When I was 9 years old I met my best friend’s older brother. He was 15, taught us how to do the guess and the prep. He was real black. Think eggplant. I fell in love. Immediately. So inspired by love was I that I participated in a photo shoot, draping my flannel pajama clad 2 ponytail wearing self with Christmas tinsel. As if the glitter of Christmas decor would entice him to share my sentiment. Now, 25 years later, he may look at that picture and wonder why I was striking poses with a halo of green foil. It was all for you Dethrick.
The combination of darkness and muscle tone was apparently as severely appealing to me at 9 as it is now at 33. I no longer try to attract men with holiday decorations but I do plenty of painfully high heel wearing, pushing up, smashing in, plucking shaving and nairing. Christmas tinsel was easier. Either way my love of dark skin began long before Shadow and Clarke got busy on the balcony. Dulce de leche might be making a come back, dark chocolate is here to stay.
What about the midnight tint to the dark skin makes it so beautiful (irresistible) to me? If I could explain that I’d also be able to tell you why people love cheese. Who in creation knows? I just know I tend to stare. Possibly ooh, might even ahh. My lips generally part a little. I have to catch myself, because who wants to get caught drooling at this age? There is this sheen that is not greasy, more like the metallic paint on a dark Mercedes sedan. Against white teeth, linen, cotton their skin illuminates. Somehow they possess this intense stare that produces this combination feeling that is part discomfort, part lust.
There are/were seven in my life.
One I cannot look directly in the face because I will disintegrate. I almost can't listen to him speak either.
One has grey in his beard: killer. Voice, code 187.
One has eyes the color of amber (mercy). They glow in the dark.
One has the illest set of eyelashes that wrap around these huge brown eyes that I just (sigh. Head shakes). and dimples.
One has the most ridiculous pair of lips I (sighing again. Eyes roll)
One is just tall and I… (biting bottom lip. sipping coffee. damn i don't smoke cigarettes)
One is completely at fault for this whole mess. If only mom had said no to the snow trip.
Like I prefer Sharp cheddar to Swiss, I just prefer the melanin saturated end of the spectrum. I like Caramel, and milk chocolate, I like dulce de leche sometimes too. They are all beautiful. Hell I'm milk chocolate myself. And Iove the way milk chocolate tastes swirled with dark chocolate. I love the way it looks together. The shine sweat adds to the dark skin is intoxicating. The richness of the summer version is cause for intervention and subsequent rehab. I always relapse.
Terrell Owens, Kevin Garnett, Tyrese, Djimon Hounsou, [add your favorite piece of chocolate]
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Saturday, January 2, 2010
flats.
I know two men. We'll call them Tom and Dick.
Tom is so dark his voice has to be as low as it is to match the blue tone of his black skin. He is real real chocolate. He's tall, about 6' or 6'1". He’s a nice size, athletic build. Lovely smile, inviting. Hmmm, irresistible. He’s probably a maniac on the floor. Dick is the color of Golden Grahams, perfectly cooked pancakes, fried chicken, Lisa McDowell’s suede and shearling coat. He is about 6’5”. He has muscles coming out of his elbows and kneecaps. When he speaks it is like the sound of Zeus speaking from Mount Olympus.A friend and I were discussing the two of them the other day and the question of which one would you choose came up. How do I choose between molten chocolate cake and fried chicken? I chose Dick. He’s bigger.
I love dark skinned men. Correction: LOVE. But I think I might love tall men more. Now, if you’re tall AND dark, well then pass the adrenaline injection. But the taller, bigger dude is probably going to win out …. Let me explain.
I wouldn’t call it Height Snobbery. Not at this height. Consider that at any function I am attending (club, party, wedding, funeral, art show, church, etc.) I’m going to be standing on probably 4-5 extra inches of shoe, making me a 6’+, 180 lb woman with lots of boobs and thighs and hair. I’m not a petite flower, I’m a grown ass woman, sometimes walking on stilts. Dudes I out-stand very rarely approach, dudes I under-stand rarely approach. Now, that’s not to say that my body isn’t nice to rub on or look at, but it’s a lot of body. Even my feet are big. And not everybody is in to all this. Which is fine.
One of the most uncomfortable feelings I’ve had is the feeling that I can bodyslam my date. I get that feeling the closer a man is to my size. I don’t feel feminine, or just less so when a man is looking me straight in my eye on my flat feet. It’s one of those “it’s not you, it’s me” moments. This is just standing and talking. Imagine how I’d feel standing naked in front of someone who is clearly 10-30 lbs lighter than I am, looking down at him. That don't even sound right. I’d prefer to be manhandled than conquered. And although I am comfortable with my size, there are some things, such as the accidental glance at the clubgoer whose poor rhythm dismantles your “get me bodied” routine, that throw off the balance of my nature.
I’ve tried every height from 5’6” to 6’8”, cut up to fat, close fade to dreads, coal black to sponge cake, bespectacled, braces, scars, acid reflux, snoring, drooling, stutters, hairy, ashy, crusty, stanky breathed, mean spirited, broke, boring, sweet, charming, intelligent, good smelling, funny, low stamina to long lasting, no driving or too fast driving or bass turned up way to high and dude your car is rattling dude turn that shit down!
I tried. Nothing came through at any size shape or color. The best I can do, for the sake of fidelity, is 5’10”. For the sake of my comfort level, 5’10” and some weight on ya is the best I can do. Hey, if it makes you feel better, most dudes go for the thinner, shorter models. The ones who have to wear shoes to see me eye to eye when I’m not wearing mine. So there, that’s what I get for being such a snob.
Tom is so dark his voice has to be as low as it is to match the blue tone of his black skin. He is real real chocolate. He's tall, about 6' or 6'1". He’s a nice size, athletic build. Lovely smile, inviting. Hmmm, irresistible. He’s probably a maniac on the floor. Dick is the color of Golden Grahams, perfectly cooked pancakes, fried chicken, Lisa McDowell’s suede and shearling coat. He is about 6’5”. He has muscles coming out of his elbows and kneecaps. When he speaks it is like the sound of Zeus speaking from Mount Olympus.A friend and I were discussing the two of them the other day and the question of which one would you choose came up. How do I choose between molten chocolate cake and fried chicken? I chose Dick. He’s bigger.
I love dark skinned men. Correction: LOVE. But I think I might love tall men more. Now, if you’re tall AND dark, well then pass the adrenaline injection. But the taller, bigger dude is probably going to win out …. Let me explain.
