Thursday, August 30, 2012


(day 30 of 30 in 30)
I was gchatting with a friend about the bittersweetness tha taccompanied dropping her little sister off for college. We started talking about all the dumb things we did at that age, neither of us having big sisters, or any older siblings for that matter, to guide us along the way. For both of us, there were tons of things we had to learn during those years on our own while growing into women away from home. The general consensus was that we learned a lot, but mostly too late. Learning by failing were really what our late teens and early twenties were all about. We were trying to brainstorm all the advice we could give her baby sister that we’ve come to know as women that we wished we’d be armed with when we entered college. These are a few things I know for sure, a la Oprah.

1.       Not everybody gets to make the trip with you.
I don’t mean the literal trip of leaving home and going off to college or a new city or whatever the circumstances may be. What I had to learn, as I think all young people do, is that not everyone will make it to the end of my life with me. They might not even make it to the end of school or the end of the semester. And that is ok. You will outgrow some people. Some people will change into people that you don’t particularly like or don’t want around or just aren’t good for you. And some people simply don’t deserve to bear witness to how you build your life. That is all ok. And the sooner you figure that out, the more heartbreak you will save yourself.

2.       Good dick is not love.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Fix You

(day 29 of 30 in 30)

I have a difficult relationship with being “fixed.”
It goes without saying, I believe, that I could certainly use some fixing. And lord knows I could use some guidance or support while fixing. But I have never been particularly fond of the idea of letting someone else “fix me.”
Saviors usually get the ultimate side eye from me. You know, the people whom have never met a problem they couldn’t run into headfirst and come out the other side, preferably with some hopeless, hapless prince or princess by their side to lavish in the spoils with them. Not because they aren’t great people or because I don’t believe their intentions to be good. But because I have known too many Fixers.

Monday, August 27, 2012

Talk that Talk

(day 27 of #30 in 30)

We’re standing on the curb waiting for the valet to pull my car around. He’s behind me, his arms laced loosely around my neck and shoulders, his chin resting on top of my curls, his entire front pressed against my entire back. We don’t find ourselves particularly in need of words. Periodically he leans down to whisper something in my ear. Or worse, to drag my sensitive earlobe with his teeth. I struggle to keep my face passive for the passerby.
The valet comes, giving him the keys to my car. If I were in a different space, I would be irritated by the slight, the assumption that he must be driving. But as it stands, I am more concerned with retightening my usually iron grip on my self control. And besides, I was going to let him drive anyway. He feels like he should drive, some old fashioned Southern thing he picked up from his daddy and his grandfather and a long line of men that open doors and drove and walked on the outside of the curb. And this small thing I can surrender.
It’s the surrender of everything else that concerns me.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012


(day 22 of 30 in 30)

I’ve always had a complicated relationship with longing.

As I am deeply pragmatic almost to the point of extreme, it is not a feeling I am all that terribly acquainted with. I like it this way. Longing is the type of emotion that I cannot process on any sort of intellectual level because it makes no rational sense to me. You want something. You crave it with all your being. But, for whatever reason, you can’t have it. So, why continue to long?

But we do, don’t we? Certainly I do. The intervals at which I feel a longing, a tugging at my heart for something I cannot have, are so few and far between that it feels like the first time. Every time. I am never any better at dealing with it.

I keep telling myself it is natural. It is human. To want. To crave. That it doesn’t make me less than or weak or faulty or flawed.

But I never believe me.

Monday, August 20, 2012

Limited Engagement

(day 19 of 30)

There was a time in my online life, harkening way back to the days of BlackPlanet, when I felt it necessary to respond to everyone. Every message, every comment got a response. And as time wore on, the same thing proved true for MySpace and blogs and Facebook comments and emails and IMs. No matter what the comment, if I had anything of value to add or not, whether it was convenient for me or not, everything got a response.

Sunday, August 19, 2012

This is a Story About Control

(day 18 of 30 in 30)

Today totally got away from me.

I woke up after a fitful sleep with a plan for my day. Errands to run. People to see. Grocery shopping. Some jobs to apply for. Some cleaning that needs to be done desperately.

Somehow, with heading out for brunch (read: bacon and mimosas), all of that got thrown out the window. I am just getting home now, well after 11pm. I accomplished little or nothing on my to do list.

