The Next Thing

25 Books to Read in my 25th Year

2012-01-29T16:23:00.001-05:00

Friends Elysia and Joseph on one of annual trips to Hyde Brothers Books in Fort Wayne, IN

Every writer I've met has a list of books they've been meaning to read but never have the time to get to. People have always assumed I read everything because I'll read anything. I am one of the fortunate few whose knowledge of what makes a "good" book has never hindered them from enjoying a really shitty one. What can I say? It's a gift.

Some of the books I left at my grandmothers when I went to college. No wonder my love life has been so twisted.

Now that I'm 25 years old, I think it's high time I cross fire and death to defeat this Balrog of a list. Also, reading a list of 25 books is on my original list here. <---That list is the big list. The ultimate. That's the one that has to have every single thing completed by my next birthday. Which means I'll be submitting a story for publication in the next two days. I don't even want to talk about it. But I kind of do. But I won't. Yet.

This was the wrong Indiana winter to decide to do winter activities I'd never done before. I want to go ice-skating but I wanted it to be outside. But the weather here has been so globally-warmed I'm not sure whether or not I'll get to do that one this winter. I blame James Franco.

I started my 90 days of 750 Words a Day challenge today and I wrote over 1000 words. This is not a game.

Sending mail is so much fun guys. Sending notes and letters and packages is just....the best. When you send mail, PEOPLE WILL SEND YOU MAIL BACK! I've gotten beautiful handmade cards, wonderful messages that lift my heavy-booted spirit, and this past week I got a mix CD I haven't stopped listening to since it arrived (Thanks, Jordan!).

Not to mention buying new stamps is perhaps the most exhilarating thing you can do on a chilly (yet unseasonably warm) Midwestern day. I have stamps that commemorate the America Negro Baseball Leagues as well as ones that honor legendary actor Gregory Peck. Oh! I also have some gorgeous ones with a single sailboat painting on them. I'll save my gushing about my stationary for another day. But rest assured, there will be gushing.

In any event, things are moving right along. I'm feeling really good about this year and I'll be damned if it doesn't seem like this year is feeling really good about me too. Now, here's my list of books. Maybe you'll read some of them with me? Oh, you already read them all? Shade.

Lord of the Flies by William Golding - I saw this movie as a kid and it blew my scalp back. Always wanted to read the book.
The Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger - Never got around to this one. Still, somehow dated three different versions of Holden Caulfield. Jesus, help.
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou - I've read lots of my love, Ms. Angelou. This is one I wasn't ready for until now.
Walks with Men by Ann Beattie - I had a friend suggest this to me and I've been meaning to read it for a solid 6 months. I'm interested.
God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater by Kurt Vonnegut - This will be my first time reading a Vonnegut novel. I've read some short stories before, but nothing long-form. He's even from Indianapolis. I'm a bad Hoosier. Also, I hate basketball. LOLZ.
Life of Pi by Yann Martel - Most of my friends have read this book. Many feel about it they way I feel about The Giver or Walk Two Moons. So I have to read it.
Sula by Toni Morrison - I just haven't read enough Toni Morrison.
The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho - My roommate (and life partner) Spencer made a book trailer for this one for a class he took last semester and I've wanted to read it ever since.
Just Kids by Patti Smith - Rock and Roll memiors are always a good choice, even the bad ones. You know what? Especially the bad ones. I've heard good things about this one. Excited to start it.
Living Well is the Best Revenge by Calvin Tomkins - Another suggestion from a good friend. I had a sort of historical romance with this group of Ex-Pats over the summer. Ernest Hemingway was that dude.
Annie John by Jamaica Kincaid - My friend Maggie bought me this book on my last trip to NYC. I was intrigued by the little black girl on the cover. Now, she's mine.
Other Heartbreaks by Patricia Henley - I won this book at the Ball State University Writers Community Gala this year. It was published by two professors in our department and Cathy Day will be teaching it in her novel-writing class this semester. I miss that class. Still working on the novel(s).
A Visit From the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan - For obvious reasons.
Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer - Because I hated Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.
The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie - I love YA books. There are so few of them on this list because I keep up with them really well. Alexie has always made me laugh and think, sometimes at the same time, and I want to know more about native people in this country who are living here right now. Also, I'm going to be published with him in PANK 6!
Night by Elie Wiesel - After reading Number the Stars in third grade, I found myself obsessed with the Holocaust for many years. I've never really gotten over that obsession, but somehow in all my readings about it, I never got to this one. I'm sure I'll be in tears. But tears sometimes help me see things more clearly.
Before You Suffocate Your Own Fool Self by Danielle Evans - Been meaning to read this since summer. Recommendation from Roxane Gay. Let's cut the shit, I'll read anything Roxane recommends.
How to Escape From a Leper Colony by Tiphanie Yanique - See above.
Cut Through the Bone by Ethel Rohan - I love love love The Lit Pub. I haven't been able to comment as much I did when I was unemployed, but I still read there frequently. One of the first books they discussed there was Rohan's. I ordered it then, but am just now getting to it. I'm really excited about it.
Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott - It seems this is required reading for the kind of writing I want to do. So, I'll read it.
On Writing by Stephen King - See above.
The Comeback Season by Cathy Day - The Circus in Winter was amazing and after having Cathy as a professor, I have no idea how she even finds the time to write books so well. The Comeback Season is a little lighter (I hear) and I'm ready to dig into it. Especially, since nonfiction is what I'm most focused on writing right now.
The Fullness of Everything by Tyler Gobble and Christopher Newgent and Brian Oliu - Confession: I know all of these men. Gobble and Newgent are two of my closest friends and Oliu is more of a faraway writing/music hero who I only met once. These guys are all amazing writers. Just amazing. There are many times when I don't know how I made friends with such amazingly talented people. Somehow I have. I can't wait to read their words. Also, check out that badass cover!
Wind in a Box by Terrance Hayes - I hadn't heard of Terrance Hayes until my friend Tyler Gobble took me to a reading he had at Butler University. I was absolutely blown away by him. Absolutely. I've since bought and read "Lighthead" but I've heard this one is even better. I'll find out for myself.
Room by Emma Donoghue - This book sounds gut-wrenching. I need something to wrench my gut.

Have you read any of these titles? Thoughts? Opinions? Interact with me. It keeps me focused. I'm an ENFP.

See you soon.

Akron, Sledding & All of the Magic

2012-01-17T14:03:00.002-05:00

*If you'd like to check out my list of 25 Things to Accomplish in My 25th Year, you can find that here.

A little over a month ago, my good friends Tyler Gobble,Layne Ransom, and Christopher Newgent invited me to tag along on their trip toAkron, OH to read at The Big Big Mess Reading Series. The timing was perfect. Ineeded to get away for more than one reason and this group of pals, was justthe group of pals I needed to get away with.

As long as I'm not driving, I love road trips

The fun began immediately. From pop-locking in Layne’sparking lot to stopping for bathrooms and snacks at a Dairy Queen/KFC/Long JohnSilver/Marathon gas station, we had a blast. Sigur Ros in the speakers pepperedwith conversations about treacherous showers, the proper use of dandruffshampoo, and a multitude of other weird things writers talk about when stuck ina car together for about five hours. Only this didn’t feel like “stuck”. Thisfelt like “together at last”.

Somewhere along the way, I decided to become ridiculouslyexcited about Akron. I already love traveling and was really excited about makingthe trip with friends, but I wanted to treat Akron the way people treat NewYork City, LA, or Paris. I wanted to be ecstatic.

By the time we got to the home of Nick Sturm, Maggie theCat, Mike Krutel, and Sam The Ghost (I think), I was ready for Akron and everything it had to offer. Here are some ofthe highlights from the trip.

Nick is a little bow-legged. You know what that means...

Mike was funny and quiet. But mostly funny.

Sam is maybe a ghost. He also maybe slept in that hat.

Right after arriving, Nick asked if anyone would like toride with him to the bus station to pick up Joshua Kleinberg and see a bit moreof Akron. Tyler and I went with him. Looking at the snowy hills in Akron, Imentioned my 25 List and that sledding was on it. Nick was immediately down tomake that happen. Then, Josh fell into the backseat with me all handshakes,crossed legs, and immediate apologies for having left bunches of paper on thefloor of Nick’s car from a class he’d dropped the previous semester. Josh waseverything.

Our Indiana crew is a bunch of cuddlers, bunch of queers. Weall piled on their blue couch and cuddled and laid there and kept chatting withthe Akronites as though we weren’t a ridiculously affectionate group offriends. As though we are not a ridiculously affectionate group of friends.

Hoosier Cuddlers

For dinner, we went to this neat sandwich shop, Mr. Zubs,where the menu items were named after characters from movies. I got the RickDeckard. The shop played mostly badass tunes from 50’s and 60’s, and you knowme. I couldn’t help but dance like a fool. Nevermind the fact that I apparentlyhad a song in my heart and hadn’t STOPPED randomly singing to myself since wegot there. I don’t know how they put up with me.
There was a cool record shop next to Zubs and I got Sam Cooke CD and two Judy Garland records for my roomie/love, Spencer.
After a few PBR’s and a rousing game of pool with Josh(EVERYTHING) the reading began and it was FANTASTIC. This was my first timeseeing Josh read and all his words hit me in the face and my heartbeat hum. Mypals were ON IT. Layne was all cool and “What up, Akron?”. Tyler was allman-pants and a Hooters Tee (2X). The Newg was all shirt then no shirt then readingpoetry from an iPad. Nick Sturm was so annoyed by my singing he asked me to doit in front of the crowd. So I did. I sang country music because why not? Bottom line. The Big Big Mess was a gorgeous mess.

Sexy pants

Apparently, you can get some fantastic grilled-cheese inAkron and we tried to taste it, but the place was packed and our hearts weretoo massive for a table at their restaurant. We went to Pita Pit. And it wasexcellent.
Driving back to the Akron Magic House we listened to so manysongs I loved and I kept asking Nick “Who is this?” and “What’s the name ofthis song?” and saying, “God, I love Akron”. Also, we listened to Lil’ Wayneand I lost it. Completely lost it.
After drinking and talking and mostly laughing for the restof the night, us four hoosiers attempted to sleep on one fold-out couch-bed(buncha cuddlers). That lasted for about half an hour. Then people migrated toother couches and the spare bed. Soon, it was just Layne and I in the bed, butwe stayed close to one another. We were warm and heart-shaped.
The Akronites brought us grapes in couch-bed, then made uscoffee and waffles. Everything was so good.
After breakfast, Josh and Bethani came over, I can onlyassume for hugs and pictures since that’s what I forced them to partake in.Then we decided that today would be the day I started my list. Today would bethe day I went sledding.

Josh is thinking, "Bethani"

Mike and Nick knew of some awesome sledding hills since theyare native Akronites, so we left for Wal-Mart to get sleds, but their sledswere like 20 bucks because they don’t care about sledding poets. I was nearready to give up on the adventure, but Nick Sturm is a dinosaur and he roared, “No”.The Newg suggested Lowe’s. Their sleds were 6 bucks. We all bought one. Tylerwas upset he didn’t buy two.
We showed up at the sledding hills like a RagTag Crew ofSnow-Slayers from Hell. We were totally stoked about all the “fresh powder” onthe hills and immediately got into it. And there I was. Sledding for the firsttime. And it was perfect. The wind was all over me and I wasn’t even cold! Justgiggle-fits and huge-grins.

Akron hills > Muncie hills

Sledding left us tired and wind-worn, so we warmed up by afire pit and shared apple cider from a jug. Then Tyler and Nick showed me howathletic poets can be by throwing around a football. Really well. Who knew?

When we hugged good-bye, I felt genuinely sad. Driving away,I felt like I’d made good new friends in Akron and I can’t wait to go back.

We're going home, Layney-Baby

The thing is, at the end of all this, what I enjoyed morethan completing something on my list, was how much everyone else seemed toenjoy being part of this with me. They wanted to see me go down that hill forthe first time, and wanted to take all my silly pictures. Writing is seriousbusiness. Writer’s don’t always have to be so serious. I’m ridiculously excitedfor AWP.

Hope to see you there.

The List

2012-01-16T22:17:00.001-05:00

Me seizing the day. Look at all that fresh powder.

I’ve mentioned this 25 Things I Want To Accomplish in My 25^thYear list before. The only rules I have for the list are 1) each item has to besomething I’ve never done before 2) each item has to be attainable 3) each itemhas to be something I want to do and 4) no item can be reliant on someone else’scooperation i.e. Have Sexual Relations with Donald Glover, Get Tyler Gobble toStop Calling Himself T-Gob, Move-In With The Poetic Men of Akron, etc.

However, the more I talk about this list, the more I findfriends who are interested in helping me check different things off. I thinkthat’s just perfect. Nothing better than completing this list alongside myfavorite people. As long as the item doesn't rely on their involvement. Get it? Good.

So here’s the list with brief explanations.

1.      GoSledding – COMPLETED! Will be posting details and more pictures soon!

2.      Ridea horse – I grew up watching a lot of westerns with my grandmother and wantingso badly to have my own horse. I’ll probably never own one, but I’m lookingforward to riding one soon.

3.      Ridein a boat – It could be the Flying Dutchmen for all I care, but I’d really liketo complete this one. Especially since my life, my love, and my lady is the sea.

4.      Goto a Drive-in movie – This I’ve wanted to do ever since I saw Poetic Justice asa kid. I just don’t want anyone getting their brains blown out on my lap insome mistaken identity gang violence.

5.      Seea ballet performance – I love to dance. Maybe more than anyone else I know.Ballet is something I can’t even pretend to know anything about, but I love towatch performances on television or on YouTube. Seeing a performance liveshould rock my block.

6.      Createand post eight new recipes – Cooking for my roommates, friends, lovers, etc. isa favorite pastime of mine. Feeding people tasty food that’s (usually) good forthem is one way I show my love. I rarely use recipes and even when I do, Ialways make changes. So, I thought it would be nice to actually record how Imake some of my favorite things for posterity. I’ll post the recipes on thisblog. You lucky ducks.

7.      Sewa wearable dress – I invested in a sewing machine about two years ago and havesince used it to make blankets, bags, and headbands. I’d love to use it to makesomething I could wear proudly and I love wearing dresses. I even have aninherited maiden-form! I can do this.

8.      Perfectone cocktail – When I hang out with my friends who like to drink, they know I’mpretty much only checking for some weak, fruity, mixed drink because I’m scaredof everything else. I’d like to change that. I’d like to learn to make onecocktail superbly. And when I do, you’ll all be sorry.

9.      Visitmy father by myself – My father is in prison. The last time I saw him, I wastwelve years-old. I need to see him again.

10. Writeone hand-written letter/note per week – I’ve kind of already started this one.I’ve sent out a few notes in the past few weeks, but I’m looking forward to sendingout more. I also really enjoy getting new stamps at the post office. I have somany right now, guys.

11. Travelsomewhere west of Missouri – It is a sad fact that I love to travel and yet, I’venever been out of the country or even west of my beloved Missouri. I know waytoo many people who live on the west coast for this to be true. I could visitAustin, LA, Portland, or Colorado at any time. I just have to make the time andget there.

12. Submitwork to one publication a month – I love the literary community. I love knowingpeople who write amazing things. I need to start putting more of my work outthere so I can get closer to becoming like these writers I admire. I have thepotential to get there, now I just need to work and submit. Work and submit.

13. Write750 Words a day for 90 Days in a row – I’ll be using this site to help withthis one. I can do it. I just have to commit.

14. Finishthe first draft of my novel(s) – I started working on two different novels (fictionand nonfiction) while taking a course with the incomparable Cathy Day. Now, I just have todecide which one I’m going to focus on completing a first draft of by the endof my 25^th year. As long as I finish that first draft.

15. Goice-skating – Another wintery play activity I’ve never gotten the chance to do.I was obsessed with Michelle Kwan for a good bit of the nineties, so I hopesome of that rubbed off on me via television.

16. Takea camping trip with friends – I love the outdoors. Seriously. And I’ve workedat two very outdoorsy summer camps in the past seven years. Somehow, in all ofmy love for trees, hiking, and sleeping outside, I’ve never gone on a campingtrip with a group of friends. I’ve had some close calls, but nothing ever cameto fruition. But now, I’m 25. So, I’m going to change that shit.

17. Recorda rap song – Because I can and I have a sneaking suspicion I’ll be better at itthan anyone expects. Also, cause Yeezy taught me.

18. Buya set of real lingerie – I’ve always wanted to own some lingerie, not to besexy for anyone else, but to wear under really ordinary looking clothes. Itsounds weird, I’m sure, but I want to have the measurements right andeverything. I want to be a bad mamma jamma.

