No time to blog....

but there's always time for your pearl on my tongue.... (you might wanna log onto your computer for this one ms morrison....dont laugh too hard)



sincerely,

pants


ps

i GOTTA eat it just to survive. you betta feed me.

As a reminder....

I'm still totally obsessed with her.



This is mainly so adorable because it's just fun. Not too flashy. Not too plain jane. It's totally something I would wear to dinner for a date or to brunch with my girls. Ooooo RiRi...after my own heart.

This is for you Ms. Morrison

i love everything about this pic. the shoes. the legs. the dress. most importantly, that smile.

Hormonal Text Messages

swirling hazel eyes: what you thinking about?

pretty brown eyes: argh just Y.O.U. It's kind of terrible. This is why i hate the hormone thing. Things that would normally just b hypothetical thoughts passing become my obsession until i find solutions or answers or just shit i need to hear. i feel so vulnerable and exposed. i miss u so freaking much! its like i wanna kno what beat i would dance 2 if the baseline was in sync with the rhythm of ur heartbeat and whats ur middle name and ur bra size and ur best childhood memory and everything about ur past life and how it sounds when ur thinking and how it feels when ur yearning and what ur bliss tastes like. i wanna swim in all that. live like a mermaid in ur atlantis. i dont know why everything i write about u leads me 2 atlantis but i always come back 2 u.

Atlantis.

She totally resembles...

this black chick I know named Beyonce. Doesn't she?

I effin love this dress!!!!

Why....

...does it seem like somebody is pasting her face on these bodies???

Yes

This white woman is Beyonce.





Or maybe its Sasha Fierce???

Ait ait!

Nononono!

I repeat: Keep my life outcha mouth!!!

Britney Spears - Circus [Le Clip]
by mondomobile

I'm getting better but sometimes I still feel this way.

PS.

I think I might be falling in love with her. Don't quote me on that.

My Life in a Snippet: There are still 5 of us.

We fought for two days. We made up in four hours. I woke up to eight guns. Only one was shoved in my face, though.

It’s a funny way to wake up, actually. After hours of love making, real love making, not the fake sex stuff you see on TV, after hours of that, you get this vibrating pulse through your body. The euphoric aftermath of having that many orgasms, it pushes you into a warm and fuzzy rest. It’s relaxing and quaint, the lazy, comfortable way you sleep with all your guards down. I laid in her bed, naked, stripped of inhibitions and anger, clothes and fear. We had made up. I was happy.

I came by that night to obtain my left-behind belongings. Or so I said. Really, I just wanted to reconcile what we had. I missed her. Missed us. The soft way we nuzzled into each other’s aura. Mine is purple. Hers is green. After blaming everything on her, after her claiming her wrongs but not letting me off the hook, after dinner, after wine, we hugged. We kissed. Looking into each other’s eyes, we tried to transform our replenished emotional energy into a battle of the fittest: who could withstand love in the form of pleasure the longest in all its intensity and fierceness. This took four hours. Four good and long hours. I couldn’t wait ‘til morning. She always makes me breakfast in the morning.

But instead of being awakened by sunlight or scrambled eggs or alarm clocks, the brute force of a steel handgun against a wooden door jolted me from my slumber. Instinctively, she jumped to the door to protect me. Intuitively, I hid myself in the shadows of her dirty laundry. She swung the door open and nine millimeter steel lips kiss her nose where I had hours before. I see her try not to glance at me. I think this was when I realized that she would die for me.

In my nakedness, I scurried to find clothes before those steel lips returned to defile me with their shimmer. I found a robe and hurriedly threw it on. Afraid to walk out of the room, I sat and waited for my fate, still half asleep, hoping this was just a nightmare.

It was not.

“Come on,” a masked man said to me, waving his gun towards the hallway. Though I know it’s a cliché, there is no other way to describe my inaction. I was frozen with fear. Stiff as if arthritis had built condos throughout my body, I could not move. All I could do was stare at him. He inched closer. Cold steel lips are thrust upon my forehead. “You think I’m fucking playing with you?!” No, I think you are very serious, sir. So serious that I am afraid to even do what you say. Those were my thoughts. Somehow, I managed to scurry out of the room into the living room.

The scene to follow this bedroom interaction pushed me again into a rigid stupor. Her mother lay on the floor where the burnt orange carpet and white linoleum create a black union of rubber. A pool of blood lay on the floor in front of her, slowly growing wider, fuller as thick, red life drizzled from her chin. She is beside her mother. I already knew she would die for her.