I wouldn’t call it Height Snobbery. Not at this height. Consider that at any function I am attending (club, party, wedding, funeral, art show, church, etc.) I’m going to be standing on probably 4-5 extra inches of shoe, making me a 6’+, 180 lb woman with lots of boobs and thighs and hair. I’m not a petite flower, I’m a grown ass woman, sometimes walking on stilts. Dudes I out-stand very rarely approach, dudes I under-stand rarely approach. Now, that’s not to say that my body isn’t nice to rub on or look at, but it’s a lot of body. Even my feet are big. And not everybody is in to all this. Which is fine.
One of the most uncomfortable feelings I’ve had is the feeling that I can bodyslam my date. I get that feeling the closer a man is to my size. I don’t feel feminine, or just less so when a man is looking me straight in my eye on my flat feet. It’s one of those “it’s not you, it’s me” moments. This is just standing and talking. Imagine how I’d feel standing naked in front of someone who is clearly 10-30 lbs lighter than I am, looking down at him. That don't even sound right. I’d prefer to be manhandled than conquered. And although I am comfortable with my size, there are some things, such as the accidental glance at the clubgoer whose poor rhythm dismantles your “get me bodied” routine, that throw off the balance of my nature.
I’ve tried every height from 5’6” to 6’8”, cut up to fat, close fade to dreads, coal black to sponge cake, bespectacled, braces, scars, acid reflux, snoring, drooling, stutters, hairy, ashy, crusty, stanky breathed, mean spirited, broke, boring, sweet, charming, intelligent, good smelling, funny, low stamina to long lasting, no driving or too fast driving or bass turned up way to high and dude your car is rattling dude turn that shit down!
I tried. Nothing came through at any size shape or color. The best I can do, for the sake of fidelity, is 5’10”. For the sake of my comfort level, 5’10” and some weight on ya is the best I can do. Hey, if it makes you feel better, most dudes go for the thinner, shorter models. The ones who have to wear shoes to see me eye to eye when I’m not wearing mine. So there, that’s what I get for being such a snob.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
silver.
If you've known me for a long time, you know I used to have this boyfriend. I loved him for a longer time than was necessary. It took years for me to figure out there was life (and love) after things didn't work out with him. And things didn't work out with him so long ago, I, well I finally figured out there wasn't going to be any rehashing or going back or anything like that.
OK so fast forward to the newsbreak: I got a text message last summer asking if I was ok. Hadn't been any tornadoes or hurricanes in my area. No earthquakes out here. Somethin' goin' on? "Did you see the pictures?" was the next message. Of what?
He got married. Oh. Well people do that from time to time. Yes I'm fine. We haven't spoken in well over two years. If she loves him and he loves her..... yada... this is not really the point.
So after the word spread through the family and friends, I kept getting the pump up: You look better than she does. She's not as cute as you. Oh, is that what she looks like? She ain't all that. Thanks, but she's married.
Facebook has given me the unique opportunity to see the significant others of some former lovers (I guess that's what you call them at this age). I'm curious enough to wonder what the next one (or the latest one) looks, what's she do, what's she like. My ego says that some of them are not as fine as me (thanks Jill). Sometimes, I'll get the reassurance from a friend, "ugh, is that who he's with now?" It makes me feel better for about 5 seconds until I look at the picture again. She's got a man. Guess who doesn't.
Knowing what she looks like doesn't give me any incite as to why her or what did she say or do, why not me or what didn't I say or do (or what did I say or do). It just gives me an idea of their taste in women as far as shape and size. I can't tell by looking at those wedding pictures if she is nice or funny, I can only assume she is. I don't know if she still checks his phone to make sure he hasn't contacted me. I don't know how soon after I left he met the mother of his child, or if he knew her while we were seeing each other. I don't know if he had the girlfriend he has now when he was trying to get me to give it up. I don't know if he found her after that last time I came home and didn't call (I never knew how he felt about me anyway).
I always think that if I get dumped, or abandoned, or if I do the running, the next chick or the one you settle down with and/or knock up, looks like Ms. Berry or Ms. Campbell or Ms. Long. I envision someone who has a built in diva fan and buns of steel, she's a brick mansion with a PhD. But they aren't superstars. They're regular chicks like me. It'd be nice if someone should find the time to say I used to date this chick, and pulls my picture up and says that used to be her. And then his girl says wow (in a damn i wish i looked like her way). I KNOW that don't happen.
I guess the instinct is to cut her down, make it seem as though he picked somebody that isn't as cool or as cute or as fly. Maybe he settled because he couldn't have me or he didn't think he was good enough for me but this one will do. Whatever his reason for being with her, he's not with me. That is the line that is at the bottom.
OK so fast forward to the newsbreak: I got a text message last summer asking if I was ok. Hadn't been any tornadoes or hurricanes in my area. No earthquakes out here. Somethin' goin' on? "Did you see the pictures?" was the next message. Of what?
He got married. Oh. Well people do that from time to time. Yes I'm fine. We haven't spoken in well over two years. If she loves him and he loves her..... yada... this is not really the point.
So after the word spread through the family and friends, I kept getting the pump up: You look better than she does. She's not as cute as you. Oh, is that what she looks like? She ain't all that. Thanks, but she's married.
Facebook has given me the unique opportunity to see the significant others of some former lovers (I guess that's what you call them at this age). I'm curious enough to wonder what the next one (or the latest one) looks, what's she do, what's she like. My ego says that some of them are not as fine as me (thanks Jill). Sometimes, I'll get the reassurance from a friend, "ugh, is that who he's with now?" It makes me feel better for about 5 seconds until I look at the picture again. She's got a man. Guess who doesn't.
Knowing what she looks like doesn't give me any incite as to why her or what did she say or do, why not me or what didn't I say or do (or what did I say or do). It just gives me an idea of their taste in women as far as shape and size. I can't tell by looking at those wedding pictures if she is nice or funny, I can only assume she is. I don't know if she still checks his phone to make sure he hasn't contacted me. I don't know how soon after I left he met the mother of his child, or if he knew her while we were seeing each other. I don't know if he had the girlfriend he has now when he was trying to get me to give it up. I don't know if he found her after that last time I came home and didn't call (I never knew how he felt about me anyway).