19. Reada list of 25 Books I’ve Never Read – I am working on this list now. It shouldhave what some people consider classics along with some newer things I’ve wantedto get into. I will already own a third of these books. Which is kind of messedup.

20. Learnto play a song on my guitar – Yes, I own a guitar that I don’t know how toplay. Weren’t we all college freshmen once?

21. Graduate– I don’t even want to talk about this one. I just want to get it done.

22. Swimin the ocean – I have been to the ocean twice, but I’ve never gotten to swim inthe ocean because I’ve only just learned to swim.

23. Geta tattoo – This one is kind of cheating because I already have a tattoo. But I’mbending my own rules, because you don’t get a tattoo of the same thing. So, I’llget a new tattoo this year. That’s not of a bluebird.

24. Moveout of Muncie – Because it’s time.

25. Writeand film a short movie – I’ve wanted to do something like this my entire lifeand being where I am now with the people I have in my life now is never goingto happen again. I will never be in a more perfect position to make thishappen. Now, is the time.

That’s my list. Nothing too ridiculous. But I want to doeverything on this list. None of these things will change at their core, but I might be persuaded to up the ante on a few of them. We shall see.

I hope you’ll hang around and encourage me while Itackle this list of 25 Things to Accomplish in My 25^th Year. I promisedto keep you updated.

25 in 25

2012-01-10T11:48:00.002-05:00

I turned 25 on Saturday. I would be lying if I said I’d been looking forward to this birthday. I was definitely looking forward to my birthday party, but the thought of turning 25 in the place I am (physically and mentally), didn’t sound as appealing.

I thought things would be different. I thought my life would be different. I realized, as I approached my birthday, I want more from my life. I've become quite complacent. A little too comfortable with the word "fine". So, I began working on a list of 25 things I’ve never done that I want to do in my 25th year.

I will post my list of 25 things I want to accomplish this year (my 25th year) and each time I complete one of those tasks, I’ll reflect on it in this blog. I’ll also post more 25 lists. You know like 25 Books I Want To Read This Year, 25 Recipes I Want To Try This Year, 25 Recipients of Hand-Written Letters, etc. My goal is to do a new one each week. Let me know if you can think of any good 25 list topics.

My goal here is to document how I react to change and trying new things. I’ve always enjoyed them but sometimes I get scared and forget how much I need to welcome change. For the most part, change has always been good to me. I need to remember how much I require it, how empty I feel when things don’t change.

I’m looking forward to this. I hope you are too.

I Do Not Go To College For Free

2011-02-27T13:30:00.000-05:00

Fair warning: This is going to be a rant.

The summer before I started college I worked at a Boy Scout camp. Indeed, I was the only black person to work at said camp in recent history, and as far as anyone there knew, the only black female to have ever worked there. It was a full on integration.

Whatevs.

It was fun, and I was having fun. Not a whole lot of insensitive comments though there were some. Imagine being the only black person in this situation and having to say that you can't teach the swimming portion with your scouts because you can't swim. Thoroughly embarrassing. Or how about having to defend a child who was recently adopted from Nigeria who was being penalized for not having brought sunscreen to camp with him? I could have broken somebody's face that day.

Unfortunately, coming out of a school system that was at least 95% Black at the time of my attendance did not adequately prepare me to defend myself, my culture, or my race against some of these comments because I simply was not aware that people in the world still believed the things some of these people said to me.

This turned out to be a great situation to be in that summer. I would be heading off to college that fall and although I would be going to an environment where I would still be in the minority, it would be less so and my experience at camp would help me adjust to that. My freshman year of college and I had a young woman tell me that I was the first black person she'd ever spoken to directly. I didn't even realize there were places were something like that could happen.

What I want to address today pertains to something that was said to me that summer at Boy Scout camp. One of my fellow counselors commented on the fact that I had been carrying around my course catalog for college all summer. Indeed, I had. I was obsessed, constantly circling and highlighting interesting looking classes, making lists of them. My course catalog had been practically glued to my hand anytime I had a little time to myself.

Then, he went on to say.

"I'm worried about getting in to college because I'm white."

Pump the brakes. Put this struggle bus in reverse.

I stared at this dude, blank stare, for a full 30 seconds. I had to ask him what he meant by that. His response:

"Well, it's easier for black people to get into college and get scholarships and stuff because of affirmative action."

BRAKE.

I don't remember what I said back to him. I do remember being terribly taken aback. Not just because of what he said, but also because he was being completely sincere. Not only did he truly think he would have a hard time being accepted to college because he was white, he ALSO believed that he would have a harder time finding financial assistance because he was white. So where do thoughts like this come from?

Here's the thing, I get some of it. The overwhelming majority of, well, the majority believe that Affirmative Action gives the two institutions with the most influence on your lifetime earnings and degree of wealth, higher learning institutions and growing businesses, quotas they MUST fill with minorities, and as the story usually goes, black people specifically.

We've all heard somebody tell some version of this story: My father/uncle/cousin/neighbor didn't get into college/didn't get a job/didn't get the contract and a less qualified in some way black/latino/indigenous/ person did because of affirmative action. Do you think that's very fair? Is that what equality is?

Here's my stance on these arguments: shut up. First of all, how on EARTH could you possibly know that said black/latino/indigenous/ person is less qualified than your father/uncle/cousin/neighbor? Hm? Did you see their resume/proposal/transcript? Were you part of the hiring/accepting process? Moreover, what about them makes you ASSUME that they were less qualified? Hello? I don't hear anything. You're quiet. Can I buy a vowel?

Precisely.

As far as affirmative action quotas go, they are only ever set up for companies that have a researched history of discriminating against minorities in their hiring practices. Even then, this usually doesn't end up the way you'd think it would because women are considered minorities in the workplace, and so white women are hired in lower level positions to fill the quota.

And college for free? Where they do that at?! When I came to college, I had three merit-based scholarships. I took out loans to cover the rest. I received NO MONEY just because I'm black.Yes, there are scholarships and grants that target black students. Most of these are either funded privately, or are funded by a government source doing so for, trust me, very political reasons that have little to do with the forward progress of the black community and more to do with polling. If you take the time, most of the scholarships are for around $500. While I will say every little bit helps, what did that really just cover? My books? A month of my living expenses? Child, please.

Let's not forget that to receive any scholarship or grant, YOU HAVE TO GET INTO COLLEGE. Before you start thinking that colleges and universities are just letting black people enroll all willy-nilly, please re-read above paragraphs.

Also, I have to say this: If black students are just getting paid to come to college while all the poor white students are being punished for the crimes of their ancestors (or the people their ancestors looked like) then why are black college students graduating with more student loan debt than any other race of student? There's no special black codicile in a promissory note that invites us to apply for more federal loan money than everybody else because,

"You remember that slavery thing? Our bad."

I know some of you think I don't know any black people, but I do. And I can tell you that none of us are going to school for free for being black. Some have academic scholarships, some have athletic scholarships, some work their butts off, some have taken out every loan they can to cover it, and some are very lucky to have a familial financial situation that allows them to attend college with family covering the costs.

So, the next time someone starts talking about affirmative action and how it's keeping "the white man" down, make sure you've done your research. Don't listen to some half-cocked story about less qualified minorities taking all the jobs, you know what, don't listen to me. READ SOMETHING. Think about why some people feel more entitled to jobs and good education than other people. Think about the environment we're raising children in where they grow up to expect that if a black person sits next to them in a college class, they're an athlete, a charity case, or more rarely, "one of the good ones".

Okay, I'm done. That's my rant. If you ever want to discuss anything I've written here, let me know. Especially, if anything I said was wrong. I would LOVE to know that something I said here was wrong or no longer true.

That would mean progress, and progress is good.

Letter #6: A Letter To A Stranger

2011-02-03T15:57:00.001-05:00

Dear Stranger,

For a year they came. Left on my doorstep, my bike basket, an old bookshelf on my patio. First a PostSecret book (no secret enclosed). Then a copy of "The Secret Garden" still with no hint to who you were. I would come to own ten books this way, the last being "Shopgirl". It's insane that I still have no idea who you are.

Is it strange I never worried about receiving these little presents? That I never considered I was being stalked or given anthrax poisoning, especially because of my tendency to expect such things in daily life? I suppose I simply never expected a potential murderer to care so much about my literary appetite. Or to take the time to surprise me.

Wait. Maybe the element of surprise is integral to murder.

This strange and loving thing you did for me, I don't understand it. I never got to say "thank you". I read, and in some cases re-read, everything you left me. Some I've even given away or let others borrow. Others I keep close to home, unwilling to let them go.

Maybe you don't know this, but you were leaving me these books during what was perhaps the most difficult time of my life. I was not well and only minimally interested in getting well. I was okay, but just so. Hanging on by translucent threads. You're kindness gave me some color. Maybe you knew all this. I like to think you didn't. I like to believe in the power of good timing.

I hope someone gives you something you like. I hope they surprise you.

I hope they don't leave their name.

Thank you again.

Love,

Ashley

Letter #5: A Letter To Your Dreams

2011-01-14T19:28:00.000-05:00

Dear Dreams,

I appreciate you not giving up on me. Lord knows, at times, I've given up on you. I've denied you, I've run away from you, I've even made you seem like you are something to be ashamed of. Man. I apologize for that. My bad.

Remember when I used to think acting was the way to go? I mean, I get it. I was always pretending I was Tina Turner, Moesha, or Joan Crawford. Encouraging my siblings to put on plays, or act out infomercials in the bathroom mirror, showcasing our inventions. By the way, that time you made your 4th grade teacher think you were crazy by getting under your desk during a lesson and rocking yourself back and forth until you were assigned to see a counselor for the last 30 minutes of every day?

Brilliant performance.

Everyone thought I'd be a great actress. I certainly spent a lot of time taking up all the space in the room when I felt like it. No joke was too trivial, no impression too subtle. The people needed to be entertained and I was there to entertain the people. Until it wasn't enough. Eventually, I needed more.

Ultimately I found that my dreams require passion. I can not be passionate about acting, comedy, or a host of other things I've just wanted to be into. The things I am passionate about, the things that keep me coming back for more are social justice, literature, traveling, and art. Basically, I like non-profit work, writing, airports, and museums.

I've never thought about those four things and let out an apathetic, "meh". I've never wondered if those things matter to me. They just always have. My dream looks something like this:

Working in non-profits in any capacity where I can bring my A-Game. I want the day I leave a position to be a sad day because of everything I brought to the table while I was there. I want to eventually start my own non-profit organization. I want to work at a level that allows me to travel for my organization. I want to write all the time. I want to publish that writing. I want people to know that I'm a good writer. I want to read voraciously. I want literacy to be a component in my non-profit organization. I want to work with children. I want to teach children to appreciate art, culture, and differences.

My dreams, you are everything. You are what keep me going. I will do right by you. That's a promise. The biggest promise I can make.

Love,

Ashley

Letter #4: A Letter To Your Sibling(s)

2011-01-13T19:31:00.000-05:00

*More people are joining in on the letter writing! Check out Tiffany's letter's here, Sierra's here, and Kathy's here. Also, let Rachel know she should be doing this too.

Dear Little Siblings,

First of all, how dare you ALL be taller than me. Especially 12 year-old Jorian. It's not funny. I'm the oldest, the shortest, and according to you all, the most boring. I wear those labels with pride. Because I'm related to you, I carry every label you give me with pride.

R.C.:
I don't remember life before you. You were born 14 months after I was, so I have no memory of you not being part of me. I've always been very aware that I was your big sister. When I found out there wasn't a Santa Claus, I did everything I could to protect you from knowing for as long as possible. When I found out about our dad, I kept that from you for a long time too. I'm sorry I told you why he was in prison in a moment of anger instead of in a moment of love. I always wanted to protect you. You always nurtured me. Making me alphabet soup when I was sick or literally carrying me when I broke my foot. Surprising you at your job, or waking you up (in the middle of the day) to hug and kiss you are always highlights of my time at home. I haven't always been good to you. I won't lie and say that I've always tried. But I'm still your big sister. And I never stopped loving you. Not even for a little while. Not even a little bit.

Nikki:
I love to tell people about when you were younger and couldn't pronounce my name or "sister" so you called me "Stuster". I love to tell people about how R.C. and I would make you wear grandma's wig, choreograph a performance, and make you pretend to be a little black Shirley Temple. I love the time you asked, "Why did the chicken cross the road?" and when given the proper response, offered the punchline, "To get some fruit." I love that you tried color guard even though it wasn't really your thing because you knew it would make me happy. I love even more that when you decided it wasn't for you, you didn't let me talk you into it. You are so good at so many things I can barely keep up. I wish I was as fast, as strong, or as good at dancing as you. But I'm not. So I'm happy just to be able to point at you and say, "That's my sister. No, not that one. The pretty one."

Jorian:
I HATE that you're growing up. That's not true. I love that you're alive and thriving. I love how happy you are playing sports, how you naturally lead any group you take part in. My baby is a most definitely a leader. You're a big kid. Gosh, you're so tall and man-like. I love that you're such a big kid with such a good heart. You fight for what you believe in and that makes me SO proud. Each time I come home I worry that this is the time you won't be as excited to see me. Each time I'm wrong. You get excited about my life in a way that most people don't. You inspire me. I wish I was around for more of your life. I'm glad I've got to see your big football game this summer, but I wish I'd been able to go to every game. I wish I had you with me all the time. In a way I do. You're my boober. I'm always going to picture you, not knowing how to walk, and still dancing to "That Thing" by Lauryn Hill.

Love your big (boring) sister,

Ashley

Letter #3: A Letter To Your Parents

2011-01-12T14:06:00.001-05:00

*This letter will only be addressed to my mother. I love my father, but he had no part in parenting me. Though he always did a great job of loving me.
**My friend and fellow Ball State Cardinal, Megan Betz will be joining me in this letter-writing challenge here. Follow her adventures and letters all the way from France!

Dear Mama,

Thank you for teaching me it's okay to be silly. Whether you were dancing in the kitchen with all of your children, helping us re-enact scenes from movies we loved, or two-stepping in the garage while I hung my head and drove off with my friends, you were constantly teaching me that being yourself is important. You taught me not to hide the joy in my heart from others, that happiness is infectious, and people will love me for who I am.

Thanks for trusting me. While so many of my friends felt trapped by their parents, strapped to their homes by rules and regulations, you decided to trust me unless I gave you a reason not to. I was able to get involved with school and my community as much as I wanted with your support, and more importantly without having to convince you that every single thing I wanted to do was a good idea. Thanks for letting me find out for myself when it was a bad idea.

Thank you for giving me brothers and a sister. I'm not home as much as I'd like to be, but when I get to spend time with the three best friends you made for me, I can't help but miss home even more. No one will ever understand me the way R.C., Nikki, and Jorian do and no one will ever hold a bigger place in my heart than the three of them.

Thank you for never bad-mouthing my father. I know he wasn't around and I know that he should have been. That wasn't hard to figure out. Lots of kids grow up without fathers, but most kids grow up with fighting or back-biting between their parents. Not me. I can't remember ONE time that you said something negative about my father and I'm not sure you always know how integral that was to me feeling like I could have any kind of relationship with him. You could have bashed him all day, and considering the circumstances, no one would have blamed you. But you proved something about yourself when you didn't.

Lastly, thank you for always, ALWAYS supporting my educational decisions. You can't imagine how freeing it is, how capable I've become, because you let me find out what I wanted to do all by myself. Not having a parent harping on me about the economic opportunities of my choice of major has been so...lovely. Yes, I've had a lot of majors, and yes, I've been in college for a LONG time, but I'm doing exactly what I want to do, and I always have. Thank you for that freedom. It's been priceless.

Thank you, Mama, for everything you are and everything you aren't. I like to think I'm better because of all of it.

Love,

Ashley

Letter #2: A Letter To Your Crush

2011-01-11T17:19:00.002-05:00

*After this letter, you can find a list of the subjects/persons (no names) to be addressed in the next 28 days.

Dear Donald Glover,

I wish I could say I believe you're the funniest man in the world, the best rapper, writer, etc.

I wish I could tell you it doesn't make me jealous you wrote for "30 Rock" right out of college.

I wish you still had that big chocolate chip cookie to share with me.

I wish we didn't kind of have the same haircut.

I wish you went to Ball State University with me.

I wish we'd met in some creative writing class after noticing we both rolled our eyes when our professor said "playa".

I wish you drove a hooptie, wore button up shirts, and colorful shoes.

I wish you saw my copy of "Y: The Last Man" in my bag and asked me to coffee.

I wish you'd be really impressed by how well I can get along with Abed.

I wish you understood Britta.

I wish you'd been more awkward on "Conan".

I wish I'd gone to NYU with you.

I wish I didn't already kind of know you in the form of another person.