I find this is happening to me more and more lately; I set out with a plan and end up somewhere else completely. The thing is, everything is still kinda working.

Friday, August 17, 2012


(day 16 of 30 in 30)

Sometimes when I write deeply personal things like the last couple posts, it takes a lot out of me. It makes me wonder why, all these years later, I'm still writing. If I share too much, say too much too openly to strangers. Not all of whom would wish me well.

I always reach an impasse with this conversation; maybe it's too much but would I have some stranger silence me?

But still, writing as I do sometimes makes me tired. This is no excuse for missing yesterday's post. But it is why.

This post is nothing but an excuse, no matter how valid it feels. I recognize that.

I slid this post in right as the door shut on today.

I'm still here. Tired and leery. But writing and, somehow, even at an impasse, unburdened.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Sleep Walking

(day 14 of 30 in 30)

My day goes like this;
I wake up, in general 30 minutes later than I need to, effectively rendering my ability to put on a full face of makeup null and void. “Good Morning” plays, softly at first, then gradually growing louder. I am usually fully awake by the time Kanye says, “You got D’s mufucka, D’s! Rosie Perez…”
I lie there for awhile, convincing myself mightily to get out of bed. Before I even open my eyes, my mind shifts from park directly into 3rd gear. I am overrun with to do lists and deadlines and errands and the stresses I wrestled with the night before until I passed out from exhaustion before I even brush my teeth.

Monday, August 13, 2012


(day 13 of 30 in 30)

A few years ago, seated at the breakfast bar in a far flung aunt’s kitchen in St. Louis, my grandmother said the thing I have been avoiding admitting to myself for quite some time. We had stumbled onto the subject of my daddy, both of us lamenting the fact that he was missing yet another holiday with his family (this one Thanksgiving) due to work and shaking our head knowingly at each other. She turned to me, her eyes the same greenish blue as my daddy’s and said, “He is just like his daddy was.” I opened my mouth to ask her a question but before I could start she interrupted saying, “And you are just like your daddy.”

Sunday, August 12, 2012

I Missed a Post for #30in30

(Day 12 of 30 in 30)

I totally thought I posted yesterday. Except notsomuch. I have absolutely nothing of any importance to say. So instead, a random assortment of things. This is all I got.

1. I have had a zoo's worth of assorted pets. In my lifetime I have had; a turtle. At least half a dozen fish. A cat. Two guinea pigs. A lizard. And no less than six dogs. I am missing a few. If I could I would own; horses. Two orange cats named Cheeto and Dorito. A couple more German Shepherds. And probably a couple black labs. A pig or two. A chinchilla. Possibly some rabbits. And a large tank full of fish. Apparently, I think I am Dr. Doolittle.

2. I desperately need to stop watching Investigation Discovery. Every single show on that channel is geared towards convincing the audience that every person you will encounter, date, marry, be treated by at the hospital, or cut off on the highway is in fact a latent serial killer. It's not good for me, lol.

3. Regularly while at the gym, I find myself singing aloud or twirking in public to whatever I am listening to while working out. I have embarrassed myself and the race countless times. For that I am sorry.

4. In the next few months, I will pay off my car. I am constantly paranoid that something will happen in the meantime to keep me from this milestone. Some financial tragedy or an accident or something of the sort. It is a terrible feeling but I have no idea how to get rid of the anxiety.

5. To that end though, I am going to enjoy a few years of not having a car note while I aggressively pay down my student loans. But I am pretty sure when I'm ready for another car note, I will be buying a Camaro. Probably white. I will name it Lisa Raye and keep a pre-printed ticket book in my glove compartment for all the tickets I am sure to get.

6. Gas prices just ain't never trying to go back down, huh? I have made some semblance of peace with how much it costs me to fill up my truck, but DAWG. THESE AIRLINE TICKETS. Fall/Winter is always travel heavy for me, but the airline industry is not trying to make it easy for me. Or at least not without pushing me to turn to a life on the pole.

7. I rarely if ever enjoy the popular books everyone else does. You know how everyone else was breathlessly in love with The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo? I never finished it. I tried four times. I'm not here for it. The same goes for all the Game of Thrones series, that God awful 50 Shades of Gray shit, and probably pretty much everything everyone has unequivocally loved over the last 5 years. The only exception is The Hunger Games.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Chivalry is Dead Because You Weren't Chivalrous in the First Place

(Day 9 of 30 in 30)

You know what thing I hate to see RTed on the Twitter almost more than anything?