I always think that if I get dumped, or abandoned, or if I do the running, the next chick or the one you settle down with and/or knock up, looks like Ms. Berry or Ms. Campbell or Ms. Long. I envision someone who has a built in diva fan and buns of steel, she's a brick mansion with a PhD. But they aren't superstars. They're regular chicks like me. It'd be nice if someone should find the time to say I used to date this chick, and pulls my picture up and says that used to be her. And then his girl says wow (in a damn i wish i looked like her way). I KNOW that don't happen.
I guess the instinct is to cut her down, make it seem as though he picked somebody that isn't as cool or as cute or as fly. Maybe he settled because he couldn't have me or he didn't think he was good enough for me but this one will do. Whatever his reason for being with her, he's not with me. That is the line that is at the bottom.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
sing it like Lil' Kim sang it.
I distinctly remember the apple green jolly ranchers at my first wedding. I was the two year old flower girl. I attended my second wedding at age 5. I remember the brown and blue floral print two pieced outfit I wore with my brown hush puppies. I also remember dancing to some song. I snuck a glass of champagne from the fountain at my Uncle’s wedding when I was 8. When I was 13, Senay’s uncle got married. I wore the navy blue dress that had been purchased from Macy’s for my first junior high school dance. When my cousin got married a few months later, I wore the same dress my friend had worn to her uncle’s wedding (in a different size of course). I was 16 when another cousin got married. She had two receptions and two dresses, one of them had a removable cropped jacket. Another cousin got married two years later, then another two, and so on. My best friend got married when we were 22. My brother got married when I was 30. I count 24 weddings that I’ve attended. Nine of those ended in divorce. Two, one about $20,000+, the other about $100,000 were over in less than one year.
I’ve been backstage at enough weddings to know how much planning goes into them. All the way down to the groom's socks. Chair covers, flowers, the cream in the second tier of the wedding cake, the color of the foiled print on the ribbons wrapped around the mesh bag of yogurt covered almonds. All that stuff cost money. Chair covers rental for 100 people is like $500. dude.
I have always been fascinated by weddings. Dancing, eating, drinking happy friends and family, the celebration of love, the prospect of winning another baby shower game prize in a few years. We hope the wedding singer blows us away (to date, no one has come close to Jeanette). We hope the food is good (Jerold’s was by far the best). I hope the cake has whipped cream frosting and fresh strawberries in the middle (not the strawberry goo), and free flowing champagne is always nice, and a dj—no bands.
When I was younger I would fantasize about what my wedding would be like. My dress was going to be a massive ball of satin ruffles and lace. Johnny Gill would shed a tear as I walked down the aisle while Luther Vandross sang “Here and Now”. My flower girls, the ones who are now about on their way to college, would look so nice in their own be-ruffled concoctions. My cake would have whipped cream frosting (I insist). When I was younger, there was no planning, no saving, no “who’s going to pay for this”. When I was younger the wedding was infinite…I was getting married but I hadn’t thought about the wedding ending. At some point someone says for better or for worse…. You mean like when they play a song I don’t like but everyone else likes?
Money. Planning. Marriage. (sing it like Lil’ Kim sang Money Power Respect)
I’ve never met Johnny Gill. I’ve never met anyone from New Edition. I did see Ricky Bell coming out of Del Taco in The Valley once. Point is, if I ever get to [insert place I’d be standing if I were about to complete merger] it won’t be Johnny Gill I’ll be saying yes to. And there goes the money I’d need to pay for my chair covers. You know what though, Johnny Gill might be a jerk, and even if (when I was 12) I thought he’d look hot in our wedding pictures, the wedding is %.01 of the marriage. The other %99.9 is us at the house, me in my brother’s old track sweats and a ball of hair bundled on top of my head, and Johnny with a wave cap on and his crusty feet scratching up my ottoman.
Two of my best friends are getting married soon. Two more weddings. I’ll be 33 and 34 for #25 and #26. I’m excited about the details. I’m excited for them. I wouldn’t care if I got an email with a photo attachment that said “guess what I did last Saturday” in the subject heading. Or the full invitation return envelope sha-bang. I hope the chicken isn’t dry. I hope they both have whipped cream frosting and strawberries. I hope the wedding singer makes the hairs on my arm stand up (or at least they pick a really cool song to walk down the aisle to). I hope I hold it together. I hope we have as much fun as I know they want to have. I hope it doesn’t rain, but even if it does
I hope they stay [happy] together.
I’ve been backstage at enough weddings to know how much planning goes into them. All the way down to the groom's socks. Chair covers, flowers, the cream in the second tier of the wedding cake, the color of the foiled print on the ribbons wrapped around the mesh bag of yogurt covered almonds. All that stuff cost money. Chair covers rental for 100 people is like $500. dude.
I have always been fascinated by weddings. Dancing, eating, drinking happy friends and family, the celebration of love, the prospect of winning another baby shower game prize in a few years. We hope the wedding singer blows us away (to date, no one has come close to Jeanette). We hope the food is good (Jerold’s was by far the best). I hope the cake has whipped cream frosting and fresh strawberries in the middle (not the strawberry goo), and free flowing champagne is always nice, and a dj—no bands.
When I was younger I would fantasize about what my wedding would be like. My dress was going to be a massive ball of satin ruffles and lace. Johnny Gill would shed a tear as I walked down the aisle while Luther Vandross sang “Here and Now”. My flower girls, the ones who are now about on their way to college, would look so nice in their own be-ruffled concoctions. My cake would have whipped cream frosting (I insist). When I was younger, there was no planning, no saving, no “who’s going to pay for this”. When I was younger the wedding was infinite…I was getting married but I hadn’t thought about the wedding ending. At some point someone says for better or for worse…. You mean like when they play a song I don’t like but everyone else likes?
Money. Planning. Marriage. (sing it like Lil’ Kim sang Money Power Respect)
I’ve never met Johnny Gill. I’ve never met anyone from New Edition. I did see Ricky Bell coming out of Del Taco in The Valley once. Point is, if I ever get to [insert place I’d be standing if I were about to complete merger] it won’t be Johnny Gill I’ll be saying yes to. And there goes the money I’d need to pay for my chair covers. You know what though, Johnny Gill might be a jerk, and even if (when I was 12) I thought he’d look hot in our wedding pictures, the wedding is %.01 of the marriage. The other %99.9 is us at the house, me in my brother’s old track sweats and a ball of hair bundled on top of my head, and Johnny with a wave cap on and his crusty feet scratching up my ottoman.