Across the floor stretched out, holding his mouth is her cousin. He cannot speak. His mouth is an amalgamation of anger, blood, jealousy, and sweat. His pool is much larger than her mother’s.

Then there is her sister. She is not crying. She does not look afraid. She is barking answers to their questions.

My girl is not hurt. Her sister is not hurt. I am not hurt, but I can’t hear. I’ve grown deaf and dumb in the twelve paces it took for me to get from the bedroom to this union of linoleum, carpet, rubber, and blood. “Tesha, just lay down, baby. Just lay down.” The sound waves of her voice tickle at my ears breaking me from my trance. I take my place next to her cousin, the only place on the floor where I could curl into a helpless ball and pray that tomorrow morning comes for me.

This is real. This is no nightmare. It hit me like four inch thick hail dropping from cloudy heavens, beating me with questions of did I pray this morning and is loving her really going to keep me out of heaven. Closing my eyes, I pray anyway, as fruitless as it seems. Ask for some safety, for the chance to write just one more time, sing just one more note, live just one more day. Three of them are not wearing masks, street code for no witnesses will live to tell. I just pray louder.

My prayers are answered. They leave with little of what they came for and spare our lives after seeing a police car patrol through the street next to us. Just like that, they were gone.

Them.

There were eight of them.

Us.

There are still five of us.

(if you would like the extended version, notify me via email at lyrikkmashairi(at)gmail(dot)com.)

Sometimes I dress....

a bit like a haute couture slut....



but most times I dont.

Keep my life out ya mouth

I'm getting better.

Email confessions

to savior from sinner....

so i dont kno what imma do about moving next week. this shit is crazy. im thinking about all the things i can do to get some money and bam i think, "i could be an escort" so i go on craigslist (cuz that thing has everything u could ever need) and search for it and i found a site. so i start to fill out the applications, upload the photos and the final question is multiple choice: "what services would you be available for?" so im like "services. what the hell do they mean services" so i read. and the list includes "in-call, outcall, dinner dates, licensed or unlicensed massage, nude or partially nude bartending, and strip tease. *gulp*


i cant live like this.

S.P. said she looks like me....

i'll be that.

My Newest Obession is tagged Olu Butterfly Woods

But I still love Rihanna tho.

If I ....

If I were a boy....



If I was extremely hungry but stillll fresh to death...



If I thought I was a super hero...



or had a chest/face/hair that was confused about my racial identity.

Drugs don't work

but this chick gets me high.

it aint if hip hop is dead

the question is who killed it....

Damnnnnnn Gina!!!

In real life tho.... we just gon play the who can out do who in silly foolishness contest???



B. Seriously I think I just might have gotten over you within this moment.

Ri. I think I'm a little more in love.

Obsession

I've decided she is my newest.

Swirling Hypnotism

The tranquility of your eyes draw me in.
"Come closer," they say.
Some divine pull holds me at their center.
What I see baffles me. 

Loving,
calm,
hypnotizing
swirls of purples,
red,
splashes of orange.

I want to drown in those eyes
and be reborn in your Atlantis.

Cheater...When will I learn???

I'm sorry.
Not "I apologize."
Please
don't forgive me.
I'm just sorry.
Is admittance good enough?
Does that make it better?

It never has for me.

Someone stating the obvious,
telling me they're sorry,
leaves me wanting
to scream,
retaliate,
re-enact the situation,
swapping shoes.

I love you.

I'm sorry.
It shouldn't have happened
but it did.
I can't take it back.
I feel so foolish.
I know I've ruined
the only chance I had
at happiness.
There's no other like you.
No union like we.


This is what I would have said if I'd gone through with it.

Fill in the blanks. That's what you always do.

Seriously???

They play tooooo fucking much!!!!





Click here for a link to Head of State

Live From New York

“I live in _____, #5A. I’m about to go to sleep and turn my phone off. I’m not sure where u r, but I’m sure ur safe.”

This was sent to me at 5:39 AM.

She left me.

Alone.

Far from my city.

In the rain.

Sky-bled tears meshing with my flesh, I walked on sore toes wrapped in soft black leather Aldo pumps. My toes, squishy from the down pour, continued to suffer as I walked back towards her apartment, her legs speedily carrying her far ahead of me. There is a breeze with the rain. The clinging black sweater-turned dress did little to insulate me from the cold. My semi-sheer leggings helped none.

Her building is locked. The only way I can enter is with a key.

The key she has with her.

While she sleeps.

With her phone off.

Later, after police were called and alternative plans made, her explanation was, “You told me you knew where you were going.”

Absurd.

