Saturday, December 27, 2008

Gravity

I avoid it like the plague. It is my way. Our way, really.


And yet somehow, some way, like gravity, we get pulled together. Objectively I can say that this universal pull is weighted evenly between the both of us. We are intertwined explicitly, probably forever.

Poetic shit like that.

Except our shit is less Love Jones and more Two Can Play that Game now. A ridiculous set of foolishness that you watch when nothing else is on, but you can't help but shake your head at because you know it could be, should be, better than this.

It used to be.


"Wear it."
"I can't."
"Keep it. It's yours. Ours."
"Ok."
"It will be there when I'm not."
"That sounds strange."
"What?"
"You not being there."
"I know, right?"
"It doesn't seem right."

"It isn't. I've loved you almost as long as I've been alive."


The mere demographics of the city, the specific niches in the city that our shared interests inhabit, almost guarantee that we will run into each other even if we avoid each other, like we used to try to do. We are still so inexplicably bonded that it seemed (and still seems) the universe was always conspiring against us, throwing us at each other full force, even when we were running as hard as we could in opposite directions.

"It's crazy how I know you're around before I know you're around."


We'd try, mostly in vain, to keep our distance. But it was inevitable that we'd see someone we once knew when we were We, and with the mere mention of the other's name, that delicate illusion of an island would be shattered. If we were very unlucky, we would be caught completely unaware by our running into each other; we'd look across the room and catch eyes at the same moment. The hair on the back of my neck would stand up straight and I'd know he was coming long before he ever put his large hand on the small of my back, slightly lower than where someone would who isn't as intimately familiar as he with my form.



Blood is hastening it's descent to my head, pooling and whipping ferociously in my ears. I am gasping for air, the pressure on my head mounting with every inch I slide backwards. I feel like I am being choked but his hands aren't around my throat. I feel his hands, large enough to hold an ample thigh in each one, radiating heat through my skin. He's talking to me, no language I could write but we are beautifully fluent. He rides me like a melody, I'm singing the notes and he's laying the track, each sound symphonic in a way unique to Us. His flute beckons me, pied piper to each vertebrae of my spine, arching indiscriminately, drawn to his melody, matching his beat.

We tumble, a blur of blue sheets and multi-hued limbs, his long legs supporting my own, my knees burning. I feel his hands on my hips, up my back, lifting the long hair matted to the center of my spine, twining it around his fingers, pulling. He's wrapped around me, close, his teeth on my ear.
"Tell me you love me."


I think we started reaching out to each other just to alleviate the tension, the surprise of not planning. We both enjoy control, the least of which should be within our power is the wrangling of the memories that are still too vivid, still too alive to all the senses to not be damn near debilitating.

It's easy to forget, when we retreat to our separate corners of the world, that even though we are now just me and him, we used to be Us. It's easy to shrug it off as childish dalliance. To shake our head at who the other has become in our absence. Intellectually, we know we are so far from Back Then.



"Sometimes I still think about us. I mean it's been so long, but I do."
"I don't."
"You don't? Not ever?!"
"No. Not really."
"Wow."
"It's just... it was so long ago. I've moved on. I don't see us together ever again. I don't love you anymore."
"I'm sorry... you what?!"
"I don't love you anymore."



I think I always thought that eventually we would be just memories. In many ways that has proven true, but, verily, we are part of a living history, an alive and breathing thing all unto itself. Impossibly, inexplicably, irrevocably intertwined.


We always come back to this.


"We were good together, once."
"Yep."
"Whenever I tell anyone how long we were together, they can't believe it."
"Yeah me too."
"It was good with us, right?"
"Yeah, it was. We were good together. Back then.
"Yeah. I think about it. I think about it alot actually."


I am, just by the sheer nature of my being, the type of creature that likes to pretend that I burst fully formed on the scene, no past to define me, no memories to haunt me.

I'm a liar to myself, that way.