Two of my best friends are getting married soon. Two more weddings. I’ll be 33 and 34 for #25 and #26. I’m excited about the details. I’m excited for them. I wouldn’t care if I got an email with a photo attachment that said “guess what I did last Saturday” in the subject heading. Or the full invitation return envelope sha-bang. I hope the chicken isn’t dry. I hope they both have whipped cream frosting and strawberries. I hope the wedding singer makes the hairs on my arm stand up (or at least they pick a really cool song to walk down the aisle to). I hope I hold it together. I hope we have as much fun as I know they want to have. I hope it doesn’t rain, but even if it does
I hope they stay [happy] together.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Masochistic Fool
The following is an actual message. Name has been changed to protect the identity of the C.A.N.
Candace,
I apologize that you had to be caught in the middle. I was not trying to cause any drama with you. You and I both know that if there is “the other woman”, it is not that other woman’s fault. That man is the liar/cheater. I took a passive approach to trying to find out if you knew about me. I found out about you a little while ago and after asking him about you, I needed to verify if you knew about me. So, I used Facebook.
I have not brought up the contact via Facebook to him. And if you have contacted him, he would not tell me. Did you contact him? What reason did he give you for lying to you? What did he say about me/us? [The C.A.N.] and I have been together for 3 ½ years. When was the last time you saw /talk to him? If you do not want to answer any of these questions, I understand. I have never been in this type of relationship before, so I am just trying to get some answers for myself.
Take care. BTW, you are quite talented and I wish you much success and happiness.
*************************
The last thing she said to me was "guard your heart".
I have yet to figure out if a weak woman walks away and a strong woman stays and fights. Would a strong woman kick that [expletive expletive double negative expletive] out and a weak woman take that [expletive expletive double negative expletive] back? We seemed to be in solidarity when we last spoke. I had her address from her failed attempt at hoodwinking me into a possible throwdown on her turf, I even had gas in the tank. I was ready to watch it all go up in flames.
They must love each other. She loves him, for sure. He loves her too, I think. She said he was a liar, and he is. So maybe he does love her and what he told me was just something to keep me from thinking I had a snowballs chance in Florida. I do appreciate that. I wouldn't want to have to ask the dude I'd been happily shacked up with about the picture of the hot pink lace covered mounds of joy I'd found in his email. I wouldn't want to have to do the research she had to do to find me. She even dropped bread crumbs for me (tagged me in note, posted some pictures she promptly snatched down a few hours after our detailed phone conversation. It was all very Maury Springer). Now we're on family vacation again? Whaaaaa? How'd that happen?
I guess I should ask myself why I still take a peak. Curiosity killed something didn't it? I'll admit I miss him. We had a good time together, what can I say. I know I wished him ill will but since I didn't mean it for real, I guess I'm glad he didn't get sliced up by his "actual" chick. You know what, I hope he behaves himself. I hope he doesn't mess that up. He tried to and she, apparently, didn't let him. Strength or weakness?
It's really none of my business. It's a situation that I hate that I was ever involved in. It's a situation that may occur in the future, especially in this age of fashionable ho-ism. It's a situation I don't ever want to be on either side of... the girl who resorts to guerilla tactics or the girl who asked a random stranger who commented on a picture of T.H.E.M. together if he knew what was going on and if he wouldn't mind telling me. Yeah, I did that). I'm not good at handling drama, which is why I removed myself from it. And while I could sure use one of those former frequent visits he used to make, the ones I'd almost jump up and down about, or hurriedly tidy up my room for, the ones I would run and shave my legs or at least make sure my hair was symmetrically tousled for, as much as I want to poke my finger in his dimples, I can't. I won't. I'm too good for him.
In the immortal words of Big Boi..."I can't even smoke like that so you can go on and keep that".
This [is] some of that West Coast.
Candace,
I apologize that you had to be caught in the middle. I was not trying to cause any drama with you. You and I both know that if there is “the other woman”, it is not that other woman’s fault. That man is the liar/cheater. I took a passive approach to trying to find out if you knew about me. I found out about you a little while ago and after asking him about you, I needed to verify if you knew about me. So, I used Facebook.
I have not brought up the contact via Facebook to him. And if you have contacted him, he would not tell me. Did you contact him? What reason did he give you for lying to you? What did he say about me/us? [The C.A.N.] and I have been together for 3 ½ years. When was the last time you saw /talk to him? If you do not want to answer any of these questions, I understand. I have never been in this type of relationship before, so I am just trying to get some answers for myself.
Take care. BTW, you are quite talented and I wish you much success and happiness.
*************************
The last thing she said to me was "guard your heart".
I have yet to figure out if a weak woman walks away and a strong woman stays and fights. Would a strong woman kick that [expletive expletive double negative expletive] out and a weak woman take that [expletive expletive double negative expletive] back? We seemed to be in solidarity when we last spoke. I had her address from her failed attempt at hoodwinking me into a possible throwdown on her turf, I even had gas in the tank. I was ready to watch it all go up in flames.
They must love each other. She loves him, for sure. He loves her too, I think. She said he was a liar, and he is. So maybe he does love her and what he told me was just something to keep me from thinking I had a snowballs chance in Florida. I do appreciate that. I wouldn't want to have to ask the dude I'd been happily shacked up with about the picture of the hot pink lace covered mounds of joy I'd found in his email. I wouldn't want to have to do the research she had to do to find me. She even dropped bread crumbs for me (tagged me in note, posted some pictures she promptly snatched down a few hours after our detailed phone conversation. It was all very Maury Springer). Now we're on family vacation again? Whaaaaa? How'd that happen?
I guess I should ask myself why I still take a peak. Curiosity killed something didn't it? I'll admit I miss him. We had a good time together, what can I say. I know I wished him ill will but since I didn't mean it for real, I guess I'm glad he didn't get sliced up by his "actual" chick. You know what, I hope he behaves himself. I hope he doesn't mess that up. He tried to and she, apparently, didn't let him. Strength or weakness?
It's really none of my business. It's a situation that I hate that I was ever involved in. It's a situation that may occur in the future, especially in this age of fashionable ho-ism. It's a situation I don't ever want to be on either side of... the girl who resorts to guerilla tactics or the girl who asked a random stranger who commented on a picture of T.H.E.M. together if he knew what was going on and if he wouldn't mind telling me. Yeah, I did that). I'm not good at handling drama, which is why I removed myself from it. And while I could sure use one of those former frequent visits he used to make, the ones I'd almost jump up and down about, or hurriedly tidy up my room for, the ones I would run and shave my legs or at least make sure my hair was symmetrically tousled for, as much as I want to poke my finger in his dimples, I can't. I won't. I'm too good for him.