I wish we could take a modern dance class together.

I wish you had the pleasure of my company.

I hope you find someone as perfect for you as I could have been. Let's make out anyway.

Here's To Krumping,

Ashley

****************************************

30 Days of Letters

Day 1 — Your Best Friend

Day 2 — Your Crush

Day 3 — Your parents

Day 4 — Your sibling (or closest relative)

Day 5 — Your dreams

Day 6 — A stranger

Day 7 — Your Ex-boyfriend/girlfriend/love/crush

Day 8 — Your favorite internet friend

Day 9 — Someone you wish you could meet

Day 10 — Someone you don’t talk to as much as you’d like to

Day 11 — A Deceased person you wish you could talk to

Day 12 — The person you hate most/caused you a lot of pain

Day 13 — Someone you wish could forgive you

Day 14 — Someone you’ve drifted away from

Day 15 — The person you miss the most

Day 16 — Someone that’s not in your state/country

Day 17 — Someone from your childhood

Day 18 — The person that you wish you could be

Day 19 — Someone that pesters your mind. Good or bad

Day 20 — The one that broke your heart the hardest

Day 21 — Someone you judged by their first impression

Day 22 — Someone you want to give a second chance to

Day 23 — The last person you kissed

Day 24 — The person that gave you your favorite memory

Day 25 — The person you know that is going through the worst of times

Day 26 — The last person you made a pinky promise to

Day 27 — The friendliest person you knew for only one day

Day 28 — Someone that changed your life

Day 29 — The person that you want tell everything to, but too afraid to

Day 30 — Your reflection in the mirror

Letter #1: A Letter To My Best Friend

2011-01-10T17:19:00.000-05:00

*For some background on the letter-writing posts read here.
**Ashley is really my best friends name. Yes, we have the same name. Yes, she is really a different person.

Dear Ashley,

Who knew all this would come from me accidentally and repeatedly stabbing you with a pencil in our freshman Algebra class? Certainly not me. I only knew you as the white girl with the long brown hair who wore flip-flops instead of real shoes. You wore your best clothes on the first day of school and I felt sorry for you when the other volleyball players convinced you to let them give you cornrows. That was pretty awful headache, huh?

I was turning fifteen and already had a boyfriend who I would date for the rest of high school and my first two years of college. Our Junior year, you would meet the father of your two children, my beautiful godchildren. I was all about marching band, theater, and certain I would be an actress someday. You were an athlete through and through, never doubting you would graduate Valedictorian (and you did!), and had your eyes set on a degree from Notre Dame.

We are and were terribly dissimilar. To this day, the only things we have in common are the color of our eyes, our passion for social justice, our love of learning, and our unwavering love for Fran Drescher. We've lived differently, and for most of our friendship at least an hour away from one another, yet there is no one closer to me.

Ashley, you've taught me so much. On a blacktop our Freshman year of high school you showed me how to breathe when I run so I don't pass out and make it even further than I thought possible. Our Sophomore year of high school you yelled at me for being "the smartest person you know who could get a C in a class just because they wouldn't do their homework" and it embarrassed me enough to make me do better. Our Junior year of high school you got pregnant with your daughter and taught me about bravery, sacrifice, and the overwhelming power of attitude and decision-making. Our Senior year of high school, you graduated Valedictorian and taught me that hard work will get you where you want to be, and you can bring your baggage with you. In college you always answered your phone, texted me, left a message, anything you had to do to let me know you were here for me and that you weren't going anywhere. You taught me about loyalty, love, and choosing your own family.

In all of that, the most important you've taught me and continue to teach me, is that "different" doesn't mean "wrong". No one would have thought we'd become friends and I'm sure even fewer thought we'd remain friends. Even we questioned whether or not this relationship could sustain. Ten years later, we are more in love than ever. You make life easier, better, happier.

We've made it through births, breaks-up, finals, Andrew, bad music, Olive Garden, books, sports fanaticism, my musical performances, weight issues, moves, graduations (mostly yours), and your bad driving. You've supported me in every way that you can support a person. You're the only person in my life for whom giving up on me has never been an option. I don't worry about whether or not we'll always be friends, I worry about where we're going to live when our partners die before us.

If I deserve a friend like you, I've got to be a pretty okay person. Thanks for never letting me forget that.

I love you always (life is shit),

Ashley

Letters

2011-01-10T12:34:00.001-05:00

As stated in the post before this post, my father has been writing me letters since I was very young. Aside from a few phone calls I hardly remember and one prison visit I definitely remember (like it haunts me--in a good way), letters have been our primary form of communication.

Only I don't write letters.

The oldest letter I have from my father dates back to 1991. In that time, I've written him three letters, the first in the summer of 2006. I was working at a camp in Rhinebeck, NY surrounded by trees, mountains, and Israelis. They spent our downtime teaching me to speak Hebrew and taking me to Shabbat on Fridays. They taught me about patience, loss, and gave me my own Hebrew name--Hava. They also encouraged me to contact my father. So, I wrote him the first letter I've ever written and sent it via US mail.

Since that time, I've written other cards or letters to my father and others. Even sent a few. Recently, I received a hand-written letter from my friend Elysia Smith and was overjoyed at the simplicity. It was beautiful because of what it was and I was so happy to call it mine. Maybe that seems silly because it was just a letter, but maybe now a letter is never just a letter. It takes more consideration now to write a letter than to fire off an e-mail. Letter-writing can be a delicate process.

Part of the reason I don't write letters is because I have some of the most horrific hand-writing in the world. Really, it's bad. And embarrassing. The only class in grade school I was consistently average and in some cases, below that. Hand-writing (especially cursive, blah) have caused me innumerable amounts of pain through the years, so I mostly want nothing to do with it.

Here's the deal. I need to write more here. I'm writing here, here, and here. But I want to write HERE too. So I'm starting this letter-writing prompt with Bassey Ikpi and I'll be posting a letter a day for the next 30 days. I've tried something like this before (and failed) but I'm ready to fulfill this commitment. The first letter will be posted later today.

Hope you'll follow me on this journey and perhaps write some of your own letters too.

Sarita (11/30)

2010-10-03T20:57:00.004-04:00

My father is an artist.

For 23 years, he's written me letters that always include a hand drawn card. They are usually donning flowers, butterflies, and the faces of stunning black women I suppose he means to be me, though they're always much prettier. I used to think that my father knew what I would look like when I got older and that those drawings were his gift to me, a glimpse of my future. For me, they were proof that I would grow out of an unsatisfying body and into something much more sightly.

Like my father, I've always had an affinity for art. Anything beautiful could quickly become my favorite thing, and everything could be beautiful. To this day I enjoy a children's book with gorgeous illustrations. "Tar Beach" by Faith Ringgold and "The People Could Fly" by Virginia Hamilton are two of my favorites with very different styles of illustration. I like to think my father taught me how to enjoy them, one of the few contributions he could make in my upbringing.

Unlike my father, I've never been good at drawing. The closest I've come to visual artistry are my random fashion design sketches, and although I get incredibly excited to show them to my friends, they aren't terribly exciting. Painting, sketching, sculpting, etc. Tried them all and have no real aptitude for any. It's a little heartbreaking for me. Art is what my father and I share, and I'm just no good at it.

Today, I went to an Art Talk at the Ball State University Museum of art. The talk was over "Seen Unseen: The Black Image in American Art", which is one of the best exhibits I've ever visited at the museum (Admittedly, I'm highly biased on this one). A former professor and current hero of mine, Dr. Maude Jennings, provided the commentary for the art we discussed. As I had already walked through the exhibit earlier in the week, the biggest draw for me to attend the art talk today was Maude.

One of the last works we discussed was this one:

This painting is by Andrew Wyeth and the name of it is "Sarita Daniels".

This painting made me want to cry. In a room full of people, who only moments before I had surely impressed with my comments on the history of the "Sambo" and "Uncle Ben", I stood in front of this portrait and I swallowed three times to keep from bawling. She was so splendid I could hardly stand it. Even if I didn't cry, my eyes welled with what? Sadness? Anger? I still don't know. Whatever it was, it was overwhelming.

Standing there, before her, Sarita Daniels, I knew that my father would love her. I knew that she was who he wanted me to be. Not because she was beautiful, but because she stood with her back straight and her neck long. There was strength in her posture and fragility in her gaze. She wasn't just a "strong black woman" she was a whole woman. Comfortable with her baroque body, her short hair, and her bountiful lips that may have stuck out too far to be considered beautiful, but she wouldn't have it any other way. She doesn't look away out of shame or discomfort. She's looking forward. Settled in her way, but ready for change.

My father is no sooth-sayer. He's an inmate at an Indiana State Prison and he has been for the whole of my life. My interaction with him boils down to a handful of visits (the last when I was twelve years-old), and an antique picnic basket half full of letters. But he's always shown me things. His letter's have taught me about love and beauty and so many other things that I've come to cherish.

I like to think that my father gave me Sarita. That he knew I'd need her right now, to let me know that he's happy I'm settled, but I need to get ready for something new, maybe even something better.

I'm ready to take those steps forward with Sarita to remind me why, my father to show me when, and God to catch me when I fall.

I'm Not Even Sure This Counts (10/30)

2010-10-02T21:59:00.002-04:00

I'm feeling a little off today, but that's alright. It's normal to feel off every now and again. I saw my buddies The Bonesetters play tonight and that was really cool. I saw them with some of my favorite people and that made it even cooler.

In case you're wondering who makes some pretty outrageously good chili, Sara Gobble is a name you should remember.

I don't have a lot to say today. I think that this week just plain wore me out. I addressed some pretty heavy issues here and on my facebook page and I can only deal with "talking" about certain things so much before I realize that talking isn't helping and if I'm that passionate about it, I should probably just DO something.

So I'm going to go do stuff.

Sometimes I Write (9/30)

2010-10-01T20:37:00.002-04:00

Some time ago, I promised myself that I would use this blog to post stories that I've written, and that's what I'm going to do tonight even though it makes me a nervous wreck to do so. So, I hope you at least don't hate this story.
Really, that's all I'm shooting for.
Read.

What We Made

Amy and Ray sat on the hood of her white Oldsmobile in the liquor store parking lot. He popped the champagne she’d just bought and tried to convince her to take a swig. She declined.

“It’s bad for the baby.”

“So is smoking,” he said.

“I’m going to quit.” She threw the still burning cigarette onto the grass beside them. He shrugged and slipped the open end of the bottle between his lips. The too sweet bubbles moved over his tongue and made his throat swell.

They were five hours married and two days babied. She wasn’t supposed to have been able to have kids. When she was seventeen, a doctor assured her that an out-of-order ovary and a hostile uterus meant she would never get pregnant.

She’d cried right there on his desk. Her face staining the papers swept across it in waves. He petted her shoulder with sharp raps of his palm, and reminded her of the all the unwanted children in the world who would need good homes when she was ready. She was more concerned with the kind of man that would want someone like her now.

Ray hadn’t cared about dating a barren woman. He hadn’t cared about too many things that wanted him back. He smiled at the night, convinced that something had finally answered his hurried prayers. He was dented and damaged, but now he would be daddy. Somebody’s version of perfect. Kid’s don’t know what poor is, and they don’t care. They only know that you love them, and they love you back for it. Babies can fix you.They would tell their baby about this night, about their hopes for her, but really for themselves.

They sat there scared and happy and wrong. This baby was not a savior, and she would not be blind. She was not a miracle. She would not see them as Gods, and she would not want to be them She would see their tarnish, waste, and their ugly. She would hear of their secret shames from bitter family members who were tired of being pitied, and three eggnogs past crying.

Ray would not be there and she would find out that it is, in fact, possible to miss what you never had. She would grow up and away from her mother. She would love her, but she would hide. She would lie to her often and without guilt.

Some days, never at the same time, they would all think back to the night spent on the hood of that car. They would wonder who got the story wrong. They would speculate about one driving away, and the other drinking himself to death on a cold wet pavement as dark as an empty womb.

Their faces would get warm and their throats would swell.

Why I Haven't Watched "Mad Men"...Yet (8/30)

2010-09-30T16:38:00.006-04:00

Surprise! Most of my friends are white!

Jay Kay, this really isn't some huge revelation or anything. If you know me, then you know this.

If you don't know me, but you check out my facebook profile pictures sometime, you'd know this. If there is another person in the picture, there is a 95%* chance that person will be substantially lacking in melanin. If you want to go even further, notice that if there is another person in the photo they might also happen to have a penis at a rate of, oh, let's say 83%**.

While I consider myself to be a culturally aware black female feminist***, the majority of the people I spend my time with just happen to be white males. To be fair, I go to school at a PWI (Predominately White Institution), where I am an English major. Not JUST an English major, but heavily involved in the writing community. I also read comic books and do stand-up comedy, all stereotypically white male activities.

Correction: Stereotypically white NERDY male activities.

I would be lying if I said it wasn't something that I thought about constantly. I am aware of my race and gender around other comedians, writers, comic book readers, etc. As a matter of fact, the most consistent "compliment" that I get from other (male) comedians is "I don't really think women are funny, but you're actually funny!"

Uh...Thanks?

Anyway, the point is, I'm surrounded by white dudes. Just all the damn time. And I love my white dudes, I really do, but my problem isn't usually with my white dude friends. If it was, I just wouldn't be hanging out with them.

That being said, I'm a little disturbed by the popularity of Mad Men and this whole "Remember how awesome the fifties were?" theme.

First things first: Christina Hendricks is BANGING. ~~You could take me back to the fifties if I would have had curves like that.~~

Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, I don't know that I want to watch a show about a bunch of white dudes in the fifties and the white women they love and hurt, and all the white money they make, and white lies they tell, with no real racial minority perspective.

For MOST white dudes, if race isn't thrown in their face, they don't talk about it. Racism, Sexism, etc. are issues that have to be blatant to receive recognition. And even though I'll address it anyway, I don't want to be seen as a "paranoid hyper-sensitive black chick" because I notice the subtle racism in television (and our daily lives) that my privileged counterparts do not. I can see how they watch Mad Men and think to themselves "Hey, I'm trying to live in that day and age!" and not give a second thought to what living in that time period would mean about their relationship with me, a black woman.

But that doesn't mean it doesn't bug me.

A little tip for you: People of color, for the most part, don't play the "What Decade in America Would You Most Want To Live in" game. The answer is almost universally the same: The Future. Why? Because why the hell would we go backward when there are still institutions in the country slowing our progress? Like, TODAY.

And if you think racism doesn't exist in this country anymore because Barack Obama is president, I'd punch a baby in front of my mama for an hour of your time. We need to talk.

Back to Mad Men: I've heard the story lines are excellent, and I'm sure that's true. I'm not saying the show will be better if you just pluck a black chick into every scene (unless it's me, in which case it would be because I make everything better), but I am saying that I can only take so many shows with no people of color in them, or if there is a minority character, they're heavily marginalized (or stereotyped) with trivial story lines at best.

Try to understand, I'm not protesting Mad Men, I'm not saying it's a bad show, I'm not even saying I'll never watch it. I'm interested in the show. Many people who's opinions I respect, talk (or tweet) about this show like it's the best thing since a shirtless Boris Kodjoe. I believe them. I just don't know if I have the energy for it.

I REALLY want to enjoy this show. It would just be kind of overwhelming to have to watch another dramatic show where racial minorities are largely invisible, when I'm living a life where racial minorities are largely invisible.

Maybe if I move somewhere a little more racially diverse, I'll give it a shot. Maybe I'll give it a shot before then.

When I'm ready, I'll let you know.

* Percentages are approximate
** This I just plain made up
*** If you think that last part is redundant, men can be feminists too. If you don't know what redundant means, I can't help you.

My Face (7/30)

2010-09-23T22:52:00.000-04:00

I was going to untag these pictures.

These are not pretty.

I'm really uncomfortable with pictures of me eating. I don't mind people watching me eat and I definitely don't mind talking about how much I love to eat, but I hate photographic evidence of my masticating.

I also hate being uncomfortable with anything.

I'll deal with earthworms another day.

Who Do You Love? Are You For Sure? (6/30)

2010-09-22T10:53:00.000-04:00

I'm not sure how important it is for me to be in a relationship.

That's not some eye-opening revelation or anything. I mean, I frequently blog about relationships because I am absolutely baffled by them, especially by most people's inclination to make them even more complicated than they already are for, I don't know, excitement?

Why is your life so boring you have to create drama in your relationships? LAME.

Last night, my friend Jacob* and I got into a discussion about our singleness. I was maintaining that while I'm not in pursuit of any romantic entanglements, I was not opposed to them either. Being single is not a curse, and there is a very big part of me that enjoys the freedom to flirt and make decisions based on my feelings alone. Of course, there is another part of me that would love to have a partner, be spoken for, be attached. Part of this is probably because I live in the midwest and here, EVERYBODY is trying to be married and babied by 25.

