscience that it is not. You see an idle mind is the devil’s playground and well, Lucifer done set up a six flags on me. All day I dream about sex, the who, what, when, where, why, and how of it all plays in my mind at least 342 times a day, which has led me to some theories.
I am one of those silly gooses who watches to many Disney movies and believes that chivalry isn’t dead, he’s wherever Steve Francis disappeared to just in ICU, and that there are many gentlemen that do their damndest to revive him, in all stages of the dating game.
I don’t know the exact statistics but in deliver us from Eva, Gabrielle Union says that the average American couple has sex on the third date, let’s go with that shall we?
We shall.
Kadija: Thank you for another lovely evening.
Raheem: You’re very welcome, I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you these past few dates.
Kadija: Me too! And I can’t believe you paid for everything, I almost gave you some two dates ago, but then I remembered what Monica said.
Raheem: *chuckle* Well, I don’t want to pressure you or make you feel like you owe me anything, I was just being Shemar Moore’s character in Diary of a Mad Black Woman the man my parents raised me to be.
Kadija: You are such a good man. You respect women, have a good career, look like Idris Elba’s younger brother, and passed my DL test. C’mon in this house boy and let me put it on you before some white woman gets a hold of you!
Kadija and Raheem enter the house, they begin to kiss and caress one another. Raheem does all the right things, the foreplay is purposeful and sensual, and right before he gets ready to slide into home plate he pulls out that coveted golden ticket. Magnum b*tches! And it fits!
Raheem long strokes Kadija into euphoria. When she says faster, he goes faster. When she says deeper, he goes deeper. When she says keep it right there daddy, he keeps it right there, until the heavens open up and Kadija hits the Mariah Carey high note from Vision of Love. Then and only then does Raheem allow himself to join Kadija in her release.
I said that because I read to many Zane books to say this, there is a Raheem out there for everyone. He pays attention and puts his woman first. I can’t tell you where to find him, but I would stay away from the Atlanta and D.C areas.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Ode to the Brothas
*editors note*This week is favorite's week! I'll be posting my favorite post from afrolista.wordpress.com. The bonus is I'll give you the background history of how each one came about. Fun right? So let's begin.
Ode to the Brothas was the first "poem" I put up on a blog. In actuality it wasn't suppose to be a poem it was just a post because I hadn't written in a long time. That post however, kicked off my most successful week ever in terms of page views and helped me grow the balls to write more poetry. It was also a chance for me to tell a crush I was feeling him, I don't know if he caught my drift, if he did he hasn't mentioned it and I suppose that's for the best. I woke out my good sleep to write ode to the brothas and I was and still am so happy that you all took to it like you did. Without further adieu....
Ode to the Brothas was the first "poem" I put up on a blog. In actuality it wasn't suppose to be a poem it was just a post because I hadn't written in a long time. That post however, kicked off my most successful week ever in terms of page views and helped me grow the balls to write more poetry. It was also a chance for me to tell a crush I was feeling him, I don't know if he caught my drift, if he did he hasn't mentioned it and I suppose that's for the best. I woke out my good sleep to write ode to the brothas and I was and still am so happy that you all took to it like you did. Without further adieu....
*enters stage right, puts Jill Scott Crown Royal instrumental on repeat, grabs mic*
It’s the least I can do; let me cater to you-destiny’s child
The first man I loved was my grandfather; he gave me kisses and candy
The second man I loved was my brother, he was my soul mate
The third man I loved was my locker buddy, he gave me play dates
The fourth man I loved was my friend, he gave me experiences
The fifth man I loved was my uncle; he took the place of my father
The sixth man I loved was my first real love, he gave me passion
The man I love now is a king, he gives me hope
You got your Wall Street brotha, your blue collar brotha, your out on the block down for whatever brotha-angie stone
I love black men. I love them with fervor, with lust. Nothing makes my breath get shorter; my heart beat faster, my love get wetter than….
A smart man, he challenges my mind
A spiritual man, he challenges my soul
An aggressive man, he challenges my strength
A sexy man, he challenges my self-control
Watchin as he took the holder off his shoulder, fire in his eyes hands getting bolder…I take charge of the ship movin with my back and my hips like my ancestors did speaking in bantu, ronga and tonga but I gotta stop all that to make it longer-Jill Scott
Wavy hair, big brown eyes, broad nose, thick lips, baritone voice you know that James Earl Jones, Barry White, Blue from the Temptations type ish, strong chest, hard abs, that V muscle in the waist that leads to the big…ego
All these words are only frostin on my cake, feelings can’t explain or do justice to how I feel so alive so in love…he is everything, everything I want and I want it and so much more than I thought it could be-Heather Headley
*music stops, blows out candles, exits stage left*
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Double Consciousness
W.E.B. Dubois speaks of the double consciousness that black Americans go through. The plaguing question if one can be truly both black and American. Given the history of black people in this country that is a valid question and one that I myself have struggled with. Even more so after my visit in Ghana, West Africa. As a woman though there is another double consciousness that I feel impacts my life (quadruple consciousness?).
