Monday, October 30, 2006

Just Kidding!!!

All that shit I said...

I take it back.

Excuse me while I go kick myself. This might take a minute. Please enjoy the following old posts I've been meaning to post from my sidekick.

I'll be gone awhile.

I Blame Madam and you Should Too

Three Names You Go By: La, Ducky, Wife

Three Parts of Your Heritage: Only 3? Um... black... Cherokee... maybe a lil Hispanic

Three Things That Scare You: bridges over water, failure, being abandoned

Three of Your Everyday Essentials: Sidekick3, my planner, a big bag to carry it all in

Three Things You Are Wearing Right Now: gray sweats, gray Miami tshirt, red and black striped panties

Three of Your Favorite Bands or Musical Artists: Stevie Wonder, Christina Aguilerra, Maroon 5

Three of Your Favorite Songs: "As" Stevie Wonder, "Learned from the Best" Whitney Houston, "Hurt" Christina Aguilerra

Three Things You Want in a Relationship: humor, loyalty, honesty

Three Physical Things about the Opposite Sex You Like: smile, tattoos, really nice arms

Three of Your Favorite Hobbies: singing, writing, IMing

Three Things You want really badly right now: a Reese's that has been in the freezer, not to be sleeping alone, to not live in Houston

Three people you would like to see do this: Jam, Wife, V

Three Non-Physical Things about the Opposite Sex: swagger, acute intelligence, talent

Three Favorite T.V. shows: Grey's Anatomy, Sex and the City, Brothers and Sisters

Three Songs that you have listened to while completing this meme: none.


I've kept many secrets in my life. Many. Almost lived two lives in one.

But I've never liked it.

There were times, though, when it felt necessary.

Like now.

There are things I wanna say, subjects I wanna touch, ghosts that linger in the corners of my bedroom at night that I should have long since exorcised.

But I haven't. I can't. I probably should.

But I won't.

Sometimes, it is cruel to speak the truth. Sometimes, it hurts more than it helps. Sometimes there are things that you should say, you want to say, you need to say, but it isn't for the best. And maybe the better person is the one that chooses to do the least amount of damage as necessary.

Or that's what I tell myself.

There are things I should say. Truths I should speak. But I can't. Or maybe I won't. I know there's a difference. I wanna talk but I think it's best I stay quiet, hold on to it.

Maybe that's why I can't write.

But I can't.


I thought I knew who you were
I see now you were a lesson to learn
And all I am to you now
Is a bridge that's been burned

I look back over things in my life, people I've known, and the 50/50 is priceless. I can't believe I didn't see some things that I can see now. I can't believe there were people I didn't see for who they are. I can't believe there are people I allowed to tell me who I am in their eyes. People I allowed close to me when in the back of my mind I knew I shouldn't. Can't believe I let things get so outta control just so it wouldn't seem like I couldn't have faith, couldn't believe.

I'm just rambling of course. But I'm still surprised. At myself. At the sheer audacity of people and the way they've treated me. At myself and the people I've allowed in my life, at how I've allowed myself to be perceived.

I should've let go sooner.

Hindsight is a muthafucka.

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

Howard, Howard UUUUUUUU... THE REAL HU!!!!

I am thoroughly depressed. Why? Because I just left home to come home. And by the 1st 'home' I mean Howard, the 2nd of course being the wretched flooding wasteland called Houston. I went to DC for Howard's Homecoming, which will always, ALWAYS be the highlight to my year for all the years I live and breathe and can still do shots of tequilla and jack daniels, lol. I was talking to a friend of mine from Atl and when I told him about my big ballin' plans for homecoming he was mystified. The convo went something like this:

Him: You're flying all the way back to DC just for homecoming?
Me: Uh, yeah.
Him: For what though?
Me: Um... I went to Howard. You DO know that
Him: Yeah...
Me: You have CLEARLY never been to a HU homecoming

I realize if you never went to Howard, never been to the HU Homecoming festivities, you just can't feel me on this. And that's fine. But please respect the fact that my homecoming is like no other. Don't believe me? Anytime an event causes more celebrities to flock to town than the BET awards and Diddy, he of the benevolent White Party, throws an all weekend party in honor of the school who's colors I wear? Then as the AKAs put it at the step show, "This is SERIOUS business."

So just to recap a la wife...