In the immortal words of Big Boi..."I can't even smoke like that so you can go on and keep that".
This [is] some of that West Coast.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
put some bacon on it
Rahshad: Can Can Stop rebelling!! Domesticate now!
Candace:What you talkin bout boy?
Rahshad: Lol u know what I'm talkin bout voodoo child! You are hard rock still. When you gonna quiet storm? Even butterflies land. Eventually...
Candace: Only when they have something to land on.
The classic misconception about me is that I am a perm-free, hummus-eating vegetarian, Birkenstock-wearing, nature-loving wild child. I am a peace-pipe smoking, hippie from Berkeley. I am a poetry reading and reciting artistic freak. I drive a VW bug and I have bonfires in the forest.
Hey, I, uh, how do I say this? I'm actually kind of normal.
Yes, my nose is pierced and "Have a beautiful day" is tattooed to my forearm. Sometimes I wear my hair all out and wild and I enjoy fruit and vegetables as much as the next vegan. I have an interesting collection of multi-colored shoes and silver jewelry. I listen to an odd mix of old soul/rock/hip hop/pop. I went through a dreadlock/backpacker phase. I love Berkeley. I wear a lot of cotton. I'm a Mac user?
I suppose the misperception comes from my drawing and the way I look sometimes. Maybe it is my calm demeanor. Maybe it is my perpetual single status? I've never understood why people think I am the definition of free spirit. But damnit, I eat bacon!
I have simple explanations for the things that other people build up as love-childlike tendencies. For example, perms cost too much to maintain, so I don't have one. I'm a clutz, so I don't get my nails done. Defecation is a much more pleasant experience when your steak is preceded by a nice green salad, plus the ranch dressing in restaurants is usually to die for. Cocoa butter smells good. Being naked is cooler in the summer than wearing clothes. I can draw, so I do. You know what else? I don't even like to read poetry, nor do I like to watch it on tv. I hate going to art shows. I drive a Camry. I can't stand Macy Gray (even though some people like to call me that. Why?)
How do you clear up a long-standing assumption about yourself? I do recognize that I am different from many women, but geez, most people take this natural thing too far. It's more of a less expensive lifestyle thing than a "nature girl" thing. I'm just funny, that's all. My brain works in such a logical way, I can't even defend myself against these psychedelic accusations. I have taken to staring blankly at people who say strange things to me.
So for those of you who think I belong to the Green Party and I recycle
...for those of you who think I light incense and burn candles for any other reason besides they smell good
...for those of you who think I speak in spiritual metaphors (example: "You nor I are possessions..." Well no not legally I guess because of that whole 14th Amendment thing.)
...for those of you who think I'm single because I'm so "free" or "wild" or "voodoo?"
I'm really just a Vlasic Original dill pickle eating, football game watching, shoe loving, History channel hawking, French fry obsessed, over easy egg chopped up in my grits with crumbled up bacon, coffee drinking, jeans and tshirt wearing chick from Oakland, California.
And that's kinda it. Now quit staring.
Candace:What you talkin bout boy?
Rahshad: Lol u know what I'm talkin bout voodoo child! You are hard rock still. When you gonna quiet storm? Even butterflies land. Eventually...
Candace: Only when they have something to land on.
The classic misconception about me is that I am a perm-free, hummus-eating vegetarian, Birkenstock-wearing, nature-loving wild child. I am a peace-pipe smoking, hippie from Berkeley. I am a poetry reading and reciting artistic freak. I drive a VW bug and I have bonfires in the forest.
Hey, I, uh, how do I say this? I'm actually kind of normal.
Yes, my nose is pierced and "Have a beautiful day" is tattooed to my forearm. Sometimes I wear my hair all out and wild and I enjoy fruit and vegetables as much as the next vegan. I have an interesting collection of multi-colored shoes and silver jewelry. I listen to an odd mix of old soul/rock/hip hop/pop. I went through a dreadlock/backpacker phase. I love Berkeley. I wear a lot of cotton. I'm a Mac user?
I suppose the misperception comes from my drawing and the way I look sometimes. Maybe it is my calm demeanor. Maybe it is my perpetual single status? I've never understood why people think I am the definition of free spirit. But damnit, I eat bacon!
I have simple explanations for the things that other people build up as love-childlike tendencies. For example, perms cost too much to maintain, so I don't have one. I'm a clutz, so I don't get my nails done. Defecation is a much more pleasant experience when your steak is preceded by a nice green salad, plus the ranch dressing in restaurants is usually to die for. Cocoa butter smells good. Being naked is cooler in the summer than wearing clothes. I can draw, so I do. You know what else? I don't even like to read poetry, nor do I like to watch it on tv. I hate going to art shows. I drive a Camry. I can't stand Macy Gray (even though some people like to call me that. Why?)
How do you clear up a long-standing assumption about yourself? I do recognize that I am different from many women, but geez, most people take this natural thing too far. It's more of a less expensive lifestyle thing than a "nature girl" thing. I'm just funny, that's all. My brain works in such a logical way, I can't even defend myself against these psychedelic accusations. I have taken to staring blankly at people who say strange things to me.
So for those of you who think I belong to the Green Party and I recycle
...for those of you who think I light incense and burn candles for any other reason besides they smell good
...for those of you who think I speak in spiritual metaphors (example: "You nor I are possessions..." Well no not legally I guess because of that whole 14th Amendment thing.)
...for those of you who think I'm single because I'm so "free" or "wild" or "voodoo?"
I'm really just a Vlasic Original dill pickle eating, football game watching, shoe loving, History channel hawking, French fry obsessed, over easy egg chopped up in my grits with crumbled up bacon, coffee drinking, jeans and tshirt wearing chick from Oakland, California.
And that's kinda it. Now quit staring.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
READY...BREAK!
In my never ending quest for true love I find myself sifting through a lot of cliches.
Open your heart.
Just be patient.
There's someone out there for you.
It's not your time.
My latest favorite: Are you ready to receive love? Well, yeah. Why wouldn't I be? It's kind of a dumb thing to say. To imply that I want someone to love but I'm not ready to let someone love me seems kinda, well illdiculous to me. Didn't I just say I was looking? Weren't you listening to me? As if Love had stopped by and I wasn't home. Or maybe I just wasn't dressed yet. Damn I missed Love's phonecall?