"I know some things that...we...need to talk about."
"Ok. What do you want me to say?"
"You could say it isn't like I think it is."
"It wasn't. Isn't."
"Or you could just tell me you love me."




I recognize the inevitability of history, it's inherent need therein to be remembered and documented and shared. To be dissected and decided and to eventually, hopefully, become a part of your emotional landscape that still creates a beautiful terrain that you are familiar with. A place that all those that travel to that land afterwards can easily navigate.

Or, you could be us.



"Shawty you what?!?!?"
"Oh, like you even surprised."
"I mean, I'm not, but I am, you know? Shit."
"It was so obvious to everybody else."
"Yo' ass didn't know."
"That's real talk."
"Well, goddamn. You taking this shit a little bit too far, ain't you?"
"What shit?"
"Is there anything wrong with yo' ass."

"Come on now. Let's keep it trill; ain't nothing the fuck wrong with me."



It doesn't matter the evasive maneuvers. We are always found because at the end of the day, we are always us, gravitationally attracted to each other, the polar ends of a magnet still complimentary. We still find each other, fit together like Back Then, even though we are no longer who we once were, are more than We were.



"I hear you're in my city."
"It's more my city than it ever will be yours nigga."
"You been gone too long."
"Shut the fuck up with that bullshit."
"Fine. I heard you in Our City."




Yeah. Here we are.

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Fuckable Forty

There is a man that goes to my gym. Let's call him... Joe.

Joe, to put it plainly, is HOT.
As if it weren't bad enough that Joe looks like a model, is built like an athlete and has a smile that any orthodontist would kill to take credit for, he has the nerve to be incredibly smart, and palpably warm and inviting with that dry, sarcastic wit that I really respond to. Let's not even mention that he owns his own successful financial planning business (and isn't stingy with investment advice on the elliptical), he's a dog lover, a trained chef, and he loves to travel.
Did I also mention that Joe is hot?
Ok just checking.

After his wife passed suddenly about 10 years ago (Yes I know all of this; I am girl-everyone-talks-to, remember?), he has spent the majority of his time working and travelling, learning languages and volunteering (he turned over his firm for a year to his daughter so he could go build houses in New Orleans after Katrina). He is so damn near perfect in fact, that I am fairly certain that this amalgamation of New York street sense and Texan chivalry is but an illusion that my mind has conjured after an hour of cardio.

Except, of course, that he is real.

And also, 41 years old.


I know, I know, he is damn near twice my age. And I should not, by any means be watching him lift weights and be fantasizing about him lifting me.

But alas, the heart (and the nerve center about 2 feet below that) wants what it wants.

It's interesting. In the last year or so, 40-somethings have increasingly come up on my attractive radar. It may be mostly because I am actually in situations where I actually come in contact with this age group (work, social events, networking events, etc), and because I am barely past the age where it shouldn't imply any lingering daddy issues (besides, my dad, while funny, his notsomuch with the hot). But in all the 30-is-the-new-20 rhetoric, have I missed out on the fact that 40 is hotter than all those decades combined?

The wife and I have been talking about this quite a bit, especially since our President is a brilliant and attractive 40something (and his wife looks better I do in my damn in my 20's). Maybe, sacrificed to our culture's obsession with eternal youth, is the notion of how fantastic, how incredible and how, well, hot the entire decade can be. It seems in our panic at turning a new decade (don't even get me started on how many people I know that are "holding" at 29), we forget that the only thing that has changed is a couple of hours. And if 40 looks like this, what in the hell are we scared of? My 20s have certainly sucked; this gives me something to look forward to.

So maybe you disagree but bear with me...


How can you not be wholly attracted to this man, not matter how old he is?



































I defy you to convince me that you didn't spend the entire 2 hours of Ironman as distracted as I did. DEFY.




My Gawd.


In the political arena...

You mean to tell me you don't think this guy (and his brothers) are handsome?























And the man who started it all...




































Seriously, Mr. President? That's how you feel?





And though he is not 40something, but in the spirit of age inappropriate crushes..