Jacob* is in a place where he would like to date, but has become so comfortable with his single life that a girlfriend might seem more like a subtracting factor than a welcome addition to his life. However, he continues to date, I suppose, in the hope that eventually someone will override his single system.

Some chick should probably hurry up and do that before I snatch him up. Seriously, this guy is Grade A. You would want to do him after school like some homework, and then spend hours lying next to him, warm coffee in hand, discussing public policy and the state of spiritual people in this country. His Mind, His Spirit, His Body, are just WHOA. That's all I'm gonna say about it before I start having palpitations.

Jesus Take the Wheel.

In any event, I'm currently involved with someone and I suppose that it is, for all intents and purposes, a relationship, but it's certainly not traditional in any sense. We don't live near each other and neither of us has revoked our single status, but we don't see other people and we talk nearly everyday.

He is one of my best friends. I tell him everything and I am genuinely interested in his life. When something exciting happens he is one of the first people I want to tell, and his reaction could make my day. I'm very attracted to him. He makes me laugh. It's important to me that he is impressed by me. Which he is. But who wouldn't be? Do you know who I am?

So why aren't we officially in a relationship?

Because we don't want to be.

Easy enough answer, right? We are both at very particular places in our lives where to be in a relationship could add more stress than enjoyment. However, we find so much pleasure in one another's company that it seems unnecessary to be uninvolved just because we don't want the whole package right now. There is no 'all or nothing' here.

I've been accused of just being comfortable and not wanting to change, but I don't think that's true. I'm very aware that a time will come when I'll have to make a decision. The situation that I am in now can not last forever, not that I want it to. Eventually, I will decide what my next step is and I will go from there, but until then, why should I live in some black and white lifestyle that I don't agree with?

I can't think of one good reason.

What makes a relationship "real" to you? Are you looking for someone? Something? Does your happiness depend on it? Speak.

*Name Changed

Don't Think, Don't Serve (5/30)

2010-09-21T14:28:00.000-04:00

There are some things that I leave out of "polite" conversation. Things like socioeconomic status, political affiliation, human rights, and (my personal favorite) race relations are all loaded subjects that can easily lead to a fight (verbal and/or physical) and the loss of acquaintances. So, generally, I don't bring them up in "polite" conversation.

However.

If someone ELSE, brings any of these subjects up, who am I not to oblige them with my (factually supported) opinions? Really, wouldn't it almost be selfish--criminal even--if I left the ignorant to their own assumptions?

Maybe not.

Maybe I'm just pushy, militant, loud and all of the other adjectives used to describe my natural hair. Maybe, voicing my (factually supported) opinions won't change anyone's mind, ever. Maybe I'm just wasting my time attempting to educate those would embrace willful ignorance for the rest of their lives.

Maybe I should just shut up and mind my own business.

Well...I'm not gonna.

Of course, I will always pick my battles, and pick them carefully at that, but when I was in fifth grade, I read that Martin Luther King Jr. said

"A time comes when silence is betrayal."

I'm not the first person to know that quote, and hell, I wasn't even alive when he said it. But I know that message transcends my age and the time in which it was spoken. Those words ring truer than anything people tell me about keeping my head down, shutting up, being diplomatic and most certainly more than anything I've read on a hate strewn picket sign.

That quote, those words, resound.

There are so many beautiful people in my life. They are not all straight, they are not all black, they are not all white, they are not all able-bodied, they are not all rich, they are not all traditionally educated, they are not all here, but they are ALL beautiful.

None of them deserve to be reprimanded by their country for being who they are. None of them deserve to be held to the letter of the law and not have the law work for them in turn. None of them deserve to be spit on, harassed, fired, disowned, kicked-out, beat up, pushed into unnecessary mental or emotional treatments, discharged, ostracized, excommunicated, or lied to because they live their lives as honestly and with as much authenticity as possible.

Most of them have.

My blog is usually pretty carefree and airs on the side of vapid. I know this. I use this as a reflection of my life and in my life I tend to be very diplomatic and aside from closer friends and acquaintances, I try to be "polite".

That will not change. I will always do whatever I can to make sure that my opinions are heard in the correct arena and at appropriate times. I have no aspiration to become someone who doesn't know how to have a good time, or someone who will call someone out in front of a group of people because they told an off-color joke. Mean and humiliating is not, nor has it ever been, my style.

However.

I will pull you aside and talk to you about what you said, especially if I believe that you truly adhere to the sentiment of an off-color joke. I will not laugh at something that I find to be more than in bad taste, but in bad humor. If you use a word in front of me that makes me uncomfortable, I will tell you one-on-one and that will be the end of it.

I'm not going to call anybody a racist, bigot, etc. because they made a mistake. That's not my place and it's not my job.

But my beautiful friends should know that I will always fight for their right to live their lives as openly as I am blessed to live mine. And they should know that when they say things that are racist or bigoted in nature, I will let them know that they are and I will let them know why with as much understanding as my heart can hold. I will always be compassionate, but I will never, ever, be silent.

That's a betrayal that I cannot live with.

Tag Along (4/30)

2010-09-20T23:47:00.000-04:00

Sara Gobble, Tyler Gobble, Moi, and Layne

Ashley is overwhelmed.

It's the same old story really. I'm trying to do too much with too little time available and not saying "no" enough. I've been doing this since high school, and really, I should know better by now, but alas, I'm an old dog trying to learn new tricks.

My classes are not all that boring (as previously posted) as much as I have been boring in them. Working for the foundation has been absolutely amazing and I love the people I work with there, but some days it's hard for me to see the purpose of what we do there. It always comes back, but the days that I forget are not awesome.

Then there's my writing.

I love writing, I am a writer. I'm just not sure that I'm good enough call myself that. I have friends who are writers--published writers--and they are so good they make my heart leap and my ears drool. I listen to their stories and even sometimes their thoughts and I swim laps through their words. I get so excited for their publications, readings, workshops, displays, blogs, EVERYTHING.

Reading my friends' work makes me feel so...useful. The thought that my opinions, my support, and in some cases, my love, might be helping them create, what I consider hand to bone magic, is enough to keep me listening for the rest of my life.

The flip-side of this is that the more I immerse myself in this lifestyle of some literary pseudo-groupie who is mostly just along for the ride down the road, the more I hate my own writing.

My personality works in extremes. In my mind, people hate me or they love me. Nothing is permanent, things change minute to minute. I might be convinced that someone would take a bullet for me at 9am and after an awkward encounter at 10am, be certain that they hired the hitman themselves.

Like I said, EXTREMES.

Unfortunately, this way of thinking bleeds into my writing life. When I love the way other people write so much, it becomes less and less likely that I will enjoy anything that I produce, because nothing I make is close to what they give me.

Some days I convince myself that I'm not a writer. That I've never been a writer, and I should be ashamed for ever falsely presenting myself as such. Other days I'm reminded that life doesn't work for me unless I write. When I"m not writing, I'm not well, things aren't good, and nobody lives in Pleasantville.

Does anybody else struggle with this? Do you compare yourself to your friends so much that it makes you want to do something no one else does just so that you could pretend that you were good at it and no one would be any wiser? Oh, is that just me?

I should probably stop being so extreme.

I Have Questions and I Want Answers RIGHT NOW (3/30)

2010-09-19T21:21:00.001-04:00

How many times do I have to kill myself to complete everything on a Sunday night before I get off my ass on a Saturday?
Why didn't I spend more time with other writers in college before I had a semester left?
What if I just pick up and leave now without finishing my degree? Wouldn't my life be way more interesting?
What makes someone's life interesting? Who will care about my story?
Can you write non-fiction without pissing off most of the people that you know?
What should I do on my visit to NYC in October?
When are Benson and Stabler gonna give me a show? Come on, Stabler. Show Olivia your pork sword already.
Do I REALLY have to work for the rest of my life? Couldn't I just be a beautiful bum and live off of my ~~looks and~~ street smarts?
Is Nutella appropriate to eat at every meal? You don't have to answer that. I'm doing it anyway.
Why is school so overwhelming and simultaneously so boring?
How do you stay in touch with far away friends without driving yourself a little bit crazy or feeling a little bit guilty?
~~Is Nutella appropriate to eat at~~

Answer my questions please.

The Festival (2/30)

2010-09-18T23:49:00.002-04:00

Tyler, My Lysi, and Layne

*First of all, let's just get it out of the way, yes, I know that I already skipped a day. Whatever.*

Some friends and I went to the Johnny Appleseed Festival in my hometown today. Now, I LOVE the Johnny Appleseed Festival as much as I love Christmas. I'm not even lying. I LOVE it.

I love the way that air is filled with smoke from people cooking in cast iron cauldrons, running into family and friends that I haven seen for long bouts of time, and even the way old ladies' genteel Midwestern manners fly right out the window when in hot pursuit of some lawn decoration made of wicker.

Seriously, wicker.

It was so much fun walking around and pointing out where to get the best apple dumplings, best corn on the cob, best kettle corn (I am eternally preoccupied with food--sue me), and I felt so much pride in the beautiful grounds, the friendly (wicker-less) people, and the delicious delicious goods.

It really made me miss Fort Wayne. I'm not one of those people who left Fort Wayne and just talks about how much they hate it to anyone who will listen. I think it's a good city. There are so many things there that I love, so many memories that I'll always cherish. We even found an AMAZING used book store there that I never even knew existed before this trip.

Let me say that I am happy to have gone to college. It was important for me to do so and I am so proud of the woman I have become here.

But I do miss home.

Graduation is just around the corner and very soon, I will be making some pretty tough decisions about entering the workforce, moving away, and what dim male I can get to carry all my books to the next residence. There are days when the thought of moving forward gives me gooseflesh along the length of my arms and back and there are days when that same thought makes me want climb under a futon at a party and talk to my best friend about how my life is completely out of control and I feel powerless. (<---Actually happened)

When I feel like being a futon hermit, I miss home the most. It sucks finding out that my sister made cheer-leading captain or that my brother is really good at football via 10 minute phone conversations with my mother. Admittedly, the lack of communication goes both ways. I'm not the best at letting my family in.

Either way, I know that being home is good for me and that if I don't take this time to enjoy the family and friends that are there, I'll regret it. Especially if I end up finding employment out of state, which is not out of the question for me by any means.

Basically, I had fun today and it reminded me that there are very good things about my home, and even some surprises.

I needed the reminder.

The 30 Day Challenge

2010-09-16T23:56:00.001-04:00

Hello people!

I can not describe to you how much I miss blogging. Seriously, it is impossible to describe BUT if I were to try, I would say that it has been like a little person was paid to live in my mattress and kick me in the ribs while I slept under the influence of copious amounts of Nyquil.

Sorta.

Anywho, I'm super glad to be back! My friend Rachel Fairbanks and I are beginning a 30 Day Blogging Challenge today and we will blog EVERY DAY for the next 29 days.

Aren't you excited?! No? Forget you too.

Today's post is just going to be a few simple pictures of some friends who I've become much closer to over the past few weeks and I just really feel the need to show them some love.

You guys are the best. Thanks for loving me so well:

Tyler Gobble (Monster Man) and me (Goose)

The salacious Spencer and me with bright lips

Tyler, Me, and My Lysi

Ryan, My Lysi, and Cody

All By Myself

2010-08-09T15:26:00.003-04:00

I'm in a weird place right now.

No, really, they're doing some work to my office and put me up in this funky little room for the day and it feels strange in here.

Anyway, this post has nothing to do with the little room I've been exiled to (and I thought I was doing such a good job at my internship...). It has to do with the fact that I am (technically) a single woman and I'm not tripping about it.

I have a lot of female friends who are also single, and most (not all) fall into two categories (With a little dramatization):

1) "I LOVE being single! Being single is the best thing that EVER happened to me! F*ck men and their mama's! I don't need 'em! I'm doing this by myself and that's all I ever want!I hate relationships so much, I don't want to have FRIENDS who are in relationships! I'm too young to get caught up! Anything with a penis can fall back if he's looking for anything more than a wham-bam-give-it-to-me-man and GET OUT! The single life is the only life for me! The only ring I'm puttin' on it is a Nuva-Ring!"

2) "I HATE being single! Why is everyone in a relationship but me??? My bed is so cold at night. I should just buy 13 cats now and be done with it. Why doesn't anyone want me??? Maybe I should just settle so I don't have to be alone. What am I doing wrong? I'm tired of beating bridesmaids all about the head at weddings to catch the bouquet weddings and not having anything to show for it. All the good men are taken...I'd take a bad one, though. My vag is so cold at night. I just wish someone even WANTED to put a ring on it, even if it was just a promise ring."

Ladies, ladies, ladies! It doesn't even have to be all that.

Seriously, we don't have to love being single so much that hating relationships is our most time-consuming hobby, nor do we need to loathe every waking moment that we aren't boo-ed up.

Here's the thing, when you're in a relationship with someone, there are going to be all kinds of ups and downs. Some of those downs will be easy breezy ("He didn't call when he said he would, I got upset, he bought me diamonds, now we're cool,") and some of them will be insurmountable hurdles ("He slept with my sister/best friend, I shot him, he bought me diamonds, I kept them, we're still not cool").

No matter how much you love that person, there are going to be days where you need them to give you 50 feet and just let you breathe. You'll miss those single moments when you could come home, take off all of your clothes, pop-in "Ghostbusters", surround yourself with comic books and stay that way until you were ready to eat again and NOBODY would have anything to say about it. Okay, maybe that's just what I would do, but you get what I'm saying.

Now when you're single, you're STILL IN A RELATIONSHIP. It's just with yourself.

There are going to be ups and downs. Some nights you're going to come home and hate that there is no one there to just cuddle on the couch with and watch American Idol (not me cause I can't watch that ish). Other nights, you're going to come home and praise Tiny Baby Jesus that you can just kick-back and watch an entire season of The Nanny (again, maybe it's just me) by yourself with no one trying to watch something else or talk to you about their job.

Sometimes, the grass is only greener on the other side of the fence because you keep pissing in your own yard.

If you're single and loving it, that's okay, but why close yourself off to the possibility of commitment? I understand not everyone is looking for that traditional "happily ever after"but I also know that sometimes you're trying to show how happy you are being single so that men will want you more because you seem like the kind of girl who isn't looking for anything long-term. So, why are so many of you upset when a man doesn't call you back or tell you that he wasn't looking for anything serious when you bring up relationships? Because playing games like that only catches other game-players.

Bad strategy, chick.

For the women who constantly complain about being single, why are you making yourself look so desperate for a relationship? If you can't enjoy your own company without the company of others, what makes you think somebody else will want to sign-up to be responsible for your happiness? And what happens when you're finally in a relationship? You're going to complain about how you're just not happy where you are now!

Unhappy people will find any reason to justify their unhappiness. Sometimes their relationship status has nothing to do with it.

The bottom line is, leave a little grey area for yourself. Don't think that because you're single you have to be either begging for a relationship OR exhilarated at the thought of a life spent without partnership. You can be open to love without selling yourself short either way.

So Close And Yet So. Damn. Far.

2010-07-23T14:11:00.002-04:00

It's happening people. Some of you thought it never could. Others of you hoped it never would, and I am truly sorry for your impending loss, but what can I say other than...

I'M GRADUATING IN 5 MONTHS!!!

Oh. yes. This is 5 and 1/2 years in the making (don't judge). It took me six majors, four minors, and 18357930 student activities for me to get here. One semester left until I am the first person in my family to have a bachelors degree.

During the coming months I will become a veritable buffet of emotion. As most of my friends can tell you, I'm horrible at dealing with good-byes. I don't even like the "see you next semester" good-byes. In preparation for my intense emotional reaction to good-byes I often get weirder and weirder as the time to say farewell approaches. I'll be writing a lot of letters, inviting everyone out for coffee, and oh yes, there will be tears.

There will be points in the next five months that will feel as slow as a snail dragging its ass in molasses. I will be looking at clocks in long classes and praying to Tiny Baby Jesus that just this once, I could control those two hands with my mind. Getting bored is inevitable. My hope is that I don't allow myself to be bored so often that I can't appreciate the time that I have left here.

My Fall classes (New Media, Creative Non-fiction, and Qualitative Research) should be great. I'm working with some amazing faculty this semester (Rai Peterson, Jill Christman, and Jackie Grutsch-McKinney) and I can't wait to learn a ton from them.

I'll still be involved with Student Voluntary Services, Commuter Ambassadors, and due the great job I've done this summer (their words, not mine), I've been asked to continue my internship with Foundation until I graduate in December. That one made me really happy.

Clearly, I won't be without things to occupy my time, but I want to be more than "occupied". I want to be...engaged.