"Maybe more men would stand up and be men if women would sit down and be ladies."

Or whatever that trite, patriarchal trope is.

I hope you know that every time you RT that or anything of the sort, an adorable, chubby little cherub has its wings savagely ripped from its body and is tossed down from heaven into a pool of acid by its big toe.

I won't bother breaking down the actual saying and its so-steeped-in-patriarchy-it-hurts wording. I won't waste time explaining all the reasons why anything that involves me "sitting down" so that I might be considered "a lady" by some as-yet unidentified, presumed authority on the subject (who also presumably has a penis) is likely not something I'm interested in doing. Nor will I even begin to entertain heteronormative standards or the politicization of gender roles, as I believe any discussion of the sort will go over most heads. Instead I will say this, as I have said hundreds of times and will continue to yell until I am blue in the face;

Do the right thing because it is THE RIGHT THING. Not because of how someone might react to it. But simply because it is THE RIGHT THING.

If “being a man” in whatever iteration, by whatever definition, is important to you, then BE THAT. DO THAT. Be that man you desire to be because it is your desire, because you feel convicted about it, because you feel it is the right thing to do. And any shortcomings that you may experience in becoming or being that man? Accept them as your own failures. Don’t blame them on the supposed inability of a woman to “let you be a man.”

But even the “sit down and shut up so men can be men” thing is old. The newest thing is, “chivalry is dead because women killed it.”

Oh my God, the bullshit. It strangles me.

You mean to tell me you were so wishy washy in your chivalrous ways that a stranger not saying thank you for you opening a door was enough to make you stop doing it? Or a woman hollering about how independent she is and how she "don't need you to do anything for her" suddenly sucked all the chivalry clean from your body? (If I had the patience I’d delve into how no man wants an evolved, independent woman until it’s time to discuss picking up the tab, but today is not the day for that.) You mean to tell me all it took for you to decide to not be chivalrous anymore was the manner in which some woman or a group of women reacted to it?

Or was it, as I suspect, that IT'S NOT WHO YOU ARE IN THE FIRST PLACE. But rather an act you wear like a costume to get a certain reward; a pretty woman's number, another date, a pat on the southern head. And when that hasn't worked out for you, when, God forbid, a woman dare not positively reinforce you doing just the bare minimum of common human decency, you decided women killed chivalry.

The truth of the matter is, if this is who you were at your core, and not a behavior you were willing to exhibit so long as it gets you a favorable outcome, no amount of doors held open without thank yous or I-am-woman-hear-me-roars could take it from you. Instead, you fake it ‘til you make it and then blame women when you can no longer manage the disguise.

I don't accept this.

Therein lies the root of every piece of bullshit disguised as “advice” being dream sold to women across the Internet and in newspapers and magazines every single day; somehow our failings are all fault. We are too much or too little or too big or too small or too loud or too smart or too conscious or too something. But then also, our predilection for being "too" is the reason for YOUR bad behavior. Your failures are our fault. And no one gives even a parcel of a fuck about personal responsibility. Everything is, if women would just _____ then men would ______. Everything is our fault. It's our fault you cheat because we're not sexy/skinny/whorey enough. It’s our fault you rape because we left the house in shorts/a dress/any article of clothing deemed slutty. It’s our fault you hit because we talk back and we provoke. Our fault you leave your children because we shouldn't have given away the milk for free and maybe if we just didn't nag you so much. Our fault you date outside your race and lie and tell us on the street to smile and grope us in the public places and that you don't let women off elevators first or walk on the outside on the sidewalk.

The simple fact of the matter is this; if you predicate your behavior based on someone else's response, you've already lost. Hard. Spectacularly.

You fail.
This goes for everything.

Maybe this is me being too optimistic. Maybe I am giving (heterosexual) men more credit than they deserve. Maybe you really are baseless, craven creatures incapable of monogamy or controlling your sexual urges, prone to violent outbursts of jealousy and possession and incapable of emotion. Maybe. But I don't buy it.