Can I be both the housewife and the independent woman?
These two categories seem to contradict one another. The housewife lives her life based on her husbands merit alone. Her husband is her provider, and her hero. She is submissive to his will because he is the controlling factor in the household. This is not a bad scenario to me, having a man that can and does provide for myself and children is a wonderful fantasy amongst today's status quo of deadbeat fathers and lazy men. The thought of providing three square meals a day, being available for my husband and children at anytime, and not being caught up in the madness that can be the outside workforce is quite appealing, heck the housewives on tv make it look like a ton-o-fun.
But I grew up on Beyonce not Betty Crocker.
I am a daughter of the age of female liberation. I didn't go to college to get a husband, my mother never made being a good wife one of the life lessons I learned. Marriage in itself is strange to me, a foreign concept, I like most women of my era are starting to view marriage like men. Do I really want to be locked down to one man? I have men friends now, and each one of them is special to me because he fulfills a different need. Being the wife of one means I'll have to "forsake all others." No thank you. I don't want to live my life at my husband's discretion. If I want to shop, I want to pick up the platinum Visa with my name on it and go shop. If I want to jump up and go to Tahiti with my girls, I don't want to have to clear it with my husband and make preparations for the Kinky jrs. to be taken care of.
Obviously there is a balance that can be reached if one has a loving husband to share the load with, but in my fragile just barely out of my teens mind it doesn't seem like an attainable goal for me. On the bright side I don't have a man or any prospects right now anyway, I'm sure I have time to think this out.
P.S Follow me on twitter. @coiette18.
Can I be both the housewife and the independent woman?
These two categories seem to contradict one another. The housewife lives her life based on her husbands merit alone. Her husband is her provider, and her hero. She is submissive to his will because he is the controlling factor in the household. This is not a bad scenario to me, having a man that can and does provide for myself and children is a wonderful fantasy amongst today's status quo of deadbeat fathers and lazy men. The thought of providing three square meals a day, being available for my husband and children at anytime, and not being caught up in the madness that can be the outside workforce is quite appealing, heck the housewives on tv make it look like a ton-o-fun.
But I grew up on Beyonce not Betty Crocker.
I am a daughter of the age of female liberation. I didn't go to college to get a husband, my mother never made being a good wife one of the life lessons I learned. Marriage in itself is strange to me, a foreign concept, I like most women of my era are starting to view marriage like men. Do I really want to be locked down to one man? I have men friends now, and each one of them is special to me because he fulfills a different need. Being the wife of one means I'll have to "forsake all others." No thank you. I don't want to live my life at my husband's discretion. If I want to shop, I want to pick up the platinum Visa with my name on it and go shop. If I want to jump up and go to Tahiti with my girls, I don't want to have to clear it with my husband and make preparations for the Kinky jrs. to be taken care of.
Obviously there is a balance that can be reached if one has a loving husband to share the load with, but in my fragile just barely out of my teens mind it doesn't seem like an attainable goal for me. On the bright side I don't have a man or any prospects right now anyway, I'm sure I have time to think this out.
P.S Follow me on twitter. @coiette18.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Marvin's Room
There has been a lot of buzz about Drake's new song. In my humble opinion the song is good. Not because he did anything spectacular lyrically, in fact the lyrical content was quite elementary for Drake. The song to me is good because of the relatable elements in the song.
1. Drunk dialing
2. Being horny
3. The ex-factor
I believe it's safe to say most of us have done all three. I have. More than once.
Drunk dialing is the result of being drunk and horny. For ladies it's about getting it in without raising their partner number, because everyone knows repeats don't count, it's the same dhick everytime you go back to it. And even though the relationship fell through like a rock on wet toilet paper you don't have to teach that old dog new tricks, and until that new chick can kick her leg behind her ear like you can, Tyrone is only a phone call away.
For the fellas it's about the love being a sure thing. It's the bottom of the ninth, the club is closing, and the bases are not loaded. The brotha has struck out and the game is over. But wait! Somewhere in phase I&II a young girl is tweeting about how niggas ain't sh!t and she's not gon cry. With a quick "are you up?" text yesterday's ex-girlfriend becomes tonight's booty call. Game, set, match.