It's not that I'm not ready to receive. It is that the opportunity for a long lasting, healthy , happy, dare I say drama free relationship has not presented itself. I know my flaws, I know my habits, likes and dislikes, preferences. I know myself and I am so damned awesome.( ask me. I'll tell you). So, since I am the person I already need to be, bring on the Love!
Now ask me if I'm ready to get married and I will say no. Theoretically, I am. However, in the spirit of accuracy, I will say I am ready to start on a journey with plenty of destinations, marriage being the stop after "Let's move in together. " I'm more than willing to wait till I know we won't immediately implode before I buy my dress and clean up my parents backyard for the big shindig.
Hard to distinguish between someone saying something because they think they have to and actual for real good advice. Chances are if I've heard that phrase before, you're just talking. But I do appreciate your concern.
Monday, July 27, 2009
and while i'm at it
Is that (singledom) by choice?
Well, I guess technically it is. I mighta coulda had somebody by now if I had settled on some of the wacker dudes in my past.
...like that dude that asked me if i had ever been hit because i seemed like the type that a dude would hit.
...like that dude that lived in a house in deep north richmond and shared a room with another grown man and had two other roommates, one of whom lived in the converted garage with his son.
...like that dude who lived with a chick who found me on facebook.
...like that dude who likes my booty but only in the summertime because he can't see the thighs when i wear winter clothes.
...like that dude whose dreads smelled like Newports. Breath smelled like old chicken.
...like that dude who said in his best talking to my child voice "Here comes the tickle monster."
...like that dude licked me IN my ear.
...like that dude that had the ittiest of the bittiest penis. (even smaller than that other itty bitty)
...like that dude that fixed his mouth to tell me "we planned to have a baby before we got married," then didn't get married. That dude also said they had sex plenty of times and she only got pregnant once.
...like that dude who had two babymammas. A 2 year old and a 4 year old. red flag rise.
...like that dude that just barely spoke english.
...like that dude that acted like the total complete ultimate asshole the last time I saw him. And I am so glad I'm over that.
Many have tried, the chosen are none. The chosen coulda been one of those aforementioned , but that would set me up for divorce on the grounds of adultery (or possible jailtime because I shot the mothergrabbing bastard that dared test my gangster). I could settle for the sake of.... but the danger in settling is abject failure.
I WILL cheat on a dude I am not completely in love with.
I WILL argue with a dude that says dumb shit ALL THE TIME.
I WILL abuse someone who talks to me like I am 5.
I WILL shoot a man if he hits me. Too squeamish for stabbing. But I will shoot you.
I WILL NOT communicate with a non-english speaker.
I CANNOT hear after a tongue has left a puddle of spit in my ear.
I WILL not wear my sexy summer shorts in November.
I WILL not willingly continue to see someone I know is married and/or shacked up. I saw and or because separated is NOT divorced.
Well, I guess technically it is. I mighta coulda had somebody by now if I had settled on some of the wacker dudes in my past.
...like that dude that asked me if i had ever been hit because i seemed like the type that a dude would hit.
...like that dude that lived in a house in deep north richmond and shared a room with another grown man and had two other roommates, one of whom lived in the converted garage with his son.
...like that dude who lived with a chick who found me on facebook.
...like that dude who likes my booty but only in the summertime because he can't see the thighs when i wear winter clothes.
...like that dude whose dreads smelled like Newports. Breath smelled like old chicken.
...like that dude who said in his best talking to my child voice "Here comes the tickle monster."
...like that dude licked me IN my ear.
...like that dude that had the ittiest of the bittiest penis. (even smaller than that other itty bitty)
...like that dude that fixed his mouth to tell me "we planned to have a baby before we got married," then didn't get married. That dude also said they had sex plenty of times and she only got pregnant once.
...like that dude who had two babymammas. A 2 year old and a 4 year old. red flag rise.
...like that dude that just barely spoke english.
...like that dude that acted like the total complete ultimate asshole the last time I saw him. And I am so glad I'm over that.
Many have tried, the chosen are none. The chosen coulda been one of those aforementioned , but that would set me up for divorce on the grounds of adultery (or possible jailtime because I shot the mothergrabbing bastard that dared test my gangster). I could settle for the sake of.... but the danger in settling is abject failure.
I WILL cheat on a dude I am not completely in love with.
I WILL argue with a dude that says dumb shit ALL THE TIME.
I WILL abuse someone who talks to me like I am 5.
I WILL shoot a man if he hits me. Too squeamish for stabbing. But I will shoot you.
I WILL NOT communicate with a non-english speaker.
I CANNOT hear after a tongue has left a puddle of spit in my ear.
I WILL not wear my sexy summer shorts in November.
I WILL not willingly continue to see someone I know is married and/or shacked up. I saw and or because separated is NOT divorced.
I WILL become violently ill at the prospect of kissing my stankbreathed husband, possibly rolling over on his stankassed dreads.
SO, yeah, it is by choice I guess. There are a few that I wish would have fallen for the bait. But when I think about the 40 or so that got called back and the 60+ that didn't, I think I've made some sound decisions. Sure, most are probably good guys, just not good for me.
I'm trying to do this long term. and be happy. not annoyed. or ill or imprisoned.
SO, yeah, it is by choice I guess. There are a few that I wish would have fallen for the bait. But when I think about the 40 or so that got called back and the 60+ that didn't, I think I've made some sound decisions. Sure, most are probably good guys, just not good for me.
I'm trying to do this long term. and be happy. not annoyed. or ill or imprisoned.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
It does suck. So quit asking me that.
Sitting with my Grandmother and Mother at my Sister-in-law's bridal shower, I listened to who is now my Cousin-in-law recount how the fulfillment of finally finding the love of her life and getting married. She was very happy, you could see it all in her hand gestures and she was smiling and enthusiastically telling me just wait, he will show up. I just have to be patient. Yada. Later that day my Grandmother told my Mom she hoped I felt a little more at ease about being single and that maybe I had taken something from the fairy tale the future Cuzinlaw had just delivered. My Mom said probably not. Candace is 30 whereas that lady had gotten married for the first time up around the age of 47 or so. Nope, not comforted by that story at all, dude. Actually, feeling a little grim.
It does suck, this singleness. I'm alone and I don't want to be. I face the prospect of always being by myself. I face never having the traditional family that I want. I face never having children. I face never being loved. I face never having an intimate moment with someone special. I face a job and bills and birthday dinners with married friends. It's a little overwhelming. It is a lot overwhelming when people constantly point out the fact that I'm single.