She proves that chivalry is dead. She left this lady alone at 5:39 AM scantily clad in seductive garments. Somehow, she feels she did no wrong. She doesn’t recognize how she put my life and my vagina in danger. She is dead to me.


Perhaps I was wrong. Maybe I said something to warrant her wrath. Most likely, my lack of attention to her needs and insecurities pissed her off. (On the train, she told me that me not wanting to dance with her made her self-conscious. I never dance with her. Or anyone. I dance to give myself a show. Onlookers welcome. I am not her personal ego boost.) There is no love or humanism. Nor friendship. Nor acquaintanceship.

She wanted to hurt me because of the many times I hurt her. That much is apparent. Unfortunately for her, her actions only forced my respect for her to be replaced by indifference to her existence. Because, at the end of the day, she left me. The story doesn’t matter because what she said at 5:39 AM proves that she didn’t care what happened to me. Death. Rape. Anything.

She will tell her version of the evening. The scorpion manipulator. I abhor Scorpios.

“This is why we could never work.” She spits it at me as if I asked. Or cared. Or didn’t already know. She is like my bitter cold , angry that she can’t tame me. A disgusting realization of my ability to consistently make bad decisions.

New York was awesome in spite of her treachery. Where’s that camera that should follow me around? My ratings would have been sky high this weekend.

Maybe she did...

get the memo. My bad.

I want my rights back

Sometimes I wonder what all this shit is about. Why it bothers other people so much. Why my happiness seems to hurt people so much. My friend once said, "They make fun of my ness. My craziness, my happiness. People always make fun of my ness." I thought to myself, "Naw, babygirl. We are just so tickled by your existence, it makes us laugh. We just love you...really." I was too high to say it at the time...so I just sipped. But that's how I feel. Like other people are so unhappy in their tiny worlds they would rather hurt my world than focus on fixing their own. Laugh at me and my girl having a "ceremony" because they decided against our marriage. I wish I could do something about it. Maybe my continued gayness and happiness in that gayness will force someone to recognize I deserve everything I want and they have no right to stop me.

Bitter Cold

Winter smells of her.
Inhaled crisp cool breezes stinging nasal membranes,
The smell of dying
With hopes of renewal,
Regeneration,
Rebirth.

She smells of winter.
The cold and brutal hawk
Nipping at your fingertips and earlobes,
Biting,
Tearing,
Taunting.

Thoughts of her bring the chill inward,
Memories imprinted in plowed snow:
Dirty,
Disgusting,
Deeply defying doubt-filled diligence.

We died in winter.
Flourishing full in summer,
The cut of sub-zero temperatures
Split us in two,
Into a space where I’m never near you
And you cant stand me
And though you want we,
I just cant stand you taming the fierceness of my individuality.

That’s what you want.
For me to ignore the duality of consciousness.

So you’re annoyed.
I’m astounded.
We tried again,
Rebounded.
Dumbfounded,
I just drove away.
Stayed away
Plotting the day we would reunite.
But shit happens.
Fuck,
She happened.
Love happened.
Then I realized I never loved you at all,
Nor you me.
I was the tea you sipped to soothe your pain-ridden memories
But you were too self-righteous to really see the truth.
I don’t know why I saw and not you.
I saw what we became for each other:
A dependency, physical lovers.
Caught in the ever encapsulating whirlpool of me,
You saw my dense forest but not the simplicity of my trees,
The most important thing being the strength found in even my leaves.
Like when I left.
The strut of my strength could be heard in waves.
I sprinkled your world full of autumn colors that day.
Strong yellows and ferocious reds lay in my wake.

But it’s nothing like this cold bitter wind
Forcing its way against the warmth of my skin.
This pain smells of you.
Like retched memories finger painted in piles of dirty snow.
Like the way I wanted to stop us but you wouldn’t let me go
And now I wish I could just get you out of my dome.
I bundle up against this chill while memory lane I roam.

Winter smells of you.
A cold and brutal hawk
Nipping at my fingertips and earlobes,
Biting,
Tearing,
Taunting.

Winter feels like you.
Inhaled crisp cool breezes stinging nasal membranes.
You are the smell of dying
With hopes of renewal,
Regeneration,
Rebirth.

I Love Our Fights

I think the integrity of a relationship can be measured by the ease of disagreements. When two lovers disagree and can find a harmonious balance, can completely understand each point of view without losing focus of self, can alter views not previously held without need for huge voices dripping minute details of previous altercations, can coalesce ideas so seamlessly, fluidly, easily … that is how you measure a relationship.