No, I'm not asking anybody to put a ring on it (though we all know they WANT to). When I say I want to be engaged, I mean that I don't just want to be busy, I want to be actively involved with things I'm passionate about. Luckily, with SVS, Commuter Ambassadors, and the Foundation, all of my obligations are also things I'm passionate about.

I have no excuse to be bored this Fall. These are things I need and want to do:

Decide where I want to end up (blech)
Go to class all the time (Read: Most of the time.)
Make an appointment with my favorite Career Advisor (James Mitchell)
Update my resume (to be fair, I do this constantly)
Start applying for jobs in August (don't stop until I get one!)
Start asking professors & supervisors if they are comfortable being references.
REALLY enjoy homecoming (I have yet to do this)
Hang out with people I love as much as possible
Do fun Fall things I always want to do like picking a pumpkin and going on a hayride
Sing more karaoke (It's too much fun not to)
Say good-byes properly (no skulking off to avoid getting emotional)

This needs to be the best Fall semester. Like the Broadway musical divas I love, I have to end on the highest note.

Inspired to Return by Allison Daly

2010-07-22T15:54:00.006-04:00

I've. Missed. This.

I've been so busy with school (hate it) and my internship (LOVE IT) that I haven't had the opportunity to update in quite some time.

Anyway, I'm back and I can't wait to plunge right back in to updating regularly about whatever (and whomever) my heart desires :)

Get ready for a host of word-heavy posts about the usual things that irk or tickle me, but until then enjoy this post about a woman I love who happens to inspire me with her art.

Allison Daly

Does this not look like the coolest girl in the world? Of course it does, and lucky for me she actually is!

I lived with Allison for two years and feel comfortable stating, without hesitation, that she is one of the best people I've ever met. And you know I've met a lot of people. More importantly she has a Fabtastic sense of classic style that will awe you in its subtle eccentricity mixed with a classic air of sophistication.

I am consistently amazed with Daly's ability to understate delicate stitching and hidden seams wile simultaneously exposing a zipper or a sheer undertone of flesh. The cut of her pieces show off the feminine curves of a women's physique without over-sharing the secrets of her body. A delicate rope to walk, but Daly nails it with her designs.

Her fashion line, Una Hoja (One Leaf), is a fall collection inspired by her home in the Southwest. Deceptively classic colors without the "safety" or weight of non-contemporary style. Each piece was made using a technique called one-seam (The tops are one pattern piece. The material has been sewn to itself to create form). Here is an example of one of her pieces (one of my favorites!):

Give it up. The girl is talented.

As her roommate, I was constantly inspired by Daly's work ethic. Long nights of watching her and Danielle, our other roommate, squint, pin, and pump away at those sewing machines, while I drifted in and out of finishing a paper, made me realize that production and success take work. Daly has never been afraid to work and when you combine that with her seemingly raw talent, you get all of this:

The Bottom line is, don't sleep on my girl. Don't even nap. If you do, you'll be missing the next big thing. AND check out her website!

One Eyed Wonder

2010-06-23T20:00:00.001-04:00

Don't be nasty.

Sorry! I haven't updated this week due to the start of Spanish 201 (much harder than 102!), HUGE Board Meeting for my internship (much bigger than I assumed), and a scratched cornea (...aaaarrgh?).

MEANWHILE, I've decided to switch my "I'm Impressed By" segment to "I'm Inspired By" because the things I learn from the people I write about here are more than impressive, they inspire me. And really, who cares what I'm impressed by? That just feels kind of pretentious.

I'll be continuing the old segment under the new heading starting with my former roommate/good friend/ AMAZING designer of fashion, **Allison Daly**

She's amazing and you won't want to miss what she's working on. Trust me.

See you soon, loves!

Like Me

2010-06-18T09:05:00.006-04:00

I love Target.

Like, love it. I love their clothes, shoes, accessories, even their Archer Farms food brand. Target makes my day, most days.

Yet, I have a little beef with Target. Well, really, with clothing companies in general, especially those who produce graphic t-shirts.

Why can't I find a graphic t-shirt with a famous black woman on it?

Yes, I could order one on-line or buy one at a concert, but why can't I just walk into a Target, Macys, or JC Penny, and grab one like any Marilyn Monroe devotee?

Please, don't say that it's because of supply and demand and not enough people will buy them. I would buy 15 for myself, and my good friend Charla would buy another 15 if Lena Horne's face was on them. More than that, have you noticed how many black people walk around with Obama on a shirt? Can you imagine how many women would buy a shirt with Tina Turner on it?

Who can I find on a t-shirt? Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, Elizabeth Taylor, Grace Kelley, Jackie Onassis Kennedy, even Madonna.

All beautiful, all talented, and all white.

Hell, even Gaga has her face on shirts and we're the same age!

Most of my female friends are white (that's a post for another day), and although I do have black female friends, unfortunately, we find ourselves unable to spend a lot of face-to-face time with one another. So, whenever a conversation with my white female friends moves toward the subject of beauty or beautiful women, I feel a little...out of sorts.

While I can certainly agree (who wouldn't?!) that Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, Elizabeth Taylor, Grace Kelley, and Jackie-O are beautiful women, these are not the women I was raised thinking of as the epitome of beauty. I too watched watched their movies, mostly with my grandmother, and later during my teen years when I had a brief obsession with black & white movies. However, my education in classic examples of beauty were a little more diverse than that.

I was raised on beauties like Dorothy Dandridge, Tina Turner, Lena Horne, and Sophia Loren. Women who's bodies were curvy and strong, feminine and positively awe-inspiring. Women with dark(er) skin. Women I can relate to a little more.

Honestly, even the women I was raised to idolize (in the way of beauty) aren't exactly bold examples of the range of beauty among black and Latina women. But they're closer.

Beautiful is beautiful, and I get that, but understand that I like knowing that my dark skin isn't considered NOT beautiful.

I'm not saying that white women don't believe that the only beautiful women are other white women. That's ridiculous. I'm just using these conversations as an opportunity to showcase the women I was brought up to believe were beautiful. Women who, in my opinion, aren't given the same visibility of an Audrey Hepburn or a Marilyn Monroe, but who are equally as beautiful.

Can I please get ONE of these sisters on a T-Shirt?!

Dorothy Dandridge

Lena Horne

Tina Turner

Sophia Loren

Pam Grier

Rita Moreno

Stories You Can Keep

2010-06-16T01:40:00.004-04:00

I wanted to walk to the library today because I want to save the world. I made it halfway before a friend stopped and offered me a ride. He was going to be driving whether I was in the car or not so it only made sense for me to accept. Sorry, world.

This trip to the library was fueled by my desire to feel productive. I walked through the doors and right into the heart of a tour from university orientation. The walk-thru left me feeling old and inappropriately ogled by freshmen's suburbanoid fathers. To be fair, I may have made eyes at the orientation leader. But I KNOW him.

I was there to produce and print. Printing papers, though it wasn't helping the world any, did have a way of making me feel like I'd actually done something. It was physical evidence that I had been somewhere with a professional printer, which of course confirmed any previously assumed bouts of productivity.

Unfortunately, nothing I was working on needed to be printed, but I was sure that if I stayed ON the internet long enough, something would require a print job, so I ended up where we all end up.

Facebook.

The first status update in my news feed was from one of my most favorite authors, Mary Miller, and attached was a link to a story she'd written. This was perfect print-out material! I was super excited for a) a new story with potential for high likability 2) not having to feel like an asshole for just printing out more copies of my resume. Each time I do that, the help desk librarian looks at me as if she wants to say,

"Trick, all the resumes in the world aren't going to get you a job. Don't you know we're in a recession? Stop killing trees and learn how to convert a PDF, dummy." That librarian was a bitch in my head. Meanwhile, I was excited for this story to rock my world and even more excited about it being a cool crafty project.

After I'd followed the directions on putting the little book together, and surprisingly didn't mess anything up, I started reading it. Then, I finished it. I read the entire thing standing right next to the printer. From the first to last line, I was completely enthralled. Maybe it was the image of a giant stuffed giraffe buried in a shallow grave of packing peanuts, or the fact that I have my own issues with an ex that aren't really issues yet but they will be because, eventually, they'll have to be, that made it impossible to sit. I don't know.

I put my little book in my over-sized purple bag (even my accessories are loud), and left the library feeling weird and open like someone else knew about my little shames. The protagonist had too much of me in her and I couldn't tell if that meant she had "me" in her or just "woman" in her. I was taking the the bus home.

For a few stops, I was the only one riding even though the first heavy raindrops before a storm were falling. Finally, another woman got on. Her fishnet stockings made my bare legs shiver and when she said my boots were "fucking adorable", I smiled at her the way I smile at men who buy me drinks I'm afraid have been roofied.

I pretended to read the little book again so that I wouldn't have to stare straight ahead, right at her crisscrossed kneecaps. My ex worried about me leaving him for a black man, but I never worried about him leaving for a white woman. And as I sat across from this homely woman with pale knees, fishnet stockings, and a nervous tick that caused her to chew away at her thin bottom lip, my lack of suspicions were confirmed.

My stop came fast. When I stood to leave, the woman turned and smiled at me, the corner of her mouth still comfortably tucked between her teeth. The smile I tossed her way was more genuine than the one before.

"For you." I handed her the little book. I didn't want to sleep with it under my pillow and I didn't want to see it every time I opened my big purple purse. The book was mine, but the story wasn't. It seemed right to pass it on to someone else who might love giraffes or an ex.

I hope it took her fucking breath away.

I'm Impressed By Derek Walker

2010-06-14T08:39:00.006-04:00

As I wrote yesterday, I'm not very comfortable promoting myself. However, I LOVE promoting my friends. I'll admit that I am biased, but I also have to say that I am not easily impressed. I've decided that in order to find a comfortable balance on this blog, I'm going to start profiling my talented friends, and occasionally, other talented people that I encounter either in person or via the interwebz.

This new segment of my blog will be aptly named "I'm Impressed By" and will then go on to profile what's impressing the hell out of me.

Over the past few weeks, I've been collecting various data from facebook, myspace, flickr, youtube, and other personal websites my friends use, so that I can write these profiles on them. Oh yeah, I took my stalking to the extreme. I've even separated them into visual artists, writers, musicians, etc.

I'm super excited for this new development in my blog. I hope you'll enjoy reading these profiles as much as I enjoy creating them.

********************************************
Derek Walker

Not hard on the eyes, ladies :)

I'm going to kick-off the first "I'm Impressed By" segment with my good friend Derek Walker. Derek is a mere month younger than me, though he continues to impress me with his artistry in graphic design, sculpture, and other forms of art. He possesses the ability to mold with his hands what he sees in his mind with seemingly little to no effort.

Derek not only impresses me with what he produces, he inspires me with the constant pursuit of his own inspiration. I know what he likes because he shares all of himself with the world. To meet him, is to learn from him about the parts of this life you previously assumed you'd already figured out. Bending your vision and forcing you to look at the universe, not just from a different angle, but from many different angles, he will show you something magnificently contrary to what you believed to be true.

Equal parts hip-hop, dreamer, and naturist, he has the rare and beautiful ability to use what he sees in the world to create a vision that is undeniably from the mind and spirit of Derek Walker.

Here are few of my favorite works from him:

All of the photos are the property of Derek Walker and have been used with his permission.

Things to Read

2010-06-13T16:42:00.001-04:00

As promised, I will continue to post stories and/or poems that I've written. I find it more than a little strange that I have no problem posting very personal information on this blog, but I still hesitate to post my writing. But hey, I'd like to be a respectable writer someday (whatever that is), so here is another story.

I hope you enjoy it:

Catchings

My grandpa sat across from me at his kitchen table. His fingers busy separating the edible parts of frogs he’d caught down by the lake. Equal parts intrigued and disgusted by the act, I marveled at the way his fingers bent and snapped their sinewy limbs.

My grandpa’s house was sad. The kitchen walls were stained teeth. They meant to be white, but age and abuse had dulled and darkened them. There was a “Splish. Splish. Splish.” sound coming from an old white bucket sitting next to his refrigerator. My fingers twitched each time I heard it, but my eyes stayed focused on grandpa’s hands.

“Don’t be trusting them boys out there, little girl. They ain’t worth shit, and they don’t know shit.”

He spat the words toward a frogs half open body. If it had been alive, I wouldn’t have been sure he was even talking to me.

I knew things about my grandpa. I knew that he used to hit my grandma and that she used to hit him right back.

“I hated when I’d lose my temper and hit her cause that meant I was gonna have to fight her all night, then get up and go to work in the morning.”

He never talked about it in front of Grandma or my mother, but I knew the story well.

If I closed my eyes when he told it, I could see my grandmother wielding a cast iron skillet in one hand and a pot of boiling water in the other. My grandfather realizes he’ll have to make a decision: which hand to avoid. He chooses to shift away from the water and in doing so is stomach bludgeoned by ten pounds of Calphalon weaponry.

“Lord, she’d knock me right on my ass then yell at me for making too much noise!”

He shook his head and looked to his walls. His eyes squinted and his chin turned up as if remembering that these walls used to be white and wondering when yellow happened? How yellow happened? He dropped his chin back into his chest, and started talking to the frogs again.

“I wasn’t no good,” he muttered. “We’re no good.”

“Splish. Splish. SPLASH!” The white bucket turned over and out came a small flood of lake water and a great big catfish. It struggled for air, or the opposite of air, or something else, and spastically flipped from side to side, end to end.

My grandfather and I watched the catfish suffocate in the middle of his unmopped floor. When it stopped moving, he picked it up with both hands, sat it in front of me and said,

“You’re gonna learn to gut this fish like a man.”

He put his knife in my hand and began to talk me through it. I listened to his instructions, though I continued to hear a faint “Splish. Splish. Splish.” The bucket was still overturned and the water on the floor raced toward crevices and crannies to fill. I was angry with my grandfather the way a child is angry, I wanted to leave this kitchen, this sad house, and his damn stories. But I was learning to gut a fish like a man and I was taking it like a woman.

Can You See Me Now?

2010-06-09T11:51:00.006-04:00

Since August of 2009 I have lost 30 pounds.

Here are the two pictures of me, in the same dress, to help illustrate the difference in my appearance. The picture on the top was taken August 2009 (with my roomies) the picture on the bottom was taken May 2010 (with Boo).

I'm glad to be healthier. I'm proud of myself for taking more steps to take care of my body, and I feel even more comfortable in my skin than I did before (and you KNOW how comfortable I was in my skin before).

In the past year, I've gotten contacts, lost 30 pounds, and am no longer bald. Not to mention, I've finally found a sense of style that is very "me" and I feel much more at ease wearing dresses and other "girly" things that I would have shunned before, assuming that I couldn't pull them off.

Inevitably, my attraction rates have gone up. I've garnered more attention from the opposite sex (and same sex, for that matter) in the past six months than I have in the whole 22 1/2 years beforehand. It's a little awesome, a little unsettling, and often, pretty useful. Overall, no one complains about being thought of as attractive, especially when you went to so long being thought of as only mildly attractive at best.

I feel as though this post is sounding like "Hey! I used to be an ugly duckling and now I'm a beautiful black swan! EAT IT!" But that is not my intention. My intention is to set the stage for what I really want to write about, which is the opportunity to live on both sides of a fence.

I have had the opportunity to go from below-average-attention-receiving-girl to above-average-attention-receiving-girl over the course of six months. I'm not going to lie, I find it disturbing that the change in my appearance has changed the way people react to me so much. Nothing about my personality has changed. I'm still good for a joke, the answer to useless celebrity trivia, and you know I know where the free food is. I still like comic books, still horrible at censoring myself in public, and I still haven't seen Pulp Fiction. But the way people treat me has changed significantly in positive and negative ways.

Here are some of the pros and cons of this weight-loss situation:

Pros

It's easier to believe I'm attractive. Although I've always considered myself attractive (not huge into the whole self-hate thing), I've also spent quite a bit of time convincing MYSELF that I am. It's strangely exhilarating to have strangers positively (and frequently) comment on your looks.
I'm more likely to try new things with my look. The more people comment on some of my more quirky embellishments and accessories, the more I want to find really unique things that look good on me and could be conversation starters.
Men are nicer to attractive women. I'm not saying it's right, but I am saying that it's true. The loss of weight, glasses, and a mostly drab wardrobe, has lead to more free drinks, offers to help out, and even compliments on other (non-physical) parts of my life. Do I realize that they're just trying to get in these jeans? Of course. But I'll take that drink...
There are more clothes in my size. I've gone from a 14/16 to a 10/12. It's a lot easier to find cute clothes that I actually want to wear now. Though it's still tough to find jeans because, while I have bigger thighs, I don't have a wide waist. My solution? Wear more dresses and skirts and belt them. I feel prettier in them anyway.
I'm a surprise. I've always described myself as a get-to-know-you girl and not a want-to-know-you girl, meaning traditionally, men have only been attracted to me after getting to know my personality, and not based on initial physical attraction. Because of that, I've been free to develop a sense of humor and not be ashamed of any of my interests. The men who've approached me in the past six months have been pleasantly surprised by my personality. To be clear, I'm not downing myself here, I'm just relaying how it usually goes for me. I don't think that being a get-to-know-you girl isn't as good as being want-to-know-you girl. To be honest, I think it's better.