Oh, Joey. **swoon** Yall know I love him.



Who did I miss? Let me know in the comments.





I am out of town for 2 weeks! I haven't decided yet if I will blog or not... depends on how sober I am. Have a happy and safe holidays everybody! Love ya :-)

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Random... Because I Have Everything and Nothing to Say

Joy tagged me on Facebook... but since I am rarely all that in depth with my Facebook-ing. I figured I would do it here. Plus, you know, I can't bring myself to write about any of the substantial things I need to write about. Oh well, lol. Here are the rules...





Once you’ve been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 16 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 16 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it’s because I want to know more about you!


1. I am almost scarily clean. Clutter makes it harder for me to think and since my very existence depends on me being able to do just that and overdo it, I keep everything neat. But not just neat. We're talking everything arranged in right angles or by height, or separated by color or type or shape or the order in which I use them. That's right, I'm THAT guy. Bob is gonna hate living with me. :-(

2. When I was younger I wanted to be Jessica Rabbit... literally. and sometimes I still do. I wasn't quite clear on why I couldn't be a cartoon. And furthermore, I felt that if I really could be anything I wanted to be, then why WOULDN'T I pick the ultrahot redhead bombshell? All you kids who wanted to be a smurf, THAT was stupid.

3. I often make up words... and use them so often that I forget they are not in fact real words. I have had to retire my La-speak, and pull out my King's English for job interviewing and such, and often I find myself wanting to say things like 'skepty' which has become a shortened version of 'skeptical' in order to be joined with other words and phrases; i.e. 'giving u the skepty eye'. I don't think that my potential employees will find this practice an indication of my ability to think outside the box.

4. I didn't get my license til I was 21. Mostly because when I was in high school, instead of getting my permit at 15 and then my license like everyone else, my mother had the bright idea to send me to defensive driving before I got mine. Which woulda been fine except we were broke. And I was taking 8 classes (2-3 of which were Honors or AP), in no less than 6 clubs and after school activities, and worked 2 jobs. When the hell was I gonna go?! Luckily I went to college in a city where a car wasn't absolutely necessary, but to this day I maintain that "I want you to take defensive driving" is really just Hebrew for "I wanna know where you are at all times and this is the best way I know to control that."

5. I skipped more class than should ever be allowed in both high school and college. So I see how well that whole thing above worked out for my mom. It all started my 10th grade year when I realized that I could get away with stuff because my teachers liked me and the coaches and resource officers patrolling the hallways in between classes always assumed I was in the hall for a legitimate reason. Pretty soon, I stopped going to classes I didn't particularly wanna sit through, instead opting to go to the library, or go sit in on another class of a favorite teacher. In 11th grade, I was vice president of my class so I had the excuse that I was handling "class business". And my boyfriend was a senior so we spent his senior skip day at his house. Senior year I all but stopped going to class except to take tests, instead opting to go pick up an extra dance class or voice lesson. Unfortunately for my professors, this trend continued throughout college, although I did go with a bit more frequency (when I had to).

6. I have excellent gaydar... now. Despite a number of high profile failings, one in particular, my gaydar is now the intuitive equivalent of a finely tuned Bentley. I am happy to report that since we worked out the last of the software kinks, I have yet to be wrong. I can pretty much pick a homo out anywhere... yes, even via blog. I see you niggas.

7. I used to be deathly afraid of hospitals. Like, to the point where I could only make it a few feet within the door without hyperventilating and passing out. Once, a friend of mine (also deathly afraid of hospitals) was in the hospital so I spent the night camped out on the grass beneath her room window, talking to her before her surgery.

8. I have semi good reason to fear that there is something very seriously wrong with my health... like, if I ignore it could possibly kill me. I refuse to go to the doctor.

9. I once had the opportunity to move to London a few years ago. I can't believe I didn't go. I think about it at least once a week and feel like shit because of it.

