In one of our top secret work meetings, some of the younger girls were talking about how they think the terms used to discuss women’s health were gross. I heard them go on and on, and honestly I remember thinking to myself that what was weird about being in that room isn’t really the age gap. The weirdest thing was sitting in a room with strangers that had a completely different way of looking at everything. I couldn’t say whether their way is wrong or right, but I am pretty sure that their thinking is underdeveloped and on a completely different value system.
I’m kidding. It’s completely wrong. That’s right. I’m judging.
I wanted to stand up and look each one of them in the eyes and say: There’s nothing wrong with being a woman. You work in a lab, don’t be afraid of science. If painting pictures with a bottle of wine is the coolest thing you do in your twenties, you are living your life wrong. The life fairy will take the rest of your youth from you and give it to Keith Richards, because he actually knows how to party.
When I make jokes they don’t understand because basically everything goes over their heads.
I like my job, but I worry about these kids.
Listening to the girls talk about how gross a pap smear sounds, made me think about some things that my gay guy friends say. This is a reoccurring theme for me, and I’m sure I’ve written about this before.
To all the gay men who shame women because they find it funny/secretly hate women:
Just because you are not attracted to women doesn’t make them all disgusting. Having a delicious cocktail, only to have some stranger tell you that what you have between your legs is disgusting or “not right” is a buzz kill. I usually laugh it off, but while I was trying to shrug off the idiocy surrounding me at work, I started to get irritated about it. It’s not a joke. I don’t think that it’s okay to do to women what has been done to you. Someone called you gross for being attracted to who you are attracted to. Those people are wrong and they are assholes. Just because you’re in a safe haven with people who support you doesn’t mean you have to attack innocent women who are standing by. I’m not sure why you’re thinking about my vagina and cringing. I’m certainly not thinking about sweaty butt sex. I’m thinking about having a laugh with people who I think are smart and funny. I’m sorry that someone hurt you. You don’t have to hurt me.
The next time I hear a gay man start down that path, I’m going to put my drink down, stand on my own to feet and make direct eye contact and say:
“You cant fuck right on off with that nonsense.”
Next topic. I’m a really gabby girl. I have been since I learned how to talk. I wasn’t a kid that asked why about everything, it was so much worse. I was told that I needed to be quiet often. The grown ups in my family always seemed pretty perturbed with me. It wasn’t until I witnessed some of my friends parenting that I realized that you’re not supposed to be perpetually irritated by children. I always needed to “sit still somewhere and be quiet”.
Naturally when I got older I found some friends who would help me cultivate a complex of inferiority that revolved around the idea that I talked way too much. The men I would date would definitely chip in. And by the time I hit my late 20’s all of the new aged hippies would help me to really shine a spotlight on what’s wrong with me. All new aged philosophers know that the only way to be free is to do exactly as all of the other free thinkers in your circle are doing.
Be free of society’s chains and preconceived notion, so that you can adopt our yoke. And please don’t have other opinions, brah, that’s drama.
“I get really lonely.”
“Oh really, well that’s probably because you don’t like yourself. You’re definitely going to need to align your chi and then go out into the woods alone to think about yourself until you love yourself so much that you think being in control of your own experience means it’s totally okay to be a shitty person to everyone around you.”
It’s great advice, right? At the same time, the internet starts to explore what it means to be an introvert. We know all about extroverts, they have the power to socialize, so those people are not important. Introverts need this. They crave that. They thrive when….?
Even those we seem to be so sensitive to letting introverts be unique butterflies, somehow the message is that something is wrong with you if you’re dependent of people. Needing attention is wrong.
“Ugh, do you talk all the time?””
“I’m so happy being alone with my introvert arts and crafts package, you’re different so you’re definitely broken. You ought to try being more like me. Here’s a deck of pokemon cards and a special guide to hording pets and never leaving your house!”
Most of my favorite people are introverts. It’s totally cool, but what I didn’t realize is that I’ve been ranting and raving about trying to bravely embrace solitude, when I was never really built to operate that way.
There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just an extrovert. I need people around to recharge.
Thems the brakes. So I’ve been working tirelessly to change a fundamental facet of my personality so that I could become the quiet quirky girl.
Next time someone tells me that I need to learn how to be happy alone, I’m going to look them in the eyes, grab both of their hands, take a deep breath and say,
“You can fuck right on off with that nonsense.”
I’d like to tell everyone a little secret about me.
I don’t like driving. I never have really. My uncle let me drive his car once when I was in the sixth grade. He said that he could teach anyone how to drive. That may have been true, but I’m not sure an 11 year old needs to be behind the wheel of a Cadillac, or Lincoln, or whatever the fuck giant car he was driving at the time. It was supposed to be something amazing that I could tell whatever imaginary friend I had at the time (I was extraordinarily unpopular as a child, which is why I have such a fantastic track record as an adult), but it really just filled me with anxiety.
A year after that, I would have the privilege of driving on the freeway, after my mom got pulled over by our city’s finest. She had a warrant out for her arrest because of a speeding ticket a couple of cities away. Luckily for everyone involved, my uncle’s 10 minute lesson of terror must have taken root with me. I had to take in a great deal of realizations within a couple of minutes. 1.) My mother is an outlaw because she drives fast and doesn’t pay her tickets. This totally makes her a terrible person, and she deserves to be arrested in front of her child. 2.) The police officers arresting my mother didn’t actually look at me. They didn’t ask for a drivers license, and if something had happened to me in that car, their world would’ve been flipped upside down. I was just a black kid and my life didn’t really matter, or they’d have checked, but what they didn’t know was that I had a litigious minded grandmother who wasn’t totally broke at the time. 3.) This would set a precedent for my mother thinking that I could do everything like an adult, if she gave me a good pep talk.