Personally I think I'm perfect, not in a snobbish way, in a way that makes it borderline impossible for me to believe that a man could find a suitable replacement after having the experience of my company no longer available. "F*ck that nigga that you love so bad, I know you still think about the times we had." That line makes perfect sense to me, only replace nigga with bish.
I can think of two examples in particular that constantly boggle my mind. Where the guy is with a girl that looks like the spitting image of a goriffalo *copyright @raebadu* when he could have had me. Yes me! In my mind I exceed most women in most areas of desirability yet she has a man that should be at my disposal. F*ck that bish.
This song is everything that everyone feels after the Q club, the Jungle, or any other miscellaneous hole in the wall let's out, and that is what makes it good. Drake understands the people. And that ladies and gentlemen is what Marvin's Room means to me.
Drake 2012.
1. Drunk dialing
2. Being horny
3. The ex-factor
I believe it's safe to say most of us have done all three. I have. More than once.
Drunk dialing is the result of being drunk and horny. For ladies it's about getting it in without raising their partner number, because everyone knows repeats don't count, it's the same dhick everytime you go back to it. And even though the relationship fell through like a rock on wet toilet paper you don't have to teach that old dog new tricks, and until that new chick can kick her leg behind her ear like you can, Tyrone is only a phone call away.
For the fellas it's about the love being a sure thing. It's the bottom of the ninth, the club is closing, and the bases are not loaded. The brotha has struck out and the game is over. But wait! Somewhere in phase I&II a young girl is tweeting about how niggas ain't sh!t and she's not gon cry. With a quick "are you up?" text yesterday's ex-girlfriend becomes tonight's booty call. Game, set, match.
Personally I think I'm perfect, not in a snobbish way, in a way that makes it borderline impossible for me to believe that a man could find a suitable replacement after having the experience of my company no longer available. "F*ck that nigga that you love so bad, I know you still think about the times we had." That line makes perfect sense to me, only replace nigga with bish.
I can think of two examples in particular that constantly boggle my mind. Where the guy is with a girl that looks like the spitting image of a goriffalo *copyright @raebadu* when he could have had me. Yes me! In my mind I exceed most women in most areas of desirability yet she has a man that should be at my disposal. F*ck that bish.
This song is everything that everyone feels after the Q club, the Jungle, or any other miscellaneous hole in the wall let's out, and that is what makes it good. Drake understands the people. And that ladies and gentlemen is what Marvin's Room means to me.
Drake 2012.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Goodbye T.O.N.Y
I actually have a friend named Tony, but this post is in no way a reference to him. In fact I haven't seen or heard from him in such a long while that I much rather say hello. Back to the post. The title is in reference to the song T.O.N.Y by Solange Knowles, a really slept on singer/songwriter, in terms of true artistry Beyonce can't hold a candle to her.
T.O.N.Y is an acronym for The Other Night Y(why)? In the song she chronicles her night of unprotected sex and a subsequent pregnancy. The hook is "I could have been in love by now it it wasn't for T.O.N.Y." That is not my situation, no unexpected or expected pregnancies this way.
But to say that I am unaware of sexual shenanigans and the guilt they bring would be inaccurate, therefore I'm saying goodbye T.O.N.Y. See, all those who know me know that I haven't done the horizontal polka, but I recently for lack of a better word, and in an effort to not tell all my business, ummmm...sinned and fell short of the glory of God.
I was that girl who thought that since I didn't actually do the do I was still in the clear. Go ahead call me a hypocrite, I have now seen the error of my ways. The guilt that I recently felt was very much real and all I could think about was a certain someone who really rocks my socks, and if he knew of my wayward ways may put a damper on whatever relationship we're trying to avoid having<---That don't make no sense huh?
I won't mimic Solange and say "I could have been in love by now if it wasn't for T.O.N.Y" because love like compliments is another thing I'm am trying to learn to accept gracefully when it comes, and it wouldn't hurt to actually live up to the image that most people are seemingly predisposed to have of me.
I don't know how long this self imposed "drought" will last seeing as though I am merely a woman, but at least for the rest of this week there will be no regrettable T.O.N.Y's for me.
I'm not even going to answer that text message I just received from that cutie I'm dern near in love with. Pray for me.
T.O.N.Y is an acronym for The Other Night Y(why)? In the song she chronicles her night of unprotected sex and a subsequent pregnancy. The hook is "I could have been in love by now it it wasn't for T.O.N.Y." That is not my situation, no unexpected or expected pregnancies this way.