10. I am good... at everything. No bullshit. With the exception of parallel parking, which has thus far eluded me, even the things I don't already somehow know how to do, I can pick up and master fairly quickly. I cook things I have never cooked before with no recipe, I can play most sports really well, I read superfast, a million other things that I do without trying and do well. You can feel free to hate me but...

11. I am deathly afraid of doing most of the things I really wanna do because I fear I might actually be as amazing as I think I am.

You don't get it either, huh?

12. I secretly think I am Britney Spears. Ok... not in real life. But I have come to realize why I always cut her so much slack; I have lived a mostly tightly controlled, proper life. I have done and said all the things I am supposed to say and do, been the model student/leader/girlfriend/daughter that I was taught I was supposed to be. With a few notable exceptions, I have always been fairly responsible, and downright wise beyond my years.

And I am SO SICK of the shit.

I find myself wanting to rebel in all sorts of outrageous and extra and foolish ways, only because I haven't before. You know those years everyone has where they spent all their time doing whatever they pleased, worrying little about the consequences, satisfying all their whims, living life, you know, just generally acting their age?
Yeah.
I've never had those.
And I fear my window to do so is closing swiftly. And so, to avoid having some kinda Britney style, head shaving meltdown or a hell of a mid-life, I feel like I should get all of those things out of my system that I haven't truly done before. That being said...

13. Going to Madrid and Paris for my 16th birthday was one of the best moments of my life. Graduation was another. But this tops them both. Isn't that sad?

14. I am OBSESSED with gadgets. I am always searching for the newer, better version of the thing I got a year ago that I absolutely HAD. TO. HAVE. Which is why I really need to work for Apple, ASAP.

15. I always make friends unless I am PMS-ing. I have no idea where I get it from, but I can make a friend pretty much anywhere. I am always talking to strangers. I didn't so much get that memo as a kid that you were supposed to not talk to them. I especially love to make friends when I am travelling. People tell fellow travellers in the airport any damn thing, lol.

16. With the above being said, I am AWFUL at networking. Or at least I am in environments and at events where I am supposed to be networking. I hate it. It feels so forced and pretentious. Can't I just keep the drink and lose the pretenses? Bah.



I ain't tagging nobody, but if, like me, you are at a loss for anything substantial to write about (and if, also like me, you can't seem to be able to finish this list), feel free to steal!

Friday, December 12, 2008

Real Nigga Roll Call

**WARNING: the following post may or may not be suitable for work, depending on if you sit next to a nosy bitch who is always peeking at your computer screen or if you have one of those IT departments that has nothing better to do than to snoop around your visited sites. Mostly, there is a lot of cursing, so it's not suitable for Jam.**








I have been doing a lot of reflecting lately, so I had prepared myself for this beautiful post answering the first of these questions, but then something else pulled my focus. So walk with me for a minute...

Lord knows I try my hardest to disagree with everything that comes out of Diddy's mouth. More often than not, every single thing that nigga coon says is in direct conflict with A. How intelligent I am and B. How intelligent I have to believe he is. So I try to dismiss it as pure coonery and tom foolery.
But maybe he was on to something when he was discussing the epidemic of Bitchassness.

Lately, for some reason, I have been astounded by reports of widespread Bitch Ass Nigga Syndrome from my friends, co-workers, random bloggers, the news, people I eavesdrop on. It is beginning to become quite a serious condition that is affecting all of us. And in the spirit of national unity that my president has inspired, I think we should all do something to help. I have devoted more than a few posts to extreme cases of Bitchassness. I consider this doing my part, raising awareness of the early warning signs.

Such as this one...



If the guy in the office who is smarter/more attractive/more driven than you gets praise, and you spend the next hour on the phone in your cube whispering feverishly and then whining until 5pm when I clock out... you are a bitch.

And since you asked, like only a pussy would, HELL YEAH I'D LET HIM HIT. Have you SEEN this dude?!?

Fucking hater.