The worst thing about my mother’s mentality about my abilities was that she was fucking right. While the cops were running her license she looked over at me and said, “Now, look, they are going to take me to jail. But don’t cry! (I was glad she said that because I was definitely going to cry). Be brave! Now, Grandma’s house is two exists down. You know how to get there? (Head nod from a terrified 12 year old) They aren’t going to ask how old you are because you’re tall, and they are white so they won’t actually look to see how old you are in the face. Just drive slowly. And go to Grandma’s and let her know what’s happened.”
The cops came back and asked my mom to step out of the car. I got out and walked to the driver’s side. One of them shined a flashlight in my face and then let the other cop know I was good to go. I drove to my grandmother’s, and my mother got carted off to jail.
I know, right? Major lapse of judgement on everyone’s part. But I lived to tell the story, so that’s a good thing. When I arrived my grandma nearly lost her mind, probably because three adults thought it was a good idea to let a 12 year old drive. In a city. On a freeway.
After that even there was pretty much no turning back. I was making trips to the grocery store, and driving everywhere within county limits. I was pretty decent at driving in my humble little opinion, I didn’t even have an accident until shortly before my 16th birthday.
If you look back through my blog, I write a great deal about the stresses of driving. It’s a strain. It’s a necessary evil. It’s something that people have to do to survive. What it is not is a bucket of fun. With that premise in mind: I don’t ever want to drive 2 hours or so on my off day.
You’re going to have to make it worth my while. Negotiate.
Now before, I would just go places because it seemed like a good filler of time. But with this massive commute that I have (and don’t get me wrong, I love this little job of mine and I don’t mind rushing through traffic) I don’t want to spend any unnecessary time in my car. Also remember that I can’t indulge in any stress relievers while I’m driving. I can’t drink. I couldn’t take anything for anxiety without being less attentive. I don’t smoke pot, but if I did, I don’t think I’d be able to manage a long trip.
Oh, and by the way, driving with any kind of headache is pretty much the worst. I can barely handle lights in my bedroom, but somehow even though I’m in incredible pain, I’m going to get into my death machine, and see if I can navigate around other cars through flashing traffic and street lights because…well I’m not sure why I’d do that.
Okay. Here are some reasons why I would drive my car with a migraine.
- Someone is dying and needs medical attention
- a friend is having a baby and needs medical attention
- I was trapped somewhere other than home when the pain started and now I need to get home
- There is a sick puppy/kitten/lizard/other pet that must go to the vet immediately
- Idris Elba is within city limits, and he’s promised to hug me if I just arrive at a disclosed location.
- I don’t have migraine medicine. You are in the location where I can find such medicine, and your destination is my house.
- It’s your birthday, and you need something or other.
- Dave Chapelle.
Now everyone knows. I hate driving. Make me an offer I don’t want to refuse. I learned that it’s unhealthy to put other’s needs before your old all the time from a show on Netflix. I’m going to try to be more healthy.
Since the beginning of time, or at least from the beginning of my existence within the dating realm, I’ve been getting this terrible pep talk. The talk comes from a variety of people, it always comes from people who feel like they are well intentioned at heart. Good intentions very well may be the root of the condescending talk, and so it is often received and considered by any person who is distressed by not having a partner. The gist is this “When you’ve passed whatever magical test the universe is making you take, and you learn to love yourself and enjoy your own company, then you will find someone to share your life with. Sounds pretty swell, right? A person who wants a partner in crime, or friends, or anything they don’t have must have terrible self esteem.
“I’d really like some ice cream.”
“Only once you learn to live without ice cream. can you truly appreciate the value of ice cream.”
“Fantastic. I could just google the location of a marble slab.”
So I’m not the biggest fan of how I look, which really upsets other people. Most of my friends didn’t really grow up with the idea that everything about them is wrong because of some sort of societal stigma. So like they can’t fathom that after years of being told, “You’re pretty ugly, dark people are the worst, black women are masculine, your hair is coarse and out of control” that it would take some time for me to reverse all that training.
I recently watched the Matrix again. It feels like we all forget that it takes time to free a mind, and that just because you’re free doesn’t mean other people are. You will have to deal with those people. It sucks, and it’s tough, but it’s a side effect of knowing more. I’m willing to deal with that.
People often assume that because I’m displeased with my physical appearance, I also think that I am not a great person. I have ups and downs, I am a constantly evolving person. I think, despite what all of my exes tell me, that I have a good heart that is filled with compassion. I am of the opinion that I’m often a fun person with fantastic sense of humor and a way of thinking that is a bit off of the beaten path.
I’m not less enlightened because I don’t identify completely with eastern or western religion. The reason why I’m single isn’t because I’m materialistic. It’s not because I don’t meditate. It’s not because I don’t have any time to discover myself because I’m constantly in relationships with other people.
I’m not single because I’m sad all the time. It’s not because of my bar posture. It’s not because I need to change my personality to be able to date (that kinda seems like a bucket of lies.) Maybe it’s because everyone is different. Everything is not easy for everyone. Maybe it’s because we are surrounded by garbage people. Now you’re thinking that’s a rude thing to say, but rapists, murders, and abusers are garbage people and they surely exist.
If you value the friendships of those around you, you will not find a person that you really enjoy and tell them that they are in a place that they dislike because something is wrong with them. Just because we can’t find the placement of a piece of a jigsaw puzzle, doesn’t mean we throw it away, and that doesn’t mean we should cut it so that we can shove it into a place where it doesn’t belong because we see fit.
Don’t tell depressed people to spend more