Thursday: My flight is delayed by two and a half hours. TWO AND A HALF HOURS. As if I wasn't already dead tired from working that morning, and then rushing from said work straight to the airport in rush hour traffic only to find that I needent rush at all. (Hahaha 'needent') So I finally get to DC (well B-more actually), and Thursday I spend getting some QT in where it really needed to be gotten in.... no, no. That's all you get, lol.

Friday: I make it to yardfest which has to be the wackest thing ever in life with the exception of the fact that the weather is BEAUTIFUL for the first time in 4 years and Monica overwhelms me so with her hometown ghetto that I tell chicks all weekend that they're "sideline hoes", also known as the greatest song ever written. The Wife, me, & Arion make a quick run to Pentagon City where I purchase my very first freakum dress (in candy apple red for those of you wondering) for the evenings festivities at Love/Dream/Dandelion (whatever its called this week). After Wackfest is over, we head to the car, a silver Jeep Liberty rented just for the occasion. (Having a full time job really allows you to ball on a whole 'nother level.) We do dinner at Lauriol Plaza, I get slightly throwed on mojitos and get to drunk texting. Can't be too bad, I guess. Nothing exploded. We stay so long that I sober up. We rush home, I throw on my freakum dress (lol!) and we hit the door. After a slight bit of drama we hit Love/Dream/Dandelion, get inside and trying to find breathing room. It is RIDICULOUS how packed it is on ALL FOUR LEVELS. I feel like a celebrity cuz every few feet I bump into someone I know, someone who wants to see me later, wants to take a picture. (Yall know I'm on my superstar shit EARLY, lol) After awhile, I break for the bathroom. Trying to push my way through the crowd, I encounter a guy who drunkenly thinks it'll be a good idea to not only fondle my breasts but to pull my dress down. Did I mention I wasn't wearing a bra? So he exposed to me to the club. So... I punched him in his face. I think I mighta cut him with my ring cuz I got a lil blood when I came back. Yes, I punched him. All 5 foot 3 of me. The crowd starts to push so they carry me away from him as I'm determined to make my way back to him because at this point I've decided that I'm gonna fight him. And not just fight him, but I'm gonna beat his ass so bad that they're going to throw me out and ban me from even turning down Okie Street again. Because, yes ladies and gentleman, as much as she hates to admit it, sometimes La CAN be THAT ghetto. Eventually I give up and wind up downstairs with the wife, shoes off, and angrily staring at the floor contemplating the AUDACITY OF THIS HOE NIGGA. A cutie from New York buys me a bottle of water and I'd like to at least be cordial but between my anger and my ah ha! moment (I'll get into that in another post) I just couldn't fit it. So I played the kinda shy role so he wouldn't be put off and feel offended, thanked him for the Voss, sent a text message and turned to play in my wife's hair. Later we left and I dropped off the folks that had ridden with us, then headed back to the apartment, showered the DC nigga filth off me and spent a lil while talking to J, who never fails to make me smile when I need it. I figure I'll sleep and hopefully with all we have planned tomorrow, it'll be better cuz tonight has been officially ruined for me...

(to be continued...)

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Ode to Joy

"She said you was a hoe."
"She WHAT?!?!" I shriek, the end of my sentence jumping up an octave sounding like the crash of plates on a marble floor.
"Yeah," the girl repeats. "She said you was a hoe."
My mouth feels like sandpaper and butterflies start to dance in my stomach. My butterscotch skin flushes deep crimson with embarassment and shame.
"That bitch don't know me to be talkin' about me like that," I say, a lil bit of the ghetto I try so hard to keep hold of seeping out.

On the inside though, my bravado is nonexistant. She didn't know me, the frigid Catholic school girl who was afraid to kiss a boy, let alone screw with the magnificant numbers I was being accused of. Who was she to call me a hoe?

She hadn't called me a hoe of course. But I wouldn't know that 'til later.

But that's how I first met Joy, the first and most important love of my life. After actually taking the time to talk to her, I realized that she hadn't, and never would, call me a whore and that I liked her. So she became my friend. And we haven't had an argument since.

In those early years, we'd sit in her room and be silly, throwing stuffed animals at one another while we ducked behind well placed furniture. We'd harmonize to lofty melodies in music genres that "real black people" didn't listen to. We'd read magazines and talk about what we wanted to be when we grew up. We'd share our poetry with each other, self important verbose stanzas that soon drifted into beautifully simplistic arrangements that more reflected the women we would become. We'd share our past pains, way too deep and too various for children, but present nonetheless. And sometimes, we'd just sit. Maybe one of us would sleep (usually me as I never really slept at home) or maybe we'd both be awake and off in our own little worlds. But it was comfortable. It was a silence you could walk into and feel at ease. Even when we were quiet our worlds were intertwined.