Cons

Some women will no longer trust me/like me. There is a particular woman in my life who LOVED everything about me when I had glasses, was 30 pounds heavier, and bald. Now that men, especially the kinds of men that she would go for, are openly, and at times unabashedly, attracted to me, SHE CAN'T STAND ME. This is weird for me because I've never dealt with jealousy issues between women, and let me tell you it can get nasty. Even though I haven't retaliated against her slander, though I did confront her about it, it's still odd and dramatic and it makes me kind of sick to my stomach. It's weird thinking that because I feel more comfortable, more women will continue to think that I'm after their partners. It's just such a foreign situation.
I worry that I'll begin to rely on the comments and approval of others. I've always been pretty confident in the idea that I'm a catch and any man would be lucky to have me. I worry that should the attention I get now go away, as all things must change, that I will feel lost without it. I try not to take the compliments too seriously because I know that the size of my waist isn't at the top of my list and that eventually, I could gain the weight back. I don't want to feel like I'm no longer an attractive person when guys don't hit on me anymore. I don't want to put that kind of pressure on myself.
It's expensive to lose weight. There are so many reason why this is true. The top 3 reasons are: You have to buy new clothes that actually fit, more confidence makes you want to experiment more (as in buy more stuff), and food is more expensive when you're trying to be healthy.
Men are nicer to more attractive women. I know this was a pro, but it's also a con. While I get more drinks bought for me at the bar, I also get more men being fake nice to me to try to sleep with me. Even if it's kind of exhilarating to have a guy look at you and decide getting to know you is his mission tonight, it's also super disappointing to find that he only want to get to know you in the biblical sense. Don't get me wrong, I'm not looking for love in these clubs, but at least when I had glasses and was approached by a man at the bar, he was usually a pretty nice guy. Now, I'm like a douche magnet.

One more thing that I've noticed is that I'm starting to catch a lot more flack from black men about dating white men. This past weekend, while walking hand-in-hand with my white ex-boyfriend/current whatever (which is a whole other story), a large van in the street slowed down so that a black man could stick his head out of the passenger window and yell, "Hey! Get your hands off my woman!"

We just smiled and waved because...what else could we do? The man then smiled and waved back. Clearly, he was (kind of) joking, but that isn't the first (or fifth) time that's happened to me in the past 6 months.

For the record, I'm not some "black men ain't sh*t" kind of woman. I would happily date a black man if one of them would happily get the balls to ask me out. That doesn't happen to me. Like ever.

But for some reason, some black men have decided in the past six months that I "belong" to them and that my dating white men is out of line. Meanwhile, none of them have asked me out either, so....what am I supposed to do? Turn down white men in order to wait around for the black men who don't try to date me? Sorry, I'm into this thing called "logic" and you might need some.

I'm not dumb, I realize that this mostly has to do with the change in my appearance. I'm not blind, and I'm not going to do that stupid "Oh, I didn't even notice that my looks have changed!" thing that some people do. This post may make me sound a little conceited, but I'm trying to be honest.

WE ALL KNOW THAT I LOOK DIFFERENT. The jig is up!

The question is, does looking different mean that people have different expectations of me? Do I look like a boyfriend/husband stealer? What happens if I gain back the weight/shave my head again/need to go back to glasses? Now that black men seem to consider me attractive, am I betraying them by dating men of other races?

Most importantly, am I supposed to pretend that I don't notice the added attention? Why or why not? Give me some realness people.

Do You Trust Me?

2010-06-01T11:04:00.002-04:00

I have a tendency to date difficult men.

Not difficult as in mean or selfish, but difficult because I tend to (seriously) date very smart men. I've said before that I love the nerds. Men who are so smart they're lucky they function in normal society. Why does that make them difficult? Because smart men often assume they're masters of the universe, even if they only quietly assume so, and when you consider yourself a master of the universe there isn't a whole lot anybody else can tell you about anything. Even if it's about themselves.

Being self-aware is extremely important to me. I am constantly toeing the line between being neurotic and being appropriately analytical about my relationships with others. So you can imagine how much it would irk me to have someone tell me that I don't know how I feel. It's pretty much my ultimate pet peeve.

This weekend, I had a conversation with an ex-boyfriend/current-whatever in which I explained to him that while I do love spending time with him, I was very happy in the relationship that we had (before he broke up with me), and wasn't interested in trying to re-make it and possibly ruin my memory of it. His response:

"I think you're mis-remembering how happy you were. I mean, I was an asshole 80% of the time (SO not true!) and I think you weren't as happy as you seem to think you were."

*blinks* Side-eye *blinks*

Well that started a debate. Not even about how happy I was. Nope, we debated about his tendency to assume he knew more than I did about how I was feeling. A debate we'd had too many times to count while in our relationship (where I was EXTREMELY happy).

To be fair, he's not the only guy who does that. He's not the only PERSON who does that. How many times have you heard someone say (or said yourself) "Well, he/she SAID they felt/meant(blank), but I know they REALLY felt/meant (blank)."

We do it all the time. Yet, we all seem to know that you can't have a relationship without trust. So why don't we trust our partners to know themselves? Why do we twist their words or assume that they mean the worst? Why do we try to see our own insecurities in the praise they attempt to give us?

Seems to me that, in order to have a good and healthy relationship, we can't only trust our partners not to cheat on us or intentionally hurt us, we must also trust them to know their own hearts. We have to trust that when they say they like us, love us, find us attractive, want to be with us, are happy, or can't get enough of us, they mean it!

It's funny because all so many people want is love and understanding and when someone tries to give us those very things, we try to find anyway to prove that they don't really want to do that. We find any way to poke holes in their story, or their determination to love every inch of who we are, inside and out, flaws and all.

How can we make it without that trust? As much I have to trust that my partner won't leave me, I also need to trust that they won't leave me because they don't WANT to leave me. I can't know if that's true, but love is about faith. If you don't have faith in that person, then what do you have aside from the overwhelming fear that you are nothing but an obligation?

I don't want that. And I debated with him because I needed him to know that he was never an obligation, and that I wasn't always a happy person, but I was ALWAYS happy that he was mine.

It ended with him smirking at me, the way he does when he realizes he's been stupid and is kind of impressed with my ability to defend myself and my positions rationally and with unfailing logic. He threw his arm around me, pulled me in closer to his chest, and said, "I forget that when you're in the room, I'm not the smartest one here." Which, in essence, is about as arrogantly asinine as you can be.

But it is still the sweetest thing he could have said to me at that moment. And yes, I was happy.

Look At Me

2010-05-29T12:05:00.000-04:00

My friend, Tiffany Holbert, started a writing project about our experiences with, and feelings on, our appearance and I've submitted my story! Check it out! And submit something yourself.

Sun Do Shine (Just Pictures)

2010-05-27T09:45:00.001-04:00

My relationship's with Spring and Summer are the healthiest I've ever been involved in.

Me and Justin a.k.a Young J.C. a.k.a JCizzle a.k.a The Dragon

I LOVE PEONIES! My favorite flower

Found the BIGGEST Dandelion blowy thing EVER. The Dragon is confused by it.

This peach rose could easily be my third favorite flower (after gerbera daisies).

Fly as I wanna be. Per usual.

Sometimes You Find Things

2010-05-19T11:25:00.000-04:00

I came across this story today and I haven't read anything I liked this much in a LONG time. Enjoy.

Kinky Stuff

2010-05-18T11:21:00.001-04:00

I'll go ahead and apologize now to the readers who were expecting a sex post.

Suckers.

This post is not about sex. It's about my hair.

I'm going to be really real right now and address the fact that most of my followers are white, and so, it may be really hard for you to understand why I would write a blog post about my hair and how it could possibly be relevant to anything.

I wish I had the time to sit everyone down and really explain to them the delicate relationship between a black woman and her hair. But let's be honest, even then, no one else could truly understand it the way black women do. Not even black men.

Fourteen months ago (March of 2009), I was forced to shave my head. I needed to have a medical procedure and baldness was a surgical prerequisite. I bawled from the time I was told until I got home and called my best friend who is white, but also has her long hair issues.

Like so many other little black girls, I was raised to believe that long hair was the key to beauty. Not just long, but as close to the texture of white people's as possible. Girls who achieved this were rewarded with the title of having "good hair." I can't tell you how many times I've heard a parent encourage their children to procreate with a partner who had "good" hair to make sure their children would have the same.

This kind of thinking has endured from the time African slaves limped off the boat, to this very moment while we are a nation being served by a black President. Natural hair is still scary to some black people. My own grandmother says it's tacky and uncouth.

My entire life I've been taught (indirectly) that the closer you look to white, the better. Everything from my family loving that I don't have a bigger (blacker) nose, to my cousin with the longest hair being deemed the prettiest, to the focus on my brother's lighter eyes, even finding skin bleaching cream in the cabinets of family members, all of these things that indicated to me, even as a child, that white is better than black.

And, I'm only 23 years-old. This isn't some 1930's self-hate bullshit. It's 2000's self-hate bullshit.

Well, I wasn't born with "good" hair. My hair is naturally nappy. My curls are kinky and tight and stay close to my scalp if I don't pick my Afro out. I didn't even know that this was the texture of my natural hair until this past year, because my mother started relaxing my hair when I was 4 years-old.

Now, I have to add that black hair doesn't come in one texture (the same way European hair doesn't come in one texture). There are many different textures that black women's hair can come in (I'm a 4C). One of my very good friends (she's a BG!) has hair with naturally more defined curls (more of a 3B/C) than mine, and she gets crap for it too.

Anyway, I digress, after 22 years of relaxing, pressing, oiling, brushing, combing, braiding, trimming, and desperately growing my hair, I was going to have to cut it all away. It felt like they were going to cut off my hand. I didn't want some dumb nurse to maim me, so I had my boyfriend (at the time) use his clippers to do it.

This picture was taken mere minutes after the chop:

As you can see from the mega-wattage smile here, I didn't take it as hard as I thought I would. Indeed, only moments after having it cut, I realized that I kinda hated my hair. I had always hated getting it relaxed, and having to do so much work to it all the time. I hated the comments I got from other black people (mostly women) about how I needed to spend a fortune going to the hair salon every week.

I didn't enjoy brushing it, combing it, curling it, NOTHING! The few times the I did get my hair done (or did), the praise from other's and attention from men, didn't make up for the 8 hour ordeal that it took to get the desired effect. My hair was such a big deal that it had become a source of pure negative energy in my life, and now I was free.

Free to be natural. Free to (finally!) learn to swim because I didn't have to worry about the chlorine washing out my perm. Free to be unafraid of rain or getting it wet. Free to wash and go. Free to be me.

That sounds hokey, I know, but I've never felt more "me" than in the time I've spent with natural hair. I love to touch it, I love to play with it, I love to dress it up with headbands and barrettes. I'm happier.

Surely, I won't attribute all of my happiness to my natural hair, but I will say that it helps. I've never felt prettier in my own body, and I know that it comes from no longer striving to work toward a look that isn't MY standard of beauty.

So, I'll take the stares, the men who won't date me, the companies that won't hire me, the family that worries about me, the people who now assume I'm militant because of my hair. I'll take all of it, and I'll take it happily because I. Am. Happy.

I don't want to be this girl again:

Because I'm THIS girl:

And for the record, yes you can touch my hair, but only because I like talking about it and I'm a giver. BUT you had better ask permission before you do :)

Who Writes?

2010-05-17T02:18:00.000-04:00

Yeah, I'm a writer.

I write a lot, I study writing, and I write fairly well.

I've been reluctant to call myself a writer for a long time. I think it's because I have so many good friends who are good writers and I could never imagine putting my writing in the same category as their work.

But I guess that doesn't make me NOT a writer. Just a different writer. Not different as in special, but different as in not the same. Does that make sense? Probably not.

Anyway, in honor of my "coming out" as a writer, I've decided to share a short story with my readers that I wrote not too long ago. I hope you enjoy it:

Chocolate Cigarettes

Today I woke up and put in Annie Hall which meant the rest of the day would feel fat like rain. I opened the window next to my bed for some fresh air and my teeth started tap-dancing from chills. I looked down and saw my pants had brown smudges on them that I quickly recognized as remnants of the chocolate cigarettes I’d eaten in bed.

The only time I’d ever smoked real cigarettes was after he left. Before I met him, I’d been an anti-tobacco company activist. I’d been a lot of things before I met him. Tattoo-less for one thing, and now I have a goddamn bluebird on my shoulder for the rest of my life.

This particular night, after another unanswered telephone call, I’d walked to the gas station just up the road. I went up to the counter with a bag of corn puffs and two cans of Sprite. My goods seemed lacking and maybe not worth walking here for. I asked for a pack of Camels and a lighter.

Walking back to my house, attempting to light my first cigarette, I tripped. The cigarette fell out of my mouth and into the gutter. I pictured my grandmother arching her brow and saying, “God is trying to tell you something.”

“Fuck you, Grandma,” I mumbled. I picked up the cigarette, and gave it a home between my chapped lips.

I stood still while I brought the flame to the tip. I’d watched my mother do this my entire life and so my hand never faltered and I knew just how to inhale to get it going. Slowly and deeply, I took the first drag and my lungs expanded to make space for the toxic fog.

It reminded me of the first time I cursed. The smoke between my cheeks and down my throat, rolling off my tongue like my first “fuck”. He had been a smoker and these were his brand and now he was in my mouth. He was down my throat and in my chest and he didn’t even have the decency to choke me to death. That night I slept with all of my clothes on.

The first thing I did the next morning was go out on my porch and light up. When I inhaled, I caged him inside my lungs where he couldn’t see through the smoke. Where the haze confused him, and he answered my calls because he couldn’t remember why he shouldn’t. I let the smoke blind me a little, too. I wanted to think he would come back, that he loved me more than he hated us.

Eventually, my roommate put her foot down, and I surrendered the last of the pack on my third day as a smoker. I watched as she drenched them in dish liquid then buried them in the kitchen wastebasket.

“They stink and you don’t need them.” She was being firm which was out of character for her. I smiled at her without my eyes so she knew I wasn’t being sarcastic when I said I appreciated her effort.

We went out that night to celebrate my liberation from a brief nicotine addiction. My roommates wanted to dance, but I didn’t stray far from the bar side. A man with a tattoo on his neck bought me a pale beer. I pointed my toes at him and showed him my bluebird. My ex hated few things more than neck tattoos. But this man put one hand on my waist and with his other placed a chocolate cigarette between my painted lips.

So I asked him if he’d ever seen Annie Hall.

Fight for Feeling

2010-05-16T05:00:00.001-04:00

It's nearly 4am. It's been a long one and I am not sober blogging. But after this tumultuous night, I need to write these words:

Pain does NOT equal passion.

Yelling, berating, hitting, and negligence are never appropriate ways to express love. I'm sure there are people reading this right now and thinking to themselves "duh." And I would bet all the free food on campus (and you KNOW how much I love free food) that they've convinced themselves, at sometime in their lives, that because a partner lost their cool, it was proof positive of their feelings for them.

WRONG.

Behavior like that is only proof of a person's tendency to lose control and attempt to manipulate their partner's (you) emotions. What it is not, is affirmation of their love for you.

I understand that everyone fights and sometimes things get out of hand. What I don't understand, is why people think they've lost the passion in their relationship when they stop fighting! Conflict is not something you seek out, it's something you attempt to solve.

You need to shake things up a bit in your relationship? I get that, however why do you have to introduce a bout of drama ridden spats into your lives? Couldn't you have just bought somrthing new and sexy to wear, or even better, just walked in butt naked and let your partner know you're DTF?

Many of my male friends (and exes) talk about not wanting a crazy woman (or partner), and when they find one they say something dumb like, "I just don't feel sparks" or "I'm not sure we have any chemistry" or "I just can't tell how much we're into each other" THEN they meet a girl who was supposed to be a one night stand that turned into a monogamous relationship, fight with her everyday, and they have the nerve to talk to me about how she might be"The One."

Trick please.

Clearly, I'm not the authority on love. I'm not the authority on most things, but I know a few things about a few things and I do know that love isn't meant to hurt.

In fact, it's meant to do just the opposite.