We have the worst fights and the best make-ups. I love her like I’ve never loved. She has this strange hold on me. Like magic. Like I can’t get away from her. Like she won’t go away from me. Like she is trapped within the confines of my soul and the only release would be death. I feel like I’m dying when she’s not near me. Like my only reason for having breath lies in the capabilities of her lungs.

That’s what being in love is like? Like … like necessity? Like a hunger, a yearning, a lusting, a dire need to complete some negativity with the positivity of its shear existence? The yin and yang of it all? Like eating food cuz you’re hungry or bathing because you’re dirty?

No. No. No.

It’s not like that at all. It’s so much more intense than that. It’s like the pain of holding your tinkle when you have to poo. Like holding your breath when you’re under water. Oh oh! It’s like that feeling you get when you’re coughing and you need some water. That pain. That need. That’s in love. The kind of in love that just won’t quit til what it needs is what it gets and you won’t be right without it even when the shit is dead ass wrong.

Like now.

Or is that just the fucked up kinda love I’ve been in? Am in? Was in? Still wondering how the hell I let myself get in?

But damn….that feeling of satisfaction … nothing is better. That relief. Perhaps that is the real love. Perhaps it is the relief and the intensity of the relief that describes in love. The passion of the yearning and force of the desire and the craziness you’ll perform to get it what it wants that really constitutes as love.

I’m not sure. But what I do know is I’ve never been in love before now. And thru all the bullshit and conflict, I look in her eyes when she talks to me, never want to let go when she hugs me. And I’ll curse her ass out one mo gin if she would just twist my twirls like that again tonight.

Barack a Rapper???

He can do whatever he likes....lol yeah!

Barack, My Great Grandma Loves You

So yesterday I voted.

It was good.

But what was better was helping my great grandmother vote. She has the softest hands. Like foamy whipped cream clouds or cotton balls doused with baby oil.

As she strokes my face, asking why I have that eye stuff on, I believe her voice takes me places I can never go fore these places are have beens. I hear the past in the tremble of her voice. She has the sweetest voice. Like sugar cubes covered in chocolate with caramel centers or helping a blind man walk down the stairs to his train on the metro.

Hearing her tell me stories of how she not only played a part in voting Barack in office, but years ago, before my mama knew how to French kiss or my grandma had credit card debt, she helped pave the way, it makes me so proud to be in her lineage. It makes me want to be with child to continue her legacy. She should be immortal. Knowing this about her made voting so much better. She shows me the scar on her ankle where a dog almost bit her. The scar isn’t from the dog. It’s from where she fell running from it. She stabbed the dog in the neck and ran. Luckily she wasn’t caught. With our hereditary keloid skin, the scar is easy to see, barely faded.

Sitting with her, listening to her stories, I realize I want to read her childhood diaries and teenage journals. She tells the best stories. Like the time her and her little sister went to get ice cream and there was only one left of the kind they wanted so her and her sister decided to split it. But as they were paying, a little white girl came in the store and wanted (magically) that very same ice cream. The store owner told them they had to give the ice cream to the girl so my great grandma, leaving the money on the counter, opened the ice cream, licked it and gave it to the girl, pulling her younger sister out the door as they laughed. I have her spirit.

I wonder where the disconnect came. Where did the youth forget that our elders hold the key? They’ve been there and done that and can teach us how to do it better. How to appreciate what we’ve got because they did things they may or may not be proud of to make sure we could walk in those schools yesterday and vote. And not be harassed or tested for competency or intimidated by dogs or cheated out of our rights.

I love my great grandma. She has the softest hands, the sweetest voice, and the best stories. Thank you Barack Obama. You’ve made her a very happy woman. Although your grandma passed before she could see your triumph, know that there are others here that also helped you along the way and are just as proud of you. O, and my great grandma said if they mess with you, she still got that knife.

Uncle Tom tho???

So I’m flipping between blogs….waiting….waiting….waiting….. I know I’m not the only one that heard it. Ralph Nader’s Uncle Tom comment.

No one said anything yet.

Well let me be the first.

What

The

Fuck

Nader!!!!!




I’m not even really sure how to approach him about this. I just have so many questions. I’ll just ask them:

1. First and foremost, what makes you think that what you said was OK? The first time in recorded history that the United States elects (by a very large margin I might add) an African-American president, you question his integrity to the American people … o wait. Let me rephrase that. You were concerned with “poor people,” not the entire country (as if “poor” people are somehow a separate nation of people) being duped because he is “simply the first African American president.” Did you not think that was rude?