What's most important to know is that Joy and I have been friends for at least 10,000 years.

No. Really.

I feel like I've known her forever. I know that I'll know her for eternity. She is my better half, the part of me that makes me complete unto myself. She is the one that saved me, and has brought me closer than ever to the woman I've always wanted to be.

When we were younger, we went through our own growing pains, seperate but still intertwined, filling each other in at the moments we could find. I remember being in high school and her having a boyfriend that monopolized alot of her time. I felt that acute loss, as though the colors in my life were less vibrant. The harmonies were less haunting. I realized then, however, no matter what I'd never lose her, as she'd become too vital to my everyday life.

Joy has been there for everything. She bears witness to my life, taking on the responsibilities of remembering details that even I have long forgotten. More often than not, many of our conversations about the days of yore will go something like...
Her: That's not what happened.
Me: Really?
Her: No honey remember....
Me: Ohhhh yeeeeeaaaaah

And then it's better.

I love her. And she loves me which, perhaps might be the greatest feat any human has ever attempted and accomplished. I'm harder than landing on the moon. But she does. For some reason I've yet to put my finger on. She is the one person in this world I can talk to about everything with and never fear being judged. The only person I can disagree with without arguing. In 10,000 years of friendship, we've never had a fight. Not one. We've never gone long stretches without speaking in some form, with the exception of once when I was going through more than I thought I could bear. And even then when I finally realized how selfish I'd been to abandon her attempts at helping me just to drown myself in my own misery and take on my issues all alone, and I came back ready to grovel and beg at her feet for forgiveness, all she asked me was, "So how was your day?"

Joy made me learn to be responsible for others besides myself. Loving her forced me to realize that although I'd never known selfless love, love where it was possible for one to be more concerned with another than themselves, that it existed and that I was responsible for making it last. She made me learn to care for people, to allow them to care for me. If I ever married someone, I'd have to love him the same way I do Joy. Because once you've been exposed to what real love feels like, you can never go back.

She has a boyfriend whom I adore, for whom I thank God everyday for sending to her. I keep telling her to hurry up and marry him, and not just because I wanna see her in a pretty dress. But because he is the only person I trust with her outside myself and he takes such wonderful care of her. Because her marriage would be cemented proof that love like ours flowers and flourishes, and can be forever, if we work at it. It would be evidence that love is out there for me, and that, if something should ever happen to me, she'd be taken care of in the manner I'd like.

I've never been one for making myself readily emotionally available to others, but she knows me inside and out. The only person that doesn't make me feel weak for crying, that listens when I bitch about things, that can tell me I'm wrong without hurting my feelings. She is my better half, the representation of all the things I that I am and want to be, all wrapped up in a beautiful package that can make me literally laugh outloud on days when I can barely manage a smile. The sound of her ring on my phone, or seeing her name pop up next to a text message she's sent still never fails to get a smile from me. She gets my jokes. She likes my shoes. She encourages my enchantment with shiny things and believes in my talent. She loves my friends, and screens my boyfriends, because meeting her is more important than meeting my parents. She finds me pretty makeup she thinks I'll like, and sends me random pictures of things she knows I'll wanna see. It makes me feel like I'm more a part of her everyday life. And I miss that. If she were dying, I'd give my life to save hers. If she couldn't have children, I'd carry them for her because I know she'd be an amazing mom. And only a lil because it would be a really cool story to tell to my niece or nephew. If I got married, she'd be the only person that the wedding couldn't go on without if she couldn't be there. If I died, I'd want her to take care of my husband and children. And to get all my shoes. She's the sole beneficiary on my life insurance policy, and her opinion is the only one that really matters when I'm picking out cars or potential suitors. If she doesn't like them, they have to go. As long as I have money she is never poor. As long as I have food she is always fed. As long as I have a house, she has a home. Come hell or high water, she is the person I'm gonna spend the rest of my life with.

So this week (next week? I know, I'm the worst with the dates) is our frienaversary, a celebration of our friendship that we do yearly that I came up with last year. I realized, I've celebrated an anniversary with every boyfriend I've had (when I remembered) and she's far more important than any of them. So this is a celebration of us. In 11 years I've only written a handful of things about her because even I can never seem to do us any justice. I hope everyone knows love like ours at least once in their lives. If I were to die tomorrow, she'd be the one thing I know I got right.