But to say that I am unaware of sexual shenanigans and the guilt they bring would be inaccurate, therefore I'm saying goodbye T.O.N.Y. See, all those who know me know that I haven't done the horizontal polka, but I recently for lack of a better word, and in an effort to not tell all my business, ummmm...sinned and fell short of the glory of God.
I was that girl who thought that since I didn't actually do the do I was still in the clear. Go ahead call me a hypocrite, I have now seen the error of my ways. The guilt that I recently felt was very much real and all I could think about was a certain someone who really rocks my socks, and if he knew of my wayward ways may put a damper on whatever relationship we're trying to avoid having<---That don't make no sense huh?
I won't mimic Solange and say "I could have been in love by now if it wasn't for T.O.N.Y" because love like compliments is another thing I'm am trying to learn to accept gracefully when it comes, and it wouldn't hurt to actually live up to the image that most people are seemingly predisposed to have of me.
I don't know how long this self imposed "drought" will last seeing as though I am merely a woman, but at least for the rest of this week there will be no regrettable T.O.N.Y's for me.
I'm not even going to answer that text message I just received from that cutie I'm dern near in love with. Pray for me.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Compliments
I am a woman. According to Chris Rock I need three things food, water, and compliments. I agree. I try not to fish for compliments from men or women, but I am trying to learn how to accept them gracefully when they come. Compliments make a woman like me, who's self esteem fluctuates like a diabetics blood sugar level even out for the most part. And in all honesty I like it, I like it, I really really like it. If I had any good sense, which I don't, I would say something like I rather a man call me beautiful instead of hot but that just aint the truth. If you see me, you like me, and can say it without calling me a bitch then bring on the lovin'.
Tell me I have a fat ass, or that my "girls" look extra attentive today, or that I have beautiful thighs, or even that I look lickable (just don't actually lick me. post coming soon.) And of course my all time favorite and the thing that might get you some of that becky is to compliment my hair. Tell me you like the kinks and I am yours, at least for the next several minutes.
I believe today's man has lost sight of how far a simple compliment can go with a woman. Big cars, chains, and money in rubberbands are cool if your're looking for a hoodrat but a simple "you look so pretty today" can take her attitude from "nigga please" to" nigga how can I please you?"
Women, or at least the ones like me, want to be the submissive, cooking, cleaning (but still aint no punk) type wife for a man, but it's very hard to find yourself interested in a man when the most suave thing he can think to say is "I'ma make it rain bitch."
Now you might ask why is it so important for a man to constantly reassure a woman of her attractiveness blah, blah, blah and I would answer its the same reason men ask "who's p*ssy is this?"or "what's my name?" during intercourse. It just makes you feel good about yourself. Compliments get you in the door, however meaning them keeps you there. Nothing is worse than someone giving you a compliment out of sympathy or to shut you up. Ever found out your girl faked it? Yea, same concept.
So what I'm trying to say is, tellme a woman how wonderful I she is. Whether she is your mother, sister, friend, girlfriend, baby mama, or a random woman you see during the day, it will make the world a better place.
Two points if she's black, Five if she has natural hair, and a 10$ gas card if you mean it.
Tell me I have a fat ass, or that my "girls" look extra attentive today, or that I have beautiful thighs, or even that I look lickable (just don't actually lick me. post coming soon.) And of course my all time favorite and the thing that might get you some of that becky is to compliment my hair. Tell me you like the kinks and I am yours, at least for the next several minutes.
I believe today's man has lost sight of how far a simple compliment can go with a woman. Big cars, chains, and money in rubberbands are cool if your're looking for a hoodrat but a simple "you look so pretty today" can take her attitude from "nigga please" to" nigga how can I please you?"
Women, or at least the ones like me, want to be the submissive, cooking, cleaning (but still aint no punk) type wife for a man, but it's very hard to find yourself interested in a man when the most suave thing he can think to say is "I'ma make it rain bitch."
Now you might ask why is it so important for a man to constantly reassure a woman of her attractiveness blah, blah, blah and I would answer its the same reason men ask "who's p*ssy is this?"or "what's my name?" during intercourse. It just makes you feel good about yourself. Compliments get you in the door, however meaning them keeps you there. Nothing is worse than someone giving you a compliment out of sympathy or to shut you up. Ever found out your girl faked it? Yea, same concept.
So what I'm trying to say is, tell
Two points if she's black, Five if she has natural hair, and a 10$ gas card if you mean it.
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