2. So if Barack was of a Caucasian, what would you have said about someone with his background? Is there an Uncle Tom synonym for white folks?

3. When given the option to retract your statement after having some time to think, why didn’t you?

4. Are you aware that calling someone an Uncle Tom is racially offensive since it can only apply to people of color?

This is why people look at our country like the backwards walking piece of crap it sometimes appears to be. As much as I bitch and moan, I am an American. I know that. But sometimes some of “you people” make me so damn sick. Syntactically, I understand what he was trying to say. He’s looking at it from Barack’s “black” perspective but really Nader. Come on. You should know better.

Although we all would love to say race is not an issue, it is. Just like big vs. small boobs is an issue; short vs long hair, tall vs short girls, etc. Everything that can have an opposite, or even a difference for that matter, be it physical, economical, social, whatever, it is an issue somewhere in the world. That is something we naturally do. No worries. The problem is that we try to make it seem like it doesn’t exist so we (and when I say we I mean Nader) think we can just say whatever the hell we want because we (again, meaning Nader) think that we can always fall back on the farcical notion that race isn’t an issue.

Nader, sweetness, honey love, retract immediately before the few black friends you have turn their backs on you.

Dreams do come true.

Last night I said, "Self, out there somewhere somebody is talking some real shit." Today, I found her.

So dreamy.

She play too much

but she's so damn pretty it doesn't even matter.

Yeah girl you got class but....

I wanna see that ass.



Now is that a compliment or an insult???

Meanwhile, I'm already dancing in the mirror.

Back up. I need my space.

Most days...

She confuses me by her lack of pigmented make-up and the way she makes me forget that she is a black Texan. She even often annoys me with her remakes and unoriginality.

But generally speaking, I see the fierceness in her and wonder when exactly she will recognize that those hips and those curves in a dress like this....

is what really makes her beautiful? But then again, with some other woman's hair braided into my hair, who am I to judge???

Vote

I did that.

Marriage

If it stays this beautiful after 16 years, can I have some?



I mean the simple thing of time being spent together...that's what I love about this picture. The way the curvature of her face rests so easily against his. The easy way his arms rests around her. The soft way he moves as not to disturb her as he works. The comforting way she nuzzles him while giving him space to do his work. They look warm. The type of warm you snuggleupagainst at night. I love this. A picturesque moment of a happy marriage.

I think she missed the memo

somebody needs to tell her she's gay...I dont think she got the memo

What's Up???

Change. That's wuzup.

B betta watch her step...

cuz boo-baby right here is killin it....

Bet you can't do it like me...

My pilates are awesome!

Really?

You just gone be this fucking gorgeous? That's fine.

Obama's Commercial

Man when Michelle talked about how he is with his daughters, I got a little misty. Yeah, I'mma sucka for familial love.

Sexual Chocolate...

That's the one I like. I love their music together but the sexy, chocolate one...that's the candy I'd like to taste. Two sexy lesbians...great music. What's not to love?

South Park: A Shamble in Action

So i just watched a South park episode called Tonsil Trouble and I am so through with them. In it, they find that the cure for AIDS is to inject yourself with large doses of money. Foolishness.

I totally get the idea of making fun of the fact that Magic, with all his money, has been living many years without a trace of the disease but claims to have not found a cure. But why must south Park be so ignorant???

Jesus wept...

and so have I.


Occasionally I read something so moving, it forces me to write, pouring my emotions and thoughts on the page, spewing my realizations and growth for all to see. Seldom do I view something as beautiful and touching as this. When I hear this man say, “I lived through the Great Depression years,” I am touched, eager to learn more about him. What it was like to be a black man at that time. His regrets. His dreams, realized or not. I want to know what it really feels like to live all that time and know that soon your life will end.

When he speaks, my ears perk, my inner intellectual simmers down and my soul wants to feel his energy and drink from his fountain of wisdom. I want to ask him questions about what I should do at 25 that he did or didn’t do. I want him to teach me how to really be a lady in the purest sense of the word. Want to hear tales of his fortitude, anecdotes of his childhood. I want guidance. Yes. When I hear this man speak, I want his guidance so that I may live a prosperous life. So that I may find someone to be with for 69 years and love her the way he loves his late wife.

He speaks and I just want to listen. No comments of relation. No comparison of the times. I just want to hear this man speak and teach. I just want to learn. I will sit in silence while he thinks, relishing in his presence, forbidding myself the urge to fill it or the lack of sound to feel awkward. I just want to soak his thoughts up as he thinks them, open myself to pick up on his wave lengths.

I wish I knew this man for I think it would make me better woman. Better person. Simply better.