You ever fucked with a real dude? I don't mean that in the literal sense. But I mean, have you ever dealt with a truly REAL ASS NIGGA? Personally, trill is an attribute like swagger that, like air, I simply cannot do without. Lord knows I've dealt with a bitch ass nigga a time or two in this here life, but I have also had the distinct pleasure of being involved with some who registered off the meter in trill.


Remember back when you could take niggas at their word? When even the grimiest most criminal dude had some kinda honor to himself as part of his constitution. Remember back when niggas didn't do things like...
... leaving packages of things she left at your place on her doorstep and busting windows out of cars... like a bitch?

What in the bitch nigga hell?


Remember how when a dude was through with you, he actually came out his mouth said he was through rather than acting like an ass til you said it was over...
... rather than calling and crying at 3 o'clock in the goddamn morning on a Tuesday because you cheated on her and want her back?

Remember when a man's idea of grooming was making sure he kept his nails cut short so he didn't scratch you when... well, just so that he didn't scratch you?
... Instead of coming and getting a milk bath soak and body wrap with me.

Oh my God do you remember when dudes could LAY IT DOWN? And I don't mean they were simply just good in bed, I mean all out-sweat-out-your-hair-pull-a-muscle-in-your-back-I-have-absolutely-no-choice-but-to-pass-out-because-I-am-so-completely-worn-out-but-I-cant-wait-to-tell-my-best-friend kinda dick. Just a little note... if you're complaining about having to cuddle with your girl after sex, you have no one to blame but yourself because if you'd fucked her til she PASSED THE FUCK OUT then she wouldn't need to cuddle.
And you mean to tell me there are still niggas in the world that don't eat pussy?

Sir, please go outside and kill yourself.


I am missing men the way they used to be. The ones that didn't take no shit, but didn't have to be overtly aggressive to prove the size of their balls.

The ones that recognized that providing for his family was mandatory, not an option.

Ones that realized that loving a woman with everything they have was a badge of honor, not a flash of weakness.

Men that know how to use a power drill and grill a steak. Men that play hide and seek and set bedtimes. Men that knew how to be self assured without being arrogant.

Who don't talk to me while the Cowboys are playing.

Who wouldn't know cashmere or mink if you wrapped it around a stripper while she gave him a lap dance.

Who recognize that talking louder or more doesn't mean you're saying anything worth listening to.

Who didn't get angry with their partners for trying to get their lives together, instead figuring out how they could get their shit to follow suit.
I miss men who didn't snitch.
Who didn't gossip.

Who knew how to be their mother's son without trying to turn their mother into their wife.



So why is it that we have to settle for this new breed of bitch? We didn't sign up for this shit. Why it is that you, in your childish pursuit of passive aggressive no fault emotional cheating, can't stop pissing her off but yet you can't deal with her being angry? Get off the fence. Your balls have got to hurt from straddling it so long.


I think the issue is that for too long, women have been the ones complaining and reporting these instances of Bitch Ass Nigga Syndrome. I would think that more real niggas would be complaining about it; after all you are the ones that end up looking bad. Or are you too much of a dying breed, too concerned with fighting off extinction that you don't have time to speak out?


I'm not sure what the case is. However, I certainly do wish that there were more men hollering present when the real nigga roll is called so less women were hollering about dogs.





If nothing else, do it for me. I can't stand these whiny bitches any more than you can.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

I Don't Wanna Grow up, I'ma Toys R Us Kid...

By virtue of being the oldest, I naturally believe that I am the smartest, the wisest when it comes to all matters trivial and beyond.

But I'll be damned if my little brother isn't trying to prove me wrong.

Last night as I was pretending that I didn't have insomnia, my little brother texted me to tell me he was having yet another major surgery this week (see how I'm glossing right over that? See the glossing? **covering my ears** la la la la la la la la la la la laaaaaaaaaa) and we started texting back and forth for the better part of three hours or so. It was probably the best conversation I have had in a very long time.

Somewhere around around three, I texted Joy...

Um... when did this child get to be so SMART?!?!?