Quick Update

2010-05-10T21:28:00.001-04:00

Some things that are happening:

I changed the blog template. Did you notice? What do you think? Is it me?
I'm Tyler Gobble's friend of the week! Tyler is a superb friend, a stellar writer, and my Monster Man. The Goose adores this kid. See the post here.
Spring semester is over :)
Summer semester starts Monday :(
So does my internship with the Ball State Foundation :)
Went to Cincinnati yesterday and met this guy.
Good friends had good news that made me smile big today.
I had homemade chocolate chip scones this morning.
Roomies are packing to leave forever.
I'm still not good at saying goodbye.

Mama

2010-05-09T11:27:00.000-04:00

This is my Mama (and me)

Let me tell you about my mama.

My mama was born in June.

My mama has four sisters and one brother.

My mama was the girl that all the boys at Southside wanted to date.

My mama can skate better than your mama.

My mama was told she would never have children.

My mama married my daddy in 1986.

My mama had me in January of 1987.

My mama raised four children all by herself.

My mama told me that I could do anything I want to.

My mama told me never to pick a career for the money.

My mama told me that I'm the one who has to live my life.

My mama told me I was beautiful in my awkward stage.

My mama always did the best she knew how.

My mama still got it.

My mama taught me to be goofy.

My mama is so proud of me.

My mama loves me.

I love my mama.

Why Won't He Love Me?

2010-05-06T04:34:00.001-04:00

Happy Cinco De Mayo! I hope you've been doing something fun because all I've been doing is blog reading and watching "Fatal Attraction" in which Glenn Close is hot, BUT crazier than a tomato soup sandwich.

Over at one of my most favorite blogs, The Black Snob, I ran across this:

"Why Don't You Love Me" - Beyoncé from Beyoncé on Vimeo.

Clearly, Beyonce has come out with a new video and I like the song. LOVE the video. I'm sure that's because I've always enjoyed that 50's housewife/Harlot kind of look. Kind of enamored with a black woman getting her Mrs. Beaver/Bettie Page on.

Anyway, the chorus of the song goes, "Why don't you love me? (Why don't you love me?) When I make me so dame easy to love. And why don't you need me? (Why don't you need me?) When I make me so damn easy to need."

I can relate, B. I can definitely relate.

At one time in my life, I too thought of love as a meritocracy. That is to say, I believed that if I was pretty enough, interesting enough, and gave enough of myself to a man, then he would have no other choice but to love me.

I'd been reading magazine articles about how to get a man, how to keep a man, and how to make a man want you, since I was 12 years-old. I made the seamless transition from Teen magazine, to Seventeen magazine, and inevitably, Cosmopolitan magazine. I still read these publications from time to time, though I'm still bothered by the lack of representation of women of color (especially in Cosmo). But, I digress.

The overwhelming theme in these magazines is that a man doesn't want a woman who's looking for a man. He want's a woman who is living her life to the fullest all alone, and just happens to meet him at the right place and in the right time in their lives.

Yeah...that's not how I took it.

When I was reading (and believing) these articles, I thought they meant that I was to become a really interesting person and try to attract men on many different levels.

Maybe, I'd study harder, not to get an education, but to impress a man with my quick wits. I was supposed to take cooking classes, not because I wanted to learn to cook, but because I could impress a man with my mad skills in the kitchen. I should start exercising, not to improve my overall health, but because all men like a hot tight bod, and think of all the smokin' singles I could meet at the gym!

I don't think I'm alone in my misconception. As a matter of fact, I'm not entirely sure that I've misconstrued the objectives of these articles. I mean, they tell us not to worry about men and just live our lives the way we want and be strong independent women, but they end the article with some form of the old saying, "When you stop looking for someone, that's when someone will find you" indicating that the ultimate goal in "finding yourself" is to find a man.

Many of my female friends lament the fact that they seem to embody everything that men want and yet, they still can't find a partner. My theory? They embody everything that magazines articles written by women say that men want, and therein lies the disconnect.

You can't make someone love you. Period. It doesn't matter how funny you are, how sane you are, or how beautiful you are. Love is undefinable and commitment is a choice. You can't make it "easy" for someone to love and/or need you if they don't feel that way. Love is not a meritocracy. You don't get points for being awesome that you can cash in as he's walking out the door.

Unfortunately, you can look like Beyonce, be as poised as Michelle Obama, and live a life as interesting as Lara Crofts, and still find yourself alone when you don't want to be. No, it isn't fair, but it is reality, and you're gonna have to join us here eventually.

So what's a girl to do?

I say do what you want. Learn what you want, love what you want, and always do it for you. Just try taking care of yourself and your own happiness. But do it for you.

Men can be awesome and/or awful and we can't live our lives for or in pursuit of them. Recognize that finding someone to love doesn't always have to be a priority. Even if it is, recognize that you're not looking for someone to "complete" you, you're looking for someone to complement who you already are as a complete woman.

Love yourself hard, and don't do it only in the pursuit of love from someone else.

You're better than that.

Don't Touch My Kids!

2010-05-01T18:45:00.001-04:00

I don't have any kids, but I love kids. I love working with kids, I love being around kids, I think they're just excellent. I've often said that I am way more excited about being a mother than being a wife. Pretty sure that's because I have way more patience with children than I do with adults.

As I prepare to graduate, I can't help but think of what happens next in my life. A lot of my friends are getting engaged, married, or having babies. Any of those three things happening at this time in my life would be enough to send me into a full blown leg-shaking brown-paper-bag-huffing panic attack. Doesn't mean I don't think about them.

This morning I had a conversation with a friend about her children and their father. She isn't married to the father of her children, but they still attempt to co-parent. So far, that isn't really working out. She is educated in child development and finds his "Well, I was raised this way and I turned out alright" method of parenting to be ineffective and potentially damaging to their children. She wants her children to have their father in their lives, but struggles with the idea that they'll suffer from his parental mishandling.

I'm not sure I'll be into co-parenting. Even before having this conversation with my friend, I'd suspected as much about myself. There are very few things that I get all "control freak" about, but kids seem to be one of them.

This past summer I was a nanny for a 2 and a 1/2 year old little boy and I loved it. Deciding how he and I would spend our days, keeping a schedule for him, and watching him learn made me so happy. I was his parent for all intents and purposes, while his real parents worked during the day and I enjoyed every minute of the time he and I spent together, bonding, and growing.

At the time, I was dating my most recent ex (makes it sound like I have a ton of exes), and every once in a while, he would visit Muncie while I was working and take the kid and I to lunch and the playground. While I enjoyed the lunch portion of his visits (you KNOW I love free food), I found the playground portion nerve-wracking.

The 2 and a 1/2 year old is fearless. He would try to climb on, jump on, and ride on everything that looked treacherous to me. I wanted to stay right behind him at all times, and the few times that I allowed him to go on his own, my eyes darted around the playground following his every move. The ex was less than helpful.

"Go, Charley! Go!" He'd scream while Charley climbed something that he was sure to fall off of and break his arm. I tried to stay calm, but would eventually run over and shadow him again. "This is how he'll learn." The ex would say to me, "Let him figure things out. If he falls, he'll try it another way or he'll decide he's not big enough for that toy yet."Consciously, I agreed with him. Subconsciously, I needed him to shut the hell up and let me take care of this kid.

I'm afraid I'll be the same way if and when I actually have children. That I'll shut out the other half of my children's lives or that I'll procreate with someone who is an excellent partner, but a less than stellar father.

I realize that there are a lot of things to consider here. Such as whether or not children need a father in their lives and whether or not it's possible to parent and do it well on my own. However, I know what it's like to grow up in an environment where your parent allows someone else to co-parent who should not be doing so, and I am terrified of that happening to my children.

Luckily, these are things that I won't have to worry about for a long while. I only hope that by the time I'm ready to take on the monumental endeavor of motherhood, I'll have found the balance between control and vulnerability that will allow my children the upbringing that they deserve.

That ALL children deserve.

A Decade of Love and Other Stuff

2010-04-24T19:56:00.002-04:00

I tutor 2nd and 3rd graders at a semi-local elementary school every Wednesday. Seeing them is often the highlight of my week. These kids crack. me. up. One of my little boys asked me how old I am and the conversation proceeded as such:

Me: I'm 23 years-old.

Him: Do you have kids?

Me: No.

Him: Are you married?

Me: No.

Him:...well what have you been doing?!

Me: (Blank Stare) Uh...what's our next math problem?

That definitely took me off guard. Don't get me wrong, I KNOW what I've been doing. I've been living my life, I've been getting an education, I've been learning to love myself and others. But I HAVE been dating.

I've been dating for 10 years of my life.

At 23 years-old, that is almost half my life. For a decade, I've been in and out of relationships (mostly in) and date-like situations.

My first relationship lasted 6 years. I dated the same guy all through high school until the end of my Sophomore year of college. You can read more about that here.

Then I "dated" someone 1100 miles away for 4 months. He and I had known one another since I was 12 and he was 13. We'd been great friends due to our mutual love for artsy-fartsy stuff, Tim Burton, and poetry. Some described us as two people of different sexes who shared a brain. We often felt that we shared more than a brain. We fell in love because, I suppose, we needed to fall in love with one another at that time in our lives. We stopped seeing one another due to distance, but we still talk 3 or 4 times a week. We've both dated since our involvement, but sometimes, we both struggle with the feeling that we still "belong" to each other.

I visited SingleVille for 8 months after that. During this time I focused on my health. Mental, physical, and emotional. I dared myself to be better, to be the person I wanted to be. I wanted to take more chances and most importantly, keep myself from becoming bitter about men and relationships.

Then came along my biggest dating mistake, it lasted for one month, and no, he did not cheat or hit me or anything way out of line. He was just wrong. However, he taught me one of the most valuable relationship lessons I've learned: You can't be with someone because of how much THEY like YOU. So I broke it off.

Next came my last real relationship and it lasted for 11 months. It was amazing and I was happy. Then it ended like this. He and I are friends again.

I'm still open to dating though I'm more wary of committed relationships. I'm not bitter, but I'm trying not to be naive. I'm not married and I may never get married. I'm not sure that marriage is a goal for me. Partnership is a priority for me. I would LOVE to find a life partner and maybe there would be reasons for us to get married, but it just isn't something that's very important to me.

I suppose the next time one of my kids asked me "what I've been doing" to keep from getting married, I should just smile and say:

"If I was married, maybe I wouldn't have enough time to come and hang out with you!"

Brings Me Smiles

2010-03-17T19:42:00.000-04:00

These things made me happy today:

Graphic Novels/Comics

Cartoons not made for kids

Friends

Finding Yourself is Dumb

2010-03-15T04:49:00.004-04:00

Let me explain.

As a 23 year-old soon-to-be college graduate (hopefully), I understand that we are all terrified.

We are all afraid that we're graduating with the wrong majors, that we'll never find a job, that students loans will drown us, that we'll miss college so much we'll want to die, etc. We hear the lamenting of our "real world" friends about how they couldn't wait to graduate and are now contemplating applying to any grad school program ever just to get them out of their cubicles. I had one friend tell me, "Stay in college as long as you can. Don't get trapped out here."

Yeah, that scared the shit out of me.

And I'm not the only one. Most of my soon-graduating friends and/or recent-graduate friends are excited to be done with writing papers and attending classes, but not so excited about the searching for jobs or working a 9 to 5. I get that.

What I don't get is people using the "finding myself" excuse for not heading into the meat market with everybody else. You'd rather spend 2 years traveling Europe than entering corporate America AND you can pull it off?

Hurrah! Do it and do it YESTERDAY.

But do not tell me you're going to find yourself in Mykonos. Just be real! You're going because you like to travel and traveling is more fun than being brow-beaten by some junior exec who is as afraid of you taking their promotion as you are of being them in 5 years.

I'll admit that traveling, doing community service, or just taking a year-off can all help you figure out what you want out of your life and where you want to go, but this is not finding yourself. This is just finding out what you want to do and, sorry, but you shouldn't define yourself by your job.

Finding yourself is about finding out who you are and what kind of person you want to be. You are who you are and if you want to change who that is, you need not travel around the world, ladle out soup to the homeless, or move back in with your parents. Like I said, those things can help, but you have to go in with the right mindset.

Stay open to new experiences with familiar people and places. Just because you've known someone your entire life doesn't mean their not chock full of surprises.
Trust yourself enough to know that you have your values for a reason. It's okay to listen to others opinions, beliefs, and ideas, but don't trade in everything you believe as soon as a you're exposed to something new. Conversely...
Challenge yourself and everything you believe. If you don't know why you believe what you believe, you're just regurgitating something you've heard. Nothing makes you look or feel more stupid.
Realize that you do not have an identical twin somewhere else in the world who is just waiting for you to find them so that the two of you can then morph into one complete person. You are who you are, and everything you can be is already inside of you. The world just helps bring it out.

Certainly, I am not the authority on how to find yourself. I have no real career path, direction, or plan. But what I do have is a pretty damn good sense of self. Even when I don't know what the hell I'm doing, I still know exactly who I am. I know what I want the end result to be even if I don't know how I'm going to get there.

I like to travel, serve the community, and no one enjoys time-off more than I do, but I these things because I like to do them. Not because I think they hold the key to the rest of my life. I do them because that's how I want to live my life.

And the "finding" is in the living.

Why Does It Always Have to be About Race?!

2010-02-22T13:15:00.006-05:00

I talk about race a lot.

And when I say a lot, I mean a lot.

It's not uncommon for the title of this blog to be flung at me with exasperation by one of my white friends. I have a lot of white friends.

I never realized how much I talked about race until I came to college. My high school was predominately black and race was something we talked about constantly. We talked about race in relation to our teachers, our varied socioeconomic statuses, the television we watched, the music we listened to, etc.

Race was in no way a taboo or sensitive subject. Black wasn't everything we were, but being black made up our culture and shared experiences. It was a non-issue.

When I came to college, I experienced a REAL culture shock. There were girls on my floor who told me that I was the first black person they'd ever had a conversation with. I thought, "How does that happen?!"

But I knew how it happened.

In general--I repeat--in general, white people aren't raised talking about race in their households. As far as I can tell, they're being raised to believe that talking about race is actually rude. You don't bring up anything that labels anyone as "different" because you don't want to make anyone uncomfortable.

As noble as that school of thought may be, the truth of the matter is...

Black people don't really care.*

You aren't fooling us! We KNOW we're different!

The jig is up!

I understand that when you're raised to believe something is rude, it's hard for you to change your mind. Maybe every time I talk about race with my friends they see it like I'm farting in front of company. The first time it was kinda funny, maybe even a little interesting, but the third or fourth time you smell open booty you're like, "All right now, that's enough!"

I get that, I understand where you're coming from. But what YOU have to understand is that your parents unintentionally lied to you a little.

It's not rude to notice that someone is different from you. It's rude to think that because they're different, they're wrong.

Black people are proud of their differences. Hell, every culture is proud of their culture. We don't want a melting pot, we want a salad. We're all still our own vegetables, we're just in the bowl together helping each other taste good.

And trust me, I don't think about the fact that I'm black every second of everyday, but I'm also not allowed to forget. Every time I go to a party and some drunk white person calls me "Sistah", or asks me about Kwanzaa, or congratulates me on another successful Black History Month, I'm reminded that I'm a little different and people notice that I'm different. Too often I'm on the recieving end of this ignorance, without the benefit of being able to educate this person, because really, they don't want to know why what they just said is kinda effed up.

Those are the moments when my afro feels heavier and I wish my boots didn't say Baby Phat on the sides, and I have a sneaking suspicion that everyone is wondering what I'm doing at this party.

Then I remember who I am, dust my shoulders off, and refuse to teach anyone the Stanky Leg for the rest of the night.

But that doesn't mean I'm going to stop dancing.

*Just a reminder: This is just MY opinion, based off MY experiences. I in no way claim to be speaking for ALL black people. But, I do think I'm speaking accurately for most.

All The Bitter Ladies

2010-02-17T14:51:00.019-05:00

When my first boyfriend, who I dated from the time I was 14 until I was 20, broke up with me my sophomore year of college, I was angry.

I was angry because he had left me, because we had plans that would never come to fruition, and that he'd done it the weekend before finals.

I stayed in my hometown that summer and worked four jobs to distract myself from my heavy heart. I also wanted to stay close in case he changed his mind and wanted me back.

To make matters worse, he was my co-worker at one of my jobs. I had to see him at 8 o'clock in the morning five days a week. For an entire summer. We were cordial of course, and even hung out outside of work sometimes. We both had our emotional breakdowns and we both said stupid, inappropriate, and even hateful things. I wanted him back and he needed to figure things out. That was consistently our point of contention.