Their questions start: So, why don't you have a man? Why are you still single? Do you have a boyfriend? Why aren't you married? etc.
Their questions continue: So, what are you doing wrong? Have you been out? What happened to that guy? Why haven't you [insert things I'm supposed to be doing to get a man but haven't done]? etc.
Their answers come: You aren't ready to accept love. You attract the wrong type of guys. You aren't [insert what I'm not doing right]. Let go and let God. etc.
I could ask people to stop asking, but someone else is going to meet me and wonder why I haven't got anyone. So, my standard answer has become "you tell me". Because I don't know. I'll give you a heads up. Most men I meet, and this is 99% of them, are only interested in having sex with me. This new culture of fucking every girl in the world has all but depleted my chances. Divorce is like a badge of honor. Babydaddies are rampant. Married/Shackedup/Attached prowlers are in abundance. Sure I've met a few guys who said something about that sounded a little like they might be looking for someone specialt, but they end up asking my favorite sexual position in the end. Red Flag rise.
Hey, I have a question. Why are you wondering why? I stopped.
It does suck, this singleness. I'm alone and I don't want to be. I face the prospect of always being by myself. I face never having the traditional family that I want. I face never having children. I face never being loved. I face never having an intimate moment with someone special. I face a job and bills and birthday dinners with married friends. It's a little overwhelming. It is a lot overwhelming when people constantly point out the fact that I'm single.
Their questions start: So, why don't you have a man? Why are you still single? Do you have a boyfriend? Why aren't you married? etc.
Their questions continue: So, what are you doing wrong? Have you been out? What happened to that guy? Why haven't you [insert things I'm supposed to be doing to get a man but haven't done]? etc.
Their answers come: You aren't ready to accept love. You attract the wrong type of guys. You aren't [insert what I'm not doing right]. Let go and let God. etc.
I could ask people to stop asking, but someone else is going to meet me and wonder why I haven't got anyone. So, my standard answer has become "you tell me". Because I don't know. I'll give you a heads up. Most men I meet, and this is 99% of them, are only interested in having sex with me. This new culture of fucking every girl in the world has all but depleted my chances. Divorce is like a badge of honor. Babydaddies are rampant. Married/Shackedup/Attached prowlers are in abundance. Sure I've met a few guys who said something about that sounded a little like they might be looking for someone specialt, but they end up asking my favorite sexual position in the end. Red Flag rise.
Hey, I have a question. Why are you wondering why? I stopped.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Trigger
My mind immediately flashes to a perfect black and white photo on my wedding day. I'm fly as hell, as the bride should be. He is beautiful, not cheesing in the picture, like I am, but serene. Happy because I'm happy. In love. My vision lasts .0064 seconds.
My attraction to this man was instant. He has this pleasantness about him. It's just nice. It looks nice. It smells nice. It probably feels nice. I'd like to touch it.... or him. It may or may not have been obvious to him. I'm not one to speak up about my attraction at all, let alone right away. I like to watch and wait. I listen for clues, flaws, red flags, triggers. The milk chocolate layer might be hiding that cherry flavored shit they sneak on you in the office christmas candy box.
The last one was practically perfect too. But he wasn't good at what I wanted. Neither is this newer shinier model. He is as intelligent and as amusing as the 1971 version. He is as fine and could be (although v19.71 would be hard to top) as....mmm... innovative as the 1971 version. He probably has a better job and certainly not as many kids as the 1971 version. The 1981 version is a good catch, the 1971 version was a good catch, for somebody else (until she found out about me).
v19.81 is v19.71. Just has extra features.
I say all this just as a person who has met another person who looks like someone I'd have to make a late night phone call to a friend about. It's just like Keya said... she'd [pointed to Randa] get a phone call right away. "Look what I got". I've made that phone call a few times. But I ain't got nobody. I want somebody. I'd like him. I won't get him.
I could "initiate" or "be the aggressor". I won't. I need him to want me. He doesn't. I could fall into the friend category if I don't speak up. That's fine. That's better than falling into shit. I'm allergic to shit.
I am just not excited about handing me over arbitrarily . He gets offers and favors and extras from plenty of girls with friends they call as soon as he dozes off. I'd just be another piece. I'd be a story. "I had this one with DDD's and man she had all this hair, dog. Man." I've been that so many times. I've been that when I thought I wasn't. I've only ever been that. I like sex, I just prefer quality, not quantity. v19.81 is rapidly expanding it's operating system capabilities. Troubleshooting v19.71 was time consuming enough. I imagine with all the upgrades and new features v19.81 has, troubleshooting is a beast.
I could miss out if I don't say something soon. Some other chick could swoop in with her awesome head and her big finale. That would impress him more than my smile or my ear. I only have one pussy, v19.81 requires multiple ports. He expects what I either just don't do or just don't do for any old body. Competition is fierce. He knows that. I bet there's no more room for groupies on his bus. I think I'm safer over here where I don't have to say anything. Where I don't have to worry about what he thinks or if he's going to call me or text me or leave me a message on one of my devices.
I think by now, nothing has happened, nothing is going to happen. Not with this new high tech v19.81 package. I'm not advanced enough for this model.
My attraction to this man was instant. He has this pleasantness about him. It's just nice. It looks nice. It smells nice. It probably feels nice. I'd like to touch it.... or him. It may or may not have been obvious to him. I'm not one to speak up about my attraction at all, let alone right away. I like to watch and wait. I listen for clues, flaws, red flags, triggers. The milk chocolate layer might be hiding that cherry flavored shit they sneak on you in the office christmas candy box.
The last one was practically perfect too. But he wasn't good at what I wanted. Neither is this newer shinier model. He is as intelligent and as amusing as the 1971 version. He is as fine and could be (although v19.71 would be hard to top) as....mmm... innovative as the 1971 version. He probably has a better job and certainly not as many kids as the 1971 version. The 1981 version is a good catch, the 1971 version was a good catch, for somebody else (until she found out about me).
v19.81 is v19.71. Just has extra features.
I say all this just as a person who has met another person who looks like someone I'd have to make a late night phone call to a friend about. It's just like Keya said... she'd [pointed to Randa] get a phone call right away. "Look what I got". I've made that phone call a few times. But I ain't got nobody. I want somebody. I'd like him. I won't get him.
I could "initiate" or "be the aggressor". I won't. I need him to want me. He doesn't. I could fall into the friend category if I don't speak up. That's fine. That's better than falling into shit. I'm allergic to shit.