So I celebrate us, the life we've shared, the worlds we've intertwined, the little ladies we'll one day be, sitting in a room quietly, you knitting and me reading a book, not speaking because we've shared a volume of words over our lifetime and our friendship has transcended mere companionship. I thank you too, because without you, I can't imagine who'd I'd be or even, if I'd be. So I owe you my everything. And yet, you ask me for nothing.
And that's what real love is like.

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Psychosensory Insecurity Interlude

I'm sick. Like, physically, literally sick. I can't shake this feeling in the pit of my stomach. I feel nervous, all the time. And not butterflies-in-my-stomach-oh-god-there-goes my-crush-he's-so-cute nervous. Like absolutely-sick-something-awful-is-happening-and-I-can't-do-anything-about-it-but-get-an ulcer nervous. I've been throwing up all day to the point that now it's just liquid coming and my stomach feels like I've been stabbed with heated metal. I'm distracted, distant, trying not to dissolve into tears at work.

Lying on the tile in the bathroom I can't help but wonder what's wrong with me, where along the line I lost control so terribly so. I can't possibly continue to feel this way. I can't survive like this. It isn't supposed to be like this.

I'm anxious. I'm contemplating my next step forward but I can't get off the floor. I'm so tired. Last nite I tossed and turned all night, running things over in my head, trying to tie up the loose ends so they fit nicely over a box I'd like to put up on the shelf now and forget. I'd get hot. I'd toss my covers away. Chills would attack my body. I'd huddle under the covers. Back and forth. Hot and cold.

In and out.

I can't believe I've let myself feel this way. Over what? For what? I pull myself halfway off the floor. My heart isn't in it. I lean heavily against the wall. My heart and my head are somewhere down south, my head forming images my heart can't take. I'm seeing it, hearing it, smelling it, tasting it. I start to take in short rapid breaths. I feel like I'm suffocating, like someone is wrapping a warm blanket around my head. I close my eyes. I can still see it. I gasp for breath as the edges of my vision blur to black. I can't be the girl who died on the bathroom floor at work.

I launch myself at the toilet again and barely make it. I can't live like this. My stomach is in knots. My legs are trembling. My body is so tense I can't open my hands. Sweat drips down my spine. It feels like kisses. Its almost erotic the feel of the cold trail down my skin. I see it again. I hear their words, feel their touches, and the knife goes through my stomach. Back to the toilet.

I sink down on the floor, my back against the cool tile. They starts silently, the tears, and I let them slip easily into my hair. I lay perfectly still. I open my eyes so wide they hurt and make myself watch the movie playing in my mind projected across the ceiling. I watch it. I study it. I don't even blink.

After it's over I peel myself in layers off the floor and put myself together. My skin feels hot but I'm cold from inside. So cold I can't even shiver. I can't open my hands. I can't feel my heart. I open the door and walk out as though nothing has happened. I feel the rhythm of it in each of my footsteps. I know it so well, felt it so many times. I smile but my heart isn't in it. My heart is somewhere down south, breaking, because my mind can see what my heart doesn't want to hear.

This is the danger of having an open heart.

Saturday, October 7, 2006


Joy and I have deep convos via text. Here; partake.

Joy: Why do girls hang around a guy causally and then say they're dating? Even when he's said he doesn't wanna be in a relationship?
La: Are you talking about me and Psuedo or do you want an unbiased answer?
Joy: Huh? But that was soo different. I know your situation. And you would never say you were dating. Both. Just an opinion.
La: I think a woman's sight sometimes is so beyond that of a man that we can see when things could be really good which makes it harder for us to let go. Because no matter how cynical we are, we're still hopeful. Like with Babe.. I always knew we could be great together but the theory isn't quite as mathmatically sound as the actual equation. But because women posess the ability to look past the moment, unlike many men, they're more likely to get attatched to the theory than the hard numbers of the equation. Get it?

Math is a funny thing. It never changes. It is universally the same. Which is probably why my creative mind can't stand it, has never really been able to fully comprehend it. But you really have no choice to wrap your head aroung it. Because it doesn't change or shift. It is simply fact.

Think back to That Guy. Everybody has one. You know That Guy. The one you couldn't have built any better if you had the opportunity to design him just to tailor fit you. The one that things shoulda been, coulda been so RIGHT with. And yet for some inexplicable reason it didn't work out. You can't figure out why. It drives you crazy. He was everything you wanted and needed. But the math just wasn't right.