I think that's a bullshit excuse some jackass hell bent on excusing and projecting his bad behavior has peddled, that other people bought because the package was all shiny and, ‘cuz, SCIENCE!  And because it’s easy. You aren’t responsible for what you say and do. Those damn women are!
It just kills me that so many of you are buying into it.

Either way, y'all gotta stop killing the heavenly cherubs out here. Pretty soon they will be the only ones still opening doors.

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Grown up Clothes

By very nature of the field I work in, as well as thanks to having lost a significant amount of weight recently, I am running into a sincere problem; I don’t have any grown up clothes.
Clothes to be casually cute for brunch on weekends? I am all over that. Club clothes just classy enough to say I have a daddy and a degree at home but that also let you know I might sweat my hair out if the DJ does a southern set? I’M SOLID. But age appropriate clothes to wear to work and/or job interviews?
My field, and my job in particular, is decidedly casual, so my work uniform generally consists of the same things I might wear to brunch (jeans and a cute top) and swapping out my weekend impossibly high heels for sensible flats or Nikes. In the winter the top becomes a sweater or cardigan. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Now don’t get me wrong, I have some work appropriate suits and dresses. And Lord knows I have more than enough pairs of heels to last me a few decades. But the vast majority of those things are too big for me now. Or, they are smaller but out of style. Or smaller but a bit too small.
It’s always something.
I find myself needing to rebuild my wardrobe. But I hardly know where to start. I need to start buying new pieces and phasing old things out. But herein lies another problem; I hate shopping.
I mean, I love getting new clothes. New shoes or bags or new anything really. But I HATE having to actually leave my house to accomplish this. Malls make me anxious. Messy stores are like sticks poking at my OCD. I am prone to calling out rude or inattentive sales people, and most food courts are ticking time bombs to my diet. I always prefer shopping online. This of course becomes a problem when buying clothes as I, of short stature and ample cleavage and hips, ALWAYS need to try things on. And there’s the hassle of sending it back if it doesn’t fit or heading to the store anyway for an exchange and… *falls out*
There’s also a little matter of my taste far outpacing my income, but that is neither here nor there.
At some point I have to start dressing like a grown up. I just hope it’s at no point this week.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

At Some Point I Turned into Cameron Diaz

(Day 7 of 30 in 30)
After lunch with my favoritest and most unattainable boo Saturday, I set off into the sunshine to run some errands. I had hair products to pick up. Maybe get my truck washed. Return a dress that turned out to be too big for me. And, most importantly, get some gelato I convinced myself I deserved despite having four martinis at lunch because, hey, it isn’t as fattening as the cupcake I actually wanted so it was a suitable substitute.
(As an aside- I have no idea if this is true. But that is what I told me. And I believed me. And I DARE YOU to try to convince me otherwise. Namaste.)
I drove all out of my way to go to my favorite gelato place. I walked in, greedily inhaling the sweet scent of forbidden foods, and stopped short to stare at a man already at the counter who looked like “What if David Beckham had another 15 pounds of muscle on him?” The answer; It is amazing.
I smiled, secretly hoping I didn’t have spinach from lunch in my teeth, and stepped to the counter to order from the sweet, young queen behind the counter who always has a compliment for my makeup or my shoes. I was trying really hard to focus on our conversation but I kept sneaking glances at David Beckham lite. I was plotting my approach when he made the first move.
“Hi, I’m Joe.”
“Hey Joe, I’m La.” He reached out to shake my hand. He had huge hands and a firm grip. I tried my hardest to climb out of the gutter where I briefly took up residence.
We made flirty small talk, as we made our way to the register where he paid for my gelato. We stepped to the side to exchange numbers, our convo an easy volley back and forth.
“Maybe,” he says tucking his phone back into his pocket after saving my number, “you can buy gelato next time after I buy dinner.”
“Maybe,” I reply coyly, throwing the words over my shoulder as we part, “but you’ll never know until you call.” I gave him my warmest, orthodontia assisted smile and turned around to walk away.
And walk right into the glass window next to the door I intended to push open.
Have you ever walked into plate glass? I have. Many times. It makes this solid, echoing thud that gets the attention of whoever is close by but might have missed you actually running into it. And to add insult to injury, I had dropped the cold gelato directly down my top.
I stood there, motionless and embarrassed, unwilling to turn around and see how many people are stifling giggles at me. Instead I faked left and spun around an older couple coming in the door, and hightailed it to my car.
I suppose that was the universe’s way of telling me I shoulda went to the fucking gym.