I am just not excited about handing me over arbitrarily . He gets offers and favors and extras from plenty of girls with friends they call as soon as he dozes off. I'd just be another piece. I'd be a story. "I had this one with DDD's and man she had all this hair, dog. Man." I've been that so many times. I've been that when I thought I wasn't. I've only ever been that. I like sex, I just prefer quality, not quantity. v19.81 is rapidly expanding it's operating system capabilities. Troubleshooting v19.71 was time consuming enough. I imagine with all the upgrades and new features v19.81 has, troubleshooting is a beast.
I could miss out if I don't say something soon. Some other chick could swoop in with her awesome head and her big finale. That would impress him more than my smile or my ear. I only have one pussy, v19.81 requires multiple ports. He expects what I either just don't do or just don't do for any old body. Competition is fierce. He knows that. I bet there's no more room for groupies on his bus. I think I'm safer over here where I don't have to say anything. Where I don't have to worry about what he thinks or if he's going to call me or text me or leave me a message on one of my devices.
I think by now, nothing has happened, nothing is going to happen. Not with this new high tech v19.81 package. I'm not advanced enough for this model.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
I underestimated the frequency of the Stepout.
I was just coming out of my Michael Jackson sadness when this new sadness over Steve McNair popped up yesterday. Damn Steve. That sucks. As much as it sucks, I'm a little pissed at him. Just like I'm pissed that Mike needed a lethal injection to get some rest. Just like the rest of us, I get caught up in thinking that famous people are living perfectly well. No drama except for an occasional photographer jumping out of the bushes. Then my fantasy crashes back down to earth because someone overdoses doing speedballs, goes on trial for child porn productions, or coughs up a $500mil in divorce settlements because athletes like to sleep with anything that has a different last name. I guess all this could happen to anybody, even the people who can't afford speedballs.
This Steve McNair situation is especially sad to me, because like many single women (or married?), I feel like having this physical specimen of a football (or basketball. pick your poison) player as your lifelong partner would be pretty awesome. To be standing in the audience when he wins a title or an award, good (or excellent, rather) seats at his games, all the team gear, trips during the off-season, his body, depending on his position on the field, is probably exceptionally decent... Seems like being married to one of these guys would be fantastic! But more and more, I'm finding being married to a lot of these guys would be a nightmare. How many other women, rumors and whatnot would you have to put up with during the marriage, let alone the courtship before the nuptials? Would I prefer several trysts during his days on the road or one special piece tucked away in another neighborhood? What if you were Cookie listening to Magic tell you he had HIV? I don't know that I'd be able to handle it. Well... I'd be able to handle it, I wouldn't be able to stick around for more bad news.
What's troubling to me is that people who aren't future hall-of-famers do the exact same thing more often than they can afford to. Maybe not going so far as to spend a whole lot of loot, but they spend plenty of time and energy, they become physically and/or emotionally attached to women other than their significant other. Sometimes it's many different women, sometimes it's just one special one. I'm not sure which would be worse to find out about. I'd sure hate to find out about both though. I'm willing to bet that if you've progressed to cosigning for vehicles, you have pros in different area codes.
As a former Sidepiece and aspiring girlfriend, I'm left wondering how things get to the point where you have to go find someone else to spend quality time with? And if you feel the need to spend quality time with someone else, why are we still married/shacked up? Am I powerless to stop this? Does your relationship even have to be on the downslide for cheatage to occur? How do I prevent dudes looking for side action from approaching me?
I guess it's not up to me to "keep" him. He has to not want to stray. I could be the perfect combination of beauty, intelligence, tidiness, sexiness, and culinary genius. He could still dip out on me. I am not sure how much suck-it-upness I am capable of summoning. Once is about my limit on other broads. I guess it's a crap shoot. I guess I'd better choose wisely.
Pickiness is an underrated virtue.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Happy Funny Sexy
What type of guy do you like? What do you look for in a man? Stability? Honesty? Provider? Intelligence?
Blah Blah Blah
I like a man that doesn't make me mad. I like a man that makes me laugh. I like a man who is nice to look at. I like a man who is (dare I say it) a man who is nice to look at. Happy. Funny. Sexy. That's what I like.
All the other stuff is secondary. I won't have a chance to find out about all the other stuff if he doesn't at least pass the HappyFunnySexy test. He can have a great job, a Masters Degree in AstroPhysics. A killer pension and a beach house on top of a regular house in a nice neighborhood. Possibly a mutually agreeable pet, a beagle or a goldfish. No children or strange ex (or current) wives or girlfriends. Being with him is like counting vacuum tracks in the carpet.
Or...
He might say the craziest, most hilarious things. He likes to watch movies with you or you just sit and talk sometimes. He never tries to push your buttons or test your gangster. He is tall and muscular and always groomed and smells good. He probably has good kisses and Beethoven's 5th Symphony bursts from the walls when you have sex. He's fantastic! He lives with his girlfriend or wife of 3 years, they have two children together. He has an older kids with his first wife. He has warrants. He pays child support and the mortgage on the house he shares with his significant. And he has two pit bulls.
You know, I'm stuck.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Simpleton
I am a simple person. You can't tell that by looking at my shoes.
My mind operates somewhat mathematically. There is a yes or no answer to everything with the occasional theorem or unanswerable word problem (such as the two trains running word problem I never answered correctly). You either like me or you don't. You either love me or you don't. I don't do this or that because these or those consequences are greater than the consequences I am willing to pay.
My main objective (and this is my life stripped down to it's bare minimum) is to stay alive and out of jail. Other goals include staying unharmed, sheltered, fed. Clothed is one. Employed is a good one. You know, basics.
Happy and loved is good too. I'm happy and loved. I don't have a "mate", but I do have enough friends and family that love me enough to keep my mind off of what lacks in my life. Which is nice.
My mind operates somewhat mathematically. There is a yes or no answer to everything with the occasional theorem or unanswerable word problem (such as the two trains running word problem I never answered correctly). You either like me or you don't. You either love me or you don't. I don't do this or that because these or those consequences are greater than the consequences I am willing to pay.
My main objective (and this is my life stripped down to it's bare minimum) is to stay alive and out of jail. Other goals include staying unharmed, sheltered, fed. Clothed is one. Employed is a good one. You know, basics.
Happy and loved is good too. I'm happy and loved. I don't have a "mate", but I do have enough friends and family that love me enough to keep my mind off of what lacks in my life. Which is nice.
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