It was quite a beautiful thing to recognize that my brother is no longer the impressionable kid who may or may not have let me put him in the dryer just to "see what it was like". Sure, I hope against all hope that he still thinks I am the coolest thing since Scooby Doo in technicolor, but I realize that he is his own person, with his own definitive ideas.

He's like, almost a grown up.


So after I have a slight anxiety attack, and then sob into my pillow that is already damp from the tears I'd cried earlier, I decided to indulge him. I tried to measure my words so that I could give him advice or spur him to say something without him feeling like I was judging or being overbearing. We talked about everything from video games to college to religion. At one point, after he'd made a particularly vague point about God, I asked him to clarify his position and prayed the entire time I was waiting on his next message, please God don't let my little brother be some kinda Bible thumping Jesus freak he sent me this:

I don't really believe there is a god as in only one superior being watching
over us and having all the power in the universe... I'm more on the positive and
negative energy kind of thinking, as in the way we use those energies affect our
lives... to me there is something like God but it isn't necessarily a being; its
the universe and the way the energy within makes things happen.



I'm sorry... WHAT SIR?!??!?! Did I mention my brother is 19 years old?!?! Granted, I don't necessarily share his view, but I WISH I could have articulated my religious beliefs that well at his age. And as if that wasn't bad enough, he went on to talk about religious doctrine (specifically Christianity) as it relates to slavery, stem cell research, abortion, separation of church and state, slavery, civil rights, The Crusades, terrorism, segregation, the historical accuracy of the book of Revelations, and masturbation.

Oh my God. My little brother said masturbation.


I cannot.


Even more interestingly enough, we discovered that we both have very different ideas of what it was like for us growing up together, but separate. As we talked, it was nice to be able to fill in the blanks for him, to be able to gently correct some of the inaccuracies he'd been told. It was nice to be able to talk about what it was like for me growing up, and have the person responding be someone who was a part of that living history. I recognize that he is at that age now where he will either find out or need to be told some of the things that were kept from him because he was a child. But I enjoyed just getting inside his head a little, I appreciated the honesty. Who knew we both thought that we both thought the other was better liked?


ohmygodmylittlebrothersaidmasturbation



I am incredibly in awe of how smart he is, how funny and opinionated, and sure of himself he is at 19. Hell, at 19 I was a drunken, reeling, emotional mess, despite my other positive qualities. Who the hell raised this kid? lol


As I sit at my desk at work, surrounded by pictures of him from shortly after he was born, all the way up to high school, I can't help but smile at this new picture I have of him as it exists; an incredibly intelligent, astute and handsome young man who is rapidly outgrowing the childhood that I treasure. Sure, it's bittersweet, but it's kind of amazing to witness as well.

Monday, December 8, 2008

Love and _____ and Want you Baby

"Need was like a weed, a virus, a mold. Once you admitted to it, it spread
and ruled."



I wish I were more like Joy. She thinks that love should always win. Though I can't bring myself to cosign, I have always believed that there is a particular strength in that mindset, a certain hopeful fearlessness, that very few people have the cajones to posses, let alone govern their lives by.

Least of all, me.


See, I am less familiar with the land of Faith and more comfortable in the land of Real; people lie. They cheat. They steal. They fall in love. They get married. They get divorced. They spend the rest of their lives hating themselves and the other for ever loving the other. Real people have regrets. Things fall apart.

That isn't to say that I believe that Joy is anyway immune or naive to these things. No, instead she possess a certain balance, if you will, that I cannot seem to ascertain myself.

And kinda don't want to...?


I have never been particularly comfortable with having needs. Or rather, certain needs. The need to eat? Of course. Sexual needs? I'm all over that. But my life has been engineered and lived in such a way that has taught me the inherent danger in needing certain things, in needing someone.

Personally, I'd rather not.

"Need was like a weed, a virus, a mold..."