Accepted Everywhere You Wanna Be

(Day 6 of 30 in 30)

“Hey, beautiful girl.”
“Uh oh. What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t get it.”
“Wait- are you serious?!”
“I can’t believe this shit.”
“Me neither.”
“I’m so sorry, baby.”
“Me too.”
“Damn. I wish I could at least give you a hug or something.”

We both sigh on opposite ends on the country. But for different reasons.

“Are you walking outta work?”
“Yeah. On my way to the gym.”
“Skip the gym.”
This catches my attention. Mostly because he never tells me to skip the gym. For any reason of any kind. Not rain or snow or sleet. I am the goddamn USPS when it comes to making Zumba class because of him. Although I should admit, my waistline thanks him.

You’re telling me to skip the gym?”
“Yep. We gotta Skype date.”
“I don’t know…” I trail off, mostly because I don’t feel like being charming or funny or, to be quite frank, nice to other people when I am feeling so shitty. There is also a small part of me that is feeling a bit vain; my hair is barely fluffed into a presentable halo of curls. I have been reeling from this disappointing news for days, and I haven’t bothered to put on any makeup. My boobs look cute though, so this gives me some hope.

“Yep. Gonna make a deal with you. Tomorrow we both gotta go spin. But tonight, we eat French fries and Skype. Deal?”

I smile. Bigger than I have in a few days. He is sweet in ways I have been unfamiliar with for a very long time. And he has lured me with the promise of my favorite food to emotionally eat, that I haven’t in many pounds.
“Small fries.” Now I hear him smiling on his end of the phone.
“Deal. I’ll see you in an hour, pretty.”

A little over an hour later, I am curled up on my bed, bouyed by fries and the touch of lipgloss I slipped on right before I logged in. We are chatting and laughing, and against my better judgement, I am smiling at his face on my computer screen.
“I really am sorry, you know.”
“I know you are.”
“I thought it would work out for you. I really did.”
“Me too. Though, I would think you would want things to work out this way.”
“What?! Why?”
“Cuz for every professional setback I endure, I get closer and closer to moving there and just becoming your wife and a stay-at-home mom.”
“Well, I would love you here, of course. But not if it meant you had to be miserable to get you to me.”

I lay back across the bed, his voice in my headphones, appreciative of him being him. And basking in being wanted. Somewhere.

Even if somewhere isn’t where I am.

Monday, August 6, 2012


(Day 4 of 30 in 30)
I am at the point where I don’t want advice. Or, rather I should specify, I don’t want clichéd advice. I am uninterested in “time heals all wounds” or “just have faith” or “it wasn’t meant to be.” Mostly, because it is all bullshit.

But even more so because there is nothing inherently helpful in any statements of the like. It isn’t about helping me or guiding me. It isn’t about lending me any assistance of any real, tangible worth. More often than not it is about the mutterer of these words, their own need to feel as though they have helped without actually having to get involved or give of themselves. It makes them feel better. They are giving me what they feel comfortable giving.

And I don’t want it.

Friday, August 3, 2012

Doing it Well

(Day 3 of 30 in 30)