Barack 08

Can lesbians....

have girl crushes???





Meghan Goode at the Saw V premiere...which I heard was garbage by the way. But I still must view for myself.

Please get the memo out....

There aren't anymore foodstamps. People (mostly white) use EBT cards now.

 

Read all about it....

I wanna be a ballerina....

 

so I can wear leotards like this.....

Can't Fall Outta of Something I'm Standing In

I wrote this in anger that stemmed from love. A deep kind of love that won’t easily be forgotten. Forgiven. Recreated or demonstrated by any other entangling of souls.

I present this out of love. In my anger I realized how much I want to be a better person to allow this love to grow. Continue. Never diminish. It was in my angriest moment that I realized the extent of my love.

I think the worst thing about falling out of love with you is your resignment. Your relief. The nonchalant way you say you feel like a big pressure has been lifted from your shoulders. Like the end of us brought a better you.

My disappointment is palpable.

My tears ever-flowing.

I want nothing more than to be the green and purple light our WE used to be. I want everyone and everything to be jealous of us again. Even I envy my past self. She relished in a perpetual state of happiness with you. She indulged in your patience. Basked in the whimsical way your eyes penetrated hers, created lakes and rivers without a single cloud or dance.

Presently, you give feelings of wanting to be able to call me and statements involved with me not being uncomfortable to still visit your mom or granny because, to them, "you are still family." What about to you? Did I magically stop being your wife over this spat? What about the child I hope to nourish in my belly? Will he or she still be family, too?

"I just hope we can still be friends. I still want to be in your life." That’s what you said. You want to be in my life in some way. There was a time when you couldn’t imagine not BEING my fucking life and now you just want a tiny corner in it??? Forget-me-not type shit. Should I settle for this when what I want is right within my grasp? I just need you to help me reach it.

But that’s not the worst part.

No.

The worst thing about falling out of love with you is the casual way you say you’ve kinda fallen out of love with me, too.

The Power in Fatherhood

I love this scene not because of the little man's skills. Not his unbelievable accuracy or the precise way he executes each command.

I love this scene because there is a black man teaching his son a skill many men, black and white, do not possess today. He is teaching his son responsibility, perseverance, and love.

Your Heart's Not Safe Here

Even though it's not that easy, I'm trying my hardest to be strong and leave this situation alone. Trying my damndest not to answer the calls, not to say the I love you's, not to yearn for her. But I do. I miss her and need her and am so disgusted by the thought of her at times I cant understand why I hate not waking up to her every morning.

Then you call and I'm confused because you are here and she is not. But I would rather her here than you...rather her annoy me than you make me laugh.

I guess it's just like that sometimes.

And even though I try to pretend, try to hide my longing for her, you can tell. I can see that. It hurts you and for that I'm sorry. Bad timing seems to be the story of my life.

Even though it's not that easy, you being here is making it harder. I don't want to push you away but I have to. If I don't do it now, you'll fall in love with me while I'm still in love with her. You don't want that for yourself. It's never a happy ending.

From a Downelink Blog Response.....

Meanwhile, you guys have to go to the actual site (click the title of the video at the end and you will be redirected there ....actual videos are down below) and read some of the viewers' comments, specifically the one that mentions "rabid white lesbian."

Classic.

People like that make me sick. They have their own faults, their own problems and yet they lay the responsibility on the shoulders of those that have nothing to do with what they are doing, i.e., me and my clit sucking entourage. Straight people and their problems do not affect me and my lesbian lifestyle so I’m pretty unclear of how I stop anyone from (a) being straight or (b) wanting to marry another straight person. Please believe, if it appeared that every person on this earth were straight and swung their dicks and vaginas from trees, I still would not bite that fruit. I would find me some woman somewhere and marry the hell out of her. Because I am who I am. My gender, my sexuality, my ethnicity, my writing, my voice...they are all my identity and I will stand tall and proud to be who and what I am. No person or group of people can alter who I am intrinsically.

Furthermore, feminism is not about abortion, lesbianism, or gay rights. Feminism is about respecting a woman's right to choose to be Suzy Homemaker or Jane the Builder. There is no feminist law that says you are only a real woman if you don’t cook and clean. I personally feel like it makes me even more woman. I cook, clean, work full time, go to school, and am helping to raise three beautiful god children. My femininity, however, is not defined by these acts. That is the root of feminism, to be defined by your own standards, not that of the "good ole boys." Feminism is about a woman's ability to be strong in the face of adversity. Being uplifting of those in their community. Just being the best woman you can be, not based on society's opinion of what it means to be a woman.