It kinda takes over you, doesn't it? Needing? Not to be confused, of course, with needy. But it always seemed to me that the danger in needing was not necessarily the possibility of being disappointed; any and all interaction, even that of a non-emotional nature, bears the possibility of that. And moreover, it's simply just stupid to think that avoiding interaction with people will protect you from disappointment. That isn't gonna happen.

But rather, the danger always seemed to me what happens after a need isn't fulfilled...

How do you deal with the possibility that your needs may not be being met by the very person that you need? And how do you reconcile that with the fact that not only has the need not been met, but you still need it?


I will cop to resentment (of myself mostly) when I feel as though there is something I need that I cannot somehow satisfy myself. And while I recognize that being a completely self satisfying creature in and of itself is improbable, if not impossible, I still feel that way. But what I resent even more is catering to the needs of others, no matter how unhealthy or hurtful, and still not having my needs met.

I resent that shit.

So much so in fact that it makes me question why I even bother.


I recognize, in my more objective moments, that I bother because it is my nature, because it is human to desire to be both needed and to need someone else. I know intellectually that I try because I am a good person, because I am, by the design of life experience, a nurturer who wants more than anything to provide a place where the people that I love can feel free to be themselves, no matter how ugly themselves may be at the time. That is important to me. It is a part of who I am. And maybe I have no always done enough to maintain a balance in this endeavor, but it's a part of me. And one that I am proud of.

I know, even more than that, I try because it matters to me and it's important.


But some days I just wanna be like, fuck it.


At this point, I can't think of much I have to show for it.
Unless you count my weight in gold in the currency of resentment, of course.


"Once you admitted to it, it spread and ruled."

Admittedly, I have always struggled with a deep seated fear of admitting to needing someone or something. Mostly because, when I was younger, I believed that doing so gave someone else a certain amount of control or power over you that I have never been altogether too comfortable with relinquishing. I recognize as I get older, that this isn't really the case unless you are dealing with a controlling and superbly flawed individual. (Which I have been known to do.) But rather I find, that in the instance of gambling on the possibility that the people in my life can somehow serve the needs that I expect them to, I am losing far too much. I keep losing the gamble.

And I can't afford that shit.


I wish I were more like Joy. Not in the way that I wish we were more similar, but more so that I could bring myself to believe that the gamble was always worth it. Because I don't.
And more and more, I start to believe that I am right.


Love always wins...it's the lovers that sometimes lose.

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

Blah. **UPDATED**

Hey people!



First things first... thanks for all your well wishes about my brother. He is out of the hospital and home and doing well. :-)



I am all over the place and trying to come up with a real post for you guys but you will have to deal with this randomness like...





I spent my Thanksgiving in Vegas/L.A. What did you do? **batting my eyelashes innocently**





I finally got a new camera. I am pretty sure that it is all I need in this world to survive... that and some more Roscoe's. Jesus. SOOOOO good, lol



Speaking of LA... I got to meet mia. She is every bit as gorgeous, fantastic, warm and funny as I thought she would be. It's ok to be jealous. We understand.

We also went to see BBD at the House of Blues on Sunset.





I'll hold for your jealousy and hatred...





If BBD comes to your town on tour (because, oh yes, they are TOURING) then do yourself a favor and GO!!! It was a damn good show. Probably the best I have seen since Stevie Wonder. Pics and a video of Poison will be posted later.



GO SEE THEM!!!!





Why is it that I get so completely swept up in the last scene from The First Wives Club when they are singing "You Don't Own Me"? It's gotta be one of my all time favoritest scenes from a movie. So much so that I have the song on my ipod. And may or may not have busted out singing it in the middle of LAX... complete with choreography.












Anywho, forgive this lack of a real post. I'll work on it... maybe. Or, I'll tell you that I will but instead will settle in for a Clean House Marathon. Either or.



So far my holiday season doesn't suck horribly. Let's hope it sticks!!! lol



P.S.

I just saw this video on Perez Hilton and nevermind that I agree with almost every point that is made, the most important thing is...

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA! THIS SHIT IS FUNNY!!! LOL

See more Jack Black videos at Funny or Die