I don't guess I have to ever like math. But it still won't change. Still won't make us right together if we were meant to be left.

Friday, October 6, 2006


I wrote this like 5 years ago. I was having a roundtable preparing for a role in a play I was doing and we were talking about love. After telling someone that I didn't want to get married, the question was posed to me as to what it would take for me to fall completely in love, what it would take for me to want to spend the rest of my life with someone. And this is what I wrote:

I want someone I can be bare with. I want someone who puts my soul at ease & my mind at rest. I want someone who excites my spirit and stirs my intellect. I want someone who knows me, inside out, completely and totally and never uses my flaws against me. I want someone who loves me for me. Someone who can make me laugh, and make me cry, someone with whom the very attempt at trying to articulate what I feel for them reduces me to tears. I want someone who loves me completely, not fractionally or marginally, just as much as I love them. No more, no less. I want someone who is intelligent, with whom every conversation is just as free flowing, just as inspiring and as the one before. Even when it is about nothing. I want to still be able to talk to him when we are 80, to have conversations even better than the ones we had in the late nights of the adolescence of our relationship. I want someone who isn't just funny, but is hilarious, who makes me laugh in my darkest hours, and who knows when I don't need to laugh. Someone who knows when I need to be alone in those dark places and doesn't judge or feel misplaced in my life due to my need to care for myself. I want someone who inspires me to poetry, someone who I cannot capture with words on a page, for whom I have to tear up a million pieces of paper because the words I've written do his elegance no justice. I want someone who moves me to sing and makes me finally understand the words to every love song I've ever heard. I want someone with whom every kiss still feels like the first time, still makes my heart speed and my barriers melt. I want someone who is patient of me when my head conflicts with my heart and I can't find the medium between the two forces. I want someone who encourages me to be deeper, stronger, better. I want someone who needs me, who understands if I don't always quite know how to need him. I want someone adventurous, someone who wants to go with me wherever my heart may take us and isn't afraid to let me lead. I want someone who is honest with me, is laid open to me in an intimate way that can only be achieved by carefully built trust. I want someone who will strip me down, but will love me just as much, if not more, when the decorations are few, the distractions are fleeting, and all that's left is who I am and who I hope loving him will make me be.

Still true.

Sunday, October 1, 2006


"Lil mama learn game. And learn it young. Get it down so good that niggas can't even shake you wit it. Learn game like you learned to breathe; make it a habit. And never pull your cards. Aces only win when they played right."

This is something a girl I used to run with used to tell me all the time. She was older than me, a big sister of sorts, that took it upon herself to teach me the things I missed out on from not having an older sister. She used to repeat it all the time like scripture, her inflection never changing, the same intent glare always trapping my eyes to hers.

"Learn it like you learned to breathe; make it habit."

I was fairly manipulative in high school. I never outright lied, I was just a master at redirection. She taught me that too. Well, her and some other well placed influences in my life.
"Mystery is like a rope," she used to say. "You give 'em enough and they'll hang themselves. All you gotta do is cut em down when you're through."

I was young and in need of guidance so I listened, mastered her ways and crafted them into techniques that could suit my own needs. I controlled my boyfriend. I ran my mouth and never got into fights over it. I kept a second string of niggas on the roster just in case my man messed up. They went over and above for me even though they knew I had a man. Because I had them like that.

But I didn't like me much.

"Aces lil mama. Pull your aces," she used to tell me and I perfected it. Reading people, watching them, saying the right thing at the right time, watching their confidence waiver. Aces. I always pulled the right card at the right time. They'd be in awe of me. Wondering how I'd read them so well so easily. Who was I to "get them"? Mystery is like rope...

My timing was impeccable.

But I didn't like me very much back then. I wanted someone to do things for me, not because I'd manipulated them into it but because they wanted to. So I stopped. And just started to be me. No subtle manipulations, no subconscious persuasions. I just let me be me and dealt with whoever came on that honest level.

But sometimes I think honesty can only get you so far. Because many times when you're honest, about who you are, about your faults, about your fears, some will hold it against you like a knife at your throat. They'll exploit your fears, blame situations on you that have no bearings on the truth you've presented them. Many times, they'll use this truth against you, convince you that your feelings are void because of your fears, blame their failures on your faults.

Not all, but some.

At least when I had control over things, I wasn't getting hurt. No, not hurt. Devastated. Well timed aces cut cards, never get cut.

"Learn game like you learned to breathe; make it habit."

I'm thinking on it. I'm learning the ways of people.

And I'm getting better everyday.