Then, over lunch, on the warmest day of the summer, he told me that he was gay.

Initially, I was supportive. Even at 20 years-old I knew that being gay was not a choice that someone made. I still don't understand how anyone believes that load of bull. So, I was there for him. I was there when he cried about it, when he laughed about it, and when he was figuring out how to tell the rest of his family and friends.

But I was still angry. And now it was a different kind of angry. I wasn't just angry with him anymore. Now, I was angry with myself too.

I had suspected for some time that he might be gay, and I never trusted my instincts. I told myself that we had sex frequently so he couldn't be gay. Why would he date me for 6 years if he was gay? He wants to marry me/have children with me/ build a life with me, etc. As though gays don't want to marry, have children, build lives together, etc.

While I was focused on rebulding my friendship with him, my relationship with myself was quickly deteriorating. I gained 25 pounds that summer, I stopped paying much attention to my physical appearance, and I jumped into two rebound situations with male friends, that both had the potential to end horribly.

One Sunday, as I lay beached on her couch with a bag of Chips Ahoy, and watching Diary of a Mad Black Woman for the 467,789,358th time in 2 months, my grandmother turned to me and said, "you're really hurting, aren't you, baby?"

Two weeks before this moment, my grandmother had actually said to me, "I hate that you and ***** broke up. You know, you'll probably never find anybody that'll treat you that well again."

So...yeah. Forgive me, if I wasn't looking forward to her imparting anymore "wisdom" to me.

With a mouth full of chocolate chip goodness and eyes full of shame, I gave a quick nod, dreading the lecture I had surely brought down upon myself in doing so.

"You know you shouldn't let yourself be bitter."

"I'm not bitter, Grandma. ***** and I are still friends."

"You are bitter. You're mad at him. You're mad at yourself. You want to punish everybody, but you're too nice for that, so the only person you're punishing, is YOU. That's why you eat food that don't make you feel good or look good, you don't try to do anything with yourself before you leave the house, and you watch these sad ass movies all the time."

"I'm not bitter, Grandma."

"Whatever. Just know that being bitter is swallowing poison and expecting the other person to die. You're not killing yourself, but you are killing your spirit."

I just stayed quiet and kept watching the move, trying to seem unaffected by her words. But I was. My mind was racing and more than I didn't want her to be right, I didn't want to prove her right. I was going to have to change what I was doing if I wanted to be happier, and God, I wanted to be happier.

I quit the job I was working with him 2 weeks early and went back to school before leaving for LeaderShape. I spent what was left of my summer finding out what made me happy. This included finding reasons to love myself everyday. It sounds so corny and it was so hard, but it worked.

It took me a while to realize that being single was not a disease and I didn't need to be cured. Being single has been an opportunity to take all the energy I usually put into my relationships and focus that energy on me and the things I love.

I'm better now. I've experienced more love and more heartbreak since I was 20, and I'm better for it. If nothing else, I finally realize that a broken heart doesn't actually kill you.

And if you're smart, lucky, or maybe you just have a wise grandmother, you won't kill yourself.

Setting It Off

2010-02-03T23:32:00.010-05:00

I entered college as a fashion major. One awkward phase and four majors later, I still LOVE fashion and find intense inspiration from the crazy things that crawl out of designers' heads.

Having recently gone natural myself, I was excited to find this website combining fashion and natural hair for black women and men. I get crazy geeked when I see black models, and black models WITH natural hair just make me salivate.

The taste of validation is sweet.

Here are a few pics that make me want to step my game up.

--All Photos from Lecoil

Can You Be Friends if You Can't Be Lovers?

2010-02-01T19:42:00.007-05:00

My most recent ex and I had dinner this Sunday. Sometime ago he offered to buy me dinner for my birthday. I accepted. After weeks of trying to work around our schedules (I'm a student and he's a comedian), we finally found a date that worked.

Dinner was excellent. We had great conversation, the food was great, and we even took some sushi to his house afterward and took turns feeding it to his cat. The night was absolutely perfect.

And we're just friends.

I've mentioned before that I have quite a few male friends and that fact remains accurate. Since junior high my circle of close friends has generally included more men than women. Now that I'm in college, I've found a few female friends to talk to and spend some quality time with, but generally I am still mostly surrounded by men.

These are not all exes. As a matter of fact, I've never really dated anyone who goes to Ball State. I've always found those situations to end up in a heap of mess that you still have to run into on-campus. I am not interested.

It's like eating some bad food and every couple weeks you burp and can still taste it a little in the back of your throat.

Nasty.

As my friends, male and female, begin to pair off, I worry about my relationships with my male friends. The two male friends that I have previously dated are currently single, but what happens when they have girlfriends? Won't their girlfriends look at me and think,

"What the hell is she doing here?"

The most recent ex had an ex-girlfriend that he sometimes communicated with, and although I never said anything to him about it, this particular girl made me uncomfortable. I thought it was weird that he had other female friends, that I knew he had hooked up with, and it didn't bother me, but THIS one in particular did.

Finally, I realized what it was:

I couldn't understand why they had ever broken up.

I mean, they laughed with each other and told each other jokes. I couldn't help but wonder where they had gone wrong. At what point had they decided they weren't working out? Couldn't he go back to her if they got along so well?

Naturally, I didn't worry too much about this because I live by the rule that you can't scare a man out of cheating on you. No matter what you say, no matter how much you threaten him, a cheater is a cheater and he will find a way to cheat on you.

So, I played it cool. Never bothered him about her, and he never even realized she irked me until Sunday night.

Eventually, these guys will find themselves some hot lady action. And one day, while she's standing next to him, and he's responding to some hilarious text or voicemail I just left him, she'll have two options:

1. Say "uh-uh, this bitch has GOT to go!"

2. Be like me and play it cool.

Just maybe, no matter which option she chooses, the real problem is that she'll be thinking,

"If he gave up on that, how little would it take for him to give up on me?"

Confessions of a Nerd-a-holic

2010-01-15T00:48:00.006-05:00

What is cuter than a man who's kinda shy, a little weird, and God-willing, smart as a whip?

To me? Not much!

I've always been the kind of girl who rooted for the underdog. When my uncle would have his annual Super Bowl party, I never chose a team until after the 1st quarter when I saw who was losing so far. Then I was their fan for the rest of the night.

It's pretty much been the same way with men.

My very first boyfriend was obsessed with Drum Corps and was also an avid watcher of the Lifetime channel just for the Golden Girls reruns. I fell in love with him in our marching band class when I saw how skillfully his fingers moved over the keys of his alto saxophone.

He was a straight A student and so adorably weird.

We were together all of high school and at one point he was drum major and I was the color guard captain of our marching band.

At the time, it was a match made in nerdheaven.

Since my first nerdlove, I have dated nerds almost exlusively. I am attracted to the awkwardness of a man who lives his life in a way that is consistent with his true interests. Men who have more comic books than condoms, who sometimes speak their own little language, and who have long ago given up on being a cool kid.

Don't let the Comic Book to Condom ratio fool you either. When it comes to sex, I believe that nerds make far superior lovers. Now as a boynerd snob, I have had limited intimate experiences with nonnerd men. However, I do get the lowdown from my girlfriends who date outside the nerdom.

Nonnerd intimacy sounds just...awful.

Obviously, as I've stated, I have LIMITED experience with nonnerd men. Okay, I have limited experience period. BUT I know what a good time is, and I am not only interested in being a good time, I'm trying to have a good time. It seems to me that nerd men compared to non-nerd men, are more interested in making sure that I'm having a good time.

My attraction to nerds is often fed by the reality that nerds are way more likely to be attracted to me. I don't know if it's my long time love for all things zombie, my preoccupation with dinosaurs, or the fact that I'm smoking hot, but for some reason nerds like what they see.

And they are welcome to keep looking.

I Feel Pretty...

2010-01-11T23:48:00.008-05:00

...when Stevi Waggoner takes pictures of me like these

She's A Jolly Good Fellow

2010-01-07T02:23:00.003-05:00

This is what I look like at 23 years old. Not bad. Not at all bad.

Best Birthday Present Ever

2010-01-05T18:13:00.003-05:00

I am going to see my father. I haven't seen him since I was 12 though we do write letters. My father has been incarcerated since I was six months old. Funny thing is, I often miss him. He was never around but I've always missed him. I've never been angry with him or felt any resentment. Just loved him. Wished he were here.

Going to see him is the most important thing I'm planning right now. It's my first priority. I should have done this a long time ago.

Looks Warm and Cozy in There

2010-01-03T18:45:00.008-05:00

The National Geographic Channel is doing a special on the growth of baby animals in utero and these are some of the promotional pictures they have released of said babies:

Jai Ho!

2009-12-06T22:33:00.008-05:00

First of all, I watched "Slumdog Millionaire" for the first time this morning.

Amazing.

Life is good blogosphere. School is kicking my ass a little, but that's cool. I'm broke, but that's normal. Things aren't too different.

I like this much better than dealing with all the crap that was going on. The way my life is going now is much better suited to my personality.

I am finishing up my very last Fall semester of college. Weird.

Am I ready for this? The real world sounds scary as hell, and all my friends who have graduated seem to miss college. I'm starting to hate the question, "So what are you doing after you graduate?"

What AM I doing after I graduate?

I have a few different options:

1. Move to New York City, try to find a job, and write on the side. And find nice people to live with. My favorite option.

2. Move to New York City without a job lined up, and hustle for as long as I can. Hustle means struggle, not like, rob people.

3. Move to Austin, TX with a friend (who has offered me free room and board) and hustle until I find a job.

4. Move to Indy and use my network to find employment. This would probably be the easiest option due to the contacts I've made through Indiana Campus Compact.

5. Move home. Not really an option. Cause I don't want it to be. Love my family, but home is only home for like a week, then it becomes a cage.

Basically, I just don't want to be a complete bum, and I want to leave Muncie. And Indiana. I feel like I'm at the perfect point in my life to make huge leaps into communities and situations where I have no idea what I'm getting myself into.

Without anything to keep me here (I can stay in contact with my friends and family from anywhere in the world), I feel so free to make decisions just for me and to do exactly what I want to do. No one feels the immediate effects of my decision-making except me.

Graduation is intimidating and while I am apprehensive about this shift taking place in my life, college student to real-worlder, I am also excited by the overwhelming possibility my life holds.

I can do whatever the fuck I want.

Distraction or Addiction?

2009-10-13T16:46:00.003-04:00

In coming to terms with my new single self, I have discovered a long lost friend.

Shopping.

Shopping and I use to get on just great. When I had a bad day, Shopping was there for me the way few others had been. Walking with me from store to store, we never had to say anything to each other because Shopping understood everything in my silence. It was like we would become one.

Don't get me wrong, Shopping wasn't just there for the bad days. Whenever I was going to meet someone important, or go somewhere special, or was feeling particularly pretty Shopping and I would ride around and see if we couldn't make the day even better together!

Last year, Shopping and I let a few people come between us: Bills, Weight, and Responsibility.

I hate all of those bastards.

But they couldn't keep us apart! This Fall (after experiencing some serious dramaz), I was doing everything I could to get back on track when who calls on me, but my old friend.

Shopping was back and ready to cuddle me close and rock me to sleep each night. Everything I needed was taken care of. Shopping was here and promised, this time, to stay only as long as I was truly in need. And boy was I need.

I needed an iPod, an iHome, countless amounts of fun new clothes, headbands, costume jewelry, make-up, movies, CDs, fine foods, and two bikes.

Now, it's time for Shopping to go.

It's so hard because now we're so comfortable with each other. Shopping doesn't really want to go, and let's be honest, I don't really want to say bye either.

I've got to move on. We knew what this was when we started out.

But in the words of Boys II Men:

It's so hard to say good-bye.

I Might Have A Future In This

2009-10-12T00:29:00.003-04:00

This is how I had hoped Barack Obama would respond to the controversy surrounding his winning the Nobel Peace Prize.

His real response displayed more humility.

Mine displays more hilarity.

Just For Kicks and Gigs

2009-09-07T03:33:00.004-04:00

Since my last update I was burglarized, hit by a car, and dealt with some serious familial drama.

And I feel a lot better.

Strange as it may sound, these events have actually helped me to put things into perspective. I had forgotten how much my mood depends on my attitude. The more positive I am, the more positive I feel.

Consider my paradigm shifted.

As far as the burglary, this time my television wasn't stolen which is an improvement from the last time. However, the theif did see fit to relieve me of half a bag of bread, a jug of iced tea, and a box of frozen waffles.

Then while on my way home from class (hungry from lack of waffles), I was hit by a bike which pushed me into the road where I was then hit by a car.

Only me, right?

Yep. Back to the Ball Memorial Emergency room I was taken where I ran into my friend Mallory's mom who was comforting me although her daughter (Mallory's sister) was also there for an injury.

I hurt some tendons in my shoulder and have a small crack in my clavicle. Had to where a sling for a week and pop pills like it was my job. Went on the SVS retreat that way and slept through the entire thing. Literally do not remember anything.

Finally, there were some issues with my family that broke my heart in their own way. It sucks feeling totally powerless in someone elses's happiness or even their will to live. Yet, this event in particular made me decide to be a little more proactive in taking care of myself. Or a LOT more proactive.

The thing is, some people count on me. More importantly, some people love me. I don't want to let them down. Allowing myself to come to harm be it through self-destructive behavior or negligence is not only irresponsible it's just plain not what I want.

That can't be my legacy.

So I've taken some steps to make myself feel better every.single.day.

-Watching movies that make me happy. "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" has brought me back from the brink of tears, anxiety, and boredom at least five times. Just saw "500 Days of Summer" tonight and the fact that that movie exists at this time in my life is proof that someone who controls things is on my side.

-Wearing dresses as often as possible just because they make me feel so pretty.

-Finally bought an iPod. Delicious.

-Spending more time with my friends. The love and support I've recieved through all of this is proof that I have great taste in people.

-Seeing a counselor. It's free, so why not?

-Finding a reason why I love me absolutely every morning. As you know, this is probably the easiest.

This taking care of me stuff is awesome. I do hate that I forget to do it until it becomes urgent. Wish that I could treat it as though it is as necessary as it is all the time, but alas, I am flawed.

It's funny that some people think taking care of myself means I should be trying to go on dates, or find make-out partners, or get laid.

To them I say, I am two and a half weeks single, one week post fistfight with a Pontiac, and the only thing keeping me from losing my mind is a combo of Aldous Snow, The Gap, and my new purple bike.

The last thing I need is a P in my V.

Just Keep Swimmming

2009-08-23T00:45:00.006-04:00

So, yeah...

I got broken up with on Thursday.

I'm sad that it happened, but I might just be even more sad about how it happened. I suppose the fact that it happened is really all I need be concerned with.

This is how I DO feel:
-blindsided
-anxious for answers
-a little spaced
-I want him to be happy, but hate that he may be happier without me
-sick of relationship advice (I'm not in one and I'm not looking)
-like I can dance past my pain
-breathing is harder sometimes, but necessary
-this phrase: The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. Really?
-I lost one of my very best friends

This is how I DON'T feel:
-like I can't eat
-like I cant sleep
-that it's my fault
-as though I've wasted my time
-as though I've wasted my poetry
-sick of my friends turning most of this into a joke
-it's a good idea to go into denial and think we're getting back together
-like less than a whole person

I love DJ. Two days isn't enough time to make that go away. I do wish this wasn't happening. I do wish he would speak to me. However, if this is what he needs, then I jsut wish he finds some happiness.

I wish I could be a little bitter and more angry, but I'm not sitting around getting upset about the fact that we broke up. Just sad about the things that we said we wanted to do together and the things we wanted to see together, the experiences we wanted to share.

This just feels so...unfinished.

DJ never was my entire life and he isn't now. But over the past year, he became so integrated into it, that reminders are everywhere.

I am not lost. I am not without hope about my future or love of my present. I'm alive, I am able-bodied, I am educated, and I am entering the last leg of my undergraduate career.

Priority one is not falling apart.

To my friends and family:
I am fine. Soon I'll be okay, and eventually, I'll even be great again. Thank you for your support and love through this. Thank you for letting me need you. I'm sure I will be borderline annoying for the next few months as I attempt to keep busy and distracted, Please bear with me. Also, don't de-friend DJ on facebook. I don't want him thinking my friends are that petty.

To DJ's friends and family:
This may be a little presumptuous, but hell it's my blog. Please, be nice to him. I'm sure he needs that right now. I hope that my silence doesn't translate into "Ashley must not have cared for me very much" because nothing could be further from the truth. It's just that I know how awkward exes can make things and I'm not interested in being that kind of ex. I do care and I do love, but you were his first and it's not fair to try and make him share.

My heart is broken, but not my spirit. I hope, one day, I'll get my friend back.