Lastly, being gay OR feminist does not alter hetero-normative reality. Straight hoes do this to themselves. When I go to the gym, all you hear are women complaining about how fat they are and how they have to get in shape for a man. Ummm...hell no. You need to get in shape for yourself bitchz. What I don’t think the heteros understand is that they are their own problem. They are so concerned with fitting the normality they themselves created they can't see the forest for the trees.


PS.

Ajarae, although you may agree with some of the statements made, I don’t know where the "truth" you refer to resides in either video. Those statements were assertions. I don’t recall any factual evidence being purported. Additionally, there is no way an "ideal" can be true to anyone but those that agree with it. By pure definition, ideals are personal preferences for ideal situations. Furthermore, if you agree with any of the ideals listed in these movies, you MUST recognize the hetero-normative stigmas at work in your own psyche. There is nothing wrong with that. You have the right to choose your ideology, but be aware of the programming at work when people, hetero or homo, believe in these generalized, propaganda-filled statements as truth rather than opinion.

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Is this a compliment....

or an insult???

I mean I understand the man's good intentions but "White people, if you were ever going to vote for a nigga, this is the one right here."

???

Not really sure how I feel about a white or black person voting for a "nigga" but I do hope people get off their ass and vote for this darker hued man.

Get into it....

This video almost made me not like the song....



Almost.

Fucking Me is Done

She showed up at my house this morning. Unannounced. Smelling putrid, sweaty. "Can I please stay? Just one night," she says. "I have court tomorrow." A fool, I say, "Yes. Just bathe before you lie in my bed." "As of this moment, we're not together." She makes the statement matter of fact-ly at first. Then looks to me for an answer … her heart longing to know if it's really over. "We haven't been for some time," is my response. Silence screams from her eyes, muffled by contempt, disdain. I leave closing the door, gently so as not to disturb her muted symphony of obscenities raging deep in her dome. As I sulk away from the door, away from my house, away from her, "Fuck you, Tesha," follows, quiet as snail footsteps, somehow still heard by neighbors. I chuckle because all I can think is, "You already have."

Normality

Normal.

I wonder what that’s like. To just be ok with life. No questions. No wonderment.

I wonder what it’s like to feel emotion and not dissect it from top to bottom until I understand myself inside and out; what it’s like to sit in a room full of people you relate to. People that get you. People that are interested in your interests and find you interesting.

Yeah. I wonder what that’s like. To be in a place where you’re normal. What it would be like where I am the norm. Where everyone sees the humor in double entendres and enjoys questions like “Why?” and statements like “Clarify a little more, please.” For once I’d just like to be around people that enjoy me for who I am. Not the me with red tape and crazy glue, all cracked and reshaped to fit the norm of someone else’s desires and comfort zones—no. The me that laughs at the corniest shit and enjoys playing cards and talking about mythology and politics and lessons learned and introspective realizations. I just want for once to be completely comfortable in my skin. To be absolutely at ease with my surroundings, including the company I keep. Don’t want to dumb myself down or hype myself up. Don’t want to mute who I am for fear of being too loud. Don’t want to scream for fear of not being heard. I want to be understood.

I want to be normal like you.

I mean, can we talk about it....

Ummmm....somebody please explain why I feel like he is....



So

Damn

Fierce???

If Gramps wants to see you....

Sometimes we need a little comedy to get out point across.



The Great Schlep from The Great Schlep on Vimeo.

Your Notness

My absolute existence is not the total sum of you. When I am mad, you are not the other thing that pisses me off. When I am sad, it may not have been you that saddened me. I giggle when you don’t make me laugh. Piss when you don’t pour my drink. Bathe when you don’t make me sweat. Shit when you don’t feed me. My life, my thoughts, and my emotions are not always about you. I have desires and epiphanies and memories and needs and thoughts and hungers… none of which are encompassed by you.

If they were, they wouldn’t amount to much. They would only be thoughts of desires, never transferred into actually being anything. Since we’re on the topic of you, what is it that you will be?

Actually, what I really mean is when. When will you be something…anything??? When will you actually have a job and not a short-term paycheck? When will you actually master your insecurities, masked in the guise of temper tantrums and volatile behavior? When will you become a woman and stop being a child? I am leaving you because of the many things that you are the plentitude that is your notness. (I like that word: notness. It describes you perfectly.)

When days and months and semi-decades become silly inside jokes and mental photo albums and you’re still a plentitude of notness, remember me and be ashamed. Be ashamed for trying to share your notness with me and being angry because I don’t want that bitchassness you call a relationship. Be ashamed that you wasted my time and resources and orgasms on your notness by somehow confusing wishing for determination.