I know it’s not popular, and I’m not supposed to say it. ‘Cuz I’m a woman. ‘Cuz it’s shallow. And… some other reasons y’all have that I don’t entirely understand.
But in all the lofty, lovely qualities everyone lists that they desire in a partner, why does nobody ever mention they want to have great sex with them?
Maybe great sex isn’t that important to you. Really. (My theory on this is that you have not had great sex and therefore know to miss it, but that is all another story for a day that is not this one.) But here’s what I know; some of you are lying to yourselves. A lot. And I remain unconvinced.
It’s important to say here that sex is not the most important thing in a happy, healthy, functioning relationship. I suffer no illusions about that. Good sex has never been able to make clean a mess of a relationship. That being said, you mean you would have me to believe that having vanilla to mediocre sex for the rest of your life WOULDN’T FAZE YOU IN THE LEAST?
I call bullshit.
I get it though. We are socialized, especially as women and certainly as black ones, to not admit to enjoying sex, wanting sex, craving sex. Those of us who grew up religious have an even more stringent set of standards about discussing sex and its importance and hey- isn’t it just for procreation anyway? So I suppose admitting that you like it purely for carnal recreation and would like to have as much of it as amazingly as possible to continue to live a happy life, is too much of a stretch. We wouldn’t want someone (read: men) to think we were that kinda girl.
Our issues with our sexual proclivities, or lack thereof are varied and intricate and individual to us all and deeply and thoroughly psychological. But I will be the first to say it; I need to have amazing sex with a long term partner. As often and as un-vanilla as possible. I am not sorry about this.
I can imagine spending a lifetime with someone without the dizzying, out-of-control feeling of being completely and 200% monkeyfuck crazy in love with someone. But living a lifetime with someone with whom I have dispassionate, perfunctory sex? With no period of can’t-keep-our-hands-off-each-other-call-out-to-stay-home-and-go-at-it-all-day-hey-can-we-try-this-new-position-we-aren’t-going-to-make-it-home-pull-the-car-over-right-here-can’t-even-manage-to-get-all-our-clothes-off mind blowing sex?
I am not so young and naïve that I believe this type of reckless sexual passion will last forever. It’s the reason that sex can’t sustain you. But I would be lying if I said the idea of being old and gray with someone and turning to them and saying, “Remember that time we did it up against that tree in that vineyard?” didn’t make me quite happy.

I Gotta do WHAT for a Grown Ass Man?!?!

(Day 2 of 30 in 30)

I won’t even lie.
Spending the last week or so hanging out with a secondary group of friends, mostly married, some with kids, their stories peppered with  mentions of “my husband’ and “the house” and “when we were in (insert country here)” all punctuated by gesturing hands topped with glittering rings made me feel some kinda way. It often does. Partially because in all the years I have known these women, I have often been single (though, it stands to note, that these are not the friends I would be particularly pressed to bring a boo around). And partially because, you know, my mama. And the constant reminders everywhere I turn that something must be wrong with me. It wears on you after a while, no matter what your feelings on the subject.
But in the same vein of honesty I also have to admit; hearing these smart, funny, gorgeous women (who are by no means Stepford wives rendered two-dimensional or stripped of personality by marriage the way some might have you believe all women are) talk about how they had to pack for their husbands to make sure they remembered to bring underwear on long trips, or the trials of pregnancy and motherhood and all the trappings that typically go with married-with-2.5-kids-a-dog-and-a-house, I felt relief wash over me in big, overwhelming waves I can barely explain. I was overwhelmingly glad to be going to a big bed I can sprawl out in and that when I want to get up and go, to the store, to Atlanta, to Jamaica, I absolutely can. That when I buy something I have no business buying, I have no one pouring over our shared credit card bills and questioning how much I spent. That on any given day I can shut myself off from civilization with the shows I have DVRed for myself and watch them in my bed in my panties without worry for do I need to cook for him? Where is he? What do I need to do for us for ____ event? Did he pay this bill? Did he do this thing? “My husband”, “my kids”, him, him, them, us, he he he.
I won’t pretend I don’t often wish I was sharing my big Sunday dinners with someone. Or of going to see movies with someone other than my mama. Or extending the list of cities and countries I have made the sex in with a significant other when I travel. But after leaving my friends and dragging my sweaty, exhausted self into the shower and then bed, I lay there, diagonally of course, incredibly grateful of being exactly where I should be for what I’m ready for. And not a single thing else.

Thursday, August 2, 2012


I'm going to attempt to do this challenge Muze hipped me to via Aliya S. King. The challenge is to write 30 posts in 30 days. It's gonna be...a challenge.

Not just because I have a life outside of blogging and twitter and all. But because in all honesty, I am not a finisher. I start things strong, sure, all caught up in the newness and the planning and execution. But I'm afraid if it isn't work related, where my inbred ambition overcomes my hard wired faults, my Aries tendency towards easy boredom lends itself nicely to brainstorming and conceptualizing but not always crossing the finish line.

I have pages of unfinished stories. Pictures unorganized into albums and canvases half painted. I have journals half filled with ink stained pages, with pristine, untouched pages in the back. I have people I've not seen to The End.

That's really a story for another day though.

In all honesty, this could well be one of those things I don't finish. But I'm hoping you'll hold me accountable. I need the discipline. If not for me, then for all the ideas I have worth finishing.