Yes.

You be ashamed for every scratch, every misnomer, every red cent paid for replacements and your needs that came out of my pocket and deep from my soul.

You.

Be.

A-fucking-shamed!

I am. I’m ashamed of myself for putting up with you for so long. For mistaking your wishes for lack of determination. I am so ashamed that I believed in the false reality that will not be our future. Ashamed that I boasted of the infinity of our love. Ashamed because I believed in you when you never believed in yourself.

Endings Begin

So is this how it ends?
Nothing like it begins?
No legs in air no nerves on end?

Now that you're gone,
I claim: MOVED ON!
But seeing your shadow often proves me wrong.

Still don’t want u back,
At least not like that.
Wish you'd just get right, like facts.

Now it’s just me.
Not this idyll you see,
Nor pen nor tears give remedy.

Anew I begin.
No fret-filled ends.
My new life starts where ours rescinds.

Dayum!!!!

It's such a shame artists aren't judged by talent anymore....

Mustn't I?

Not really feeling an intense urging to write but I wish I were. Wish I was able to come up with quick quips filled with debonair wit. Wish my pen flowed how it used to. Wish I flowed how I used to. Wish things were how they used to be…but with growth added.

So I guess I don’t wish things were the same. Just that they were different than they are now.

Without the insults.

And cruelty.

Feelings of being the only person alive with compassion, understanding, empathy.

Is empathy the same as understanding? Iono.

I’m just so sick and tired of being tired of being sick and tired. I’ve been this way long enough now to know I need to make some serious changes in my life. The first: my pen.

Why did I stop writing? Lack of an audience mostly. No one around to give me interesting feedback so I lost interest in my own shit.

Funny though. They say when you’re a writer you MUST write. No two ways about it. Is that how that cliché goes??? Iono but it’s finally dawning on me. The thing missing from my life isn’t friends. Isn’t sex. Nor drugs. Not money. Well, maybe money. Maybe sex. Quite possibly even friends. But even with all those things, I still MUST write. Write of our antics where we spend all our money on sex or some variation thereof. I miss them … my words. My quick quips filled with debonair wit. I understand now. They’re just a free writing away.

The Code

So, right now all I can picture is your tongue wrapping itself in seemingly undecipherable patterns on my clit. With each clitoral jump, the code is slightly decoded moving me closer to solving the orgasmic mystery I feel deep in my center.

I clinch.

You feel the need on your chin and extend your fingers as assistance ... first two ... then one more ... then just one more ... yeah, right there Daddy. You massage that ... that ... that spot right THERE Daddy.

Damn.

You go in slow ... (shit) ... and up ... (yes). Then out quick ... (fuck) ... in slow ... (mmmhhhmm) ... and up.

DAYUM.

The throbbing intensifies. Again ... you feel the need. My hips, initially rocking to your rhythm, find their own tune, each note carrying messages of my proximity to the paradisiacal destination I'm sure the code leads to.

Can you feel me Daddy? Can you get in there a lil deeper...

please? I've been a real good girl.

Get.

Your.

Pussy.

I kno i kno

but i just cant help myself....something about dropping base lines....

Surreal Confidence

There I go again

Hinting for her to come hither

Almost instinctively

Automatic even

I just see those baggy jeans

That hooded sweatshirt

It's like I lose all my home training

Only for an instant though

For a moment,

I am the whore my mother taught me not to be

I lust this stranger

Want her to sit next to me

Quiz me on my hobbies

Ask me what I'm doing tonight

Want my number

My bra size

Shoe size

I just want her

To want me

When she does, I'll shy away

I have home training

But within this moment

I desire her attention

A smile

A glance

Anything

Any slight hint that she wants me

At least wants me to want her

I thought I'd outgrown this

Selfish

Emotionless

Need

To feel desired

But time and again

I find myself

Comfortably hidden

In the depths of a masked insecurity

I've been acting confident for so long

I've even fooled myself

New Year's... Sent to you with love...

As the year closes I see how I've grown
How maturity is never said yet always shown
How insecurities create false realities
And certain realities are doomed for fatality

I saw a lot but still felt blind
Bought mad shit but couldn't buy more time
Learned the age old lesson regarding things that don't last
**whispers**Should only plant my feet in the birthspace of past

Always look forward to the future but don't rush through the gift
Understand that sometimes travel takes the shape of rifts
Realized that the things I was may have created the thing they see
But the thing they see isn't always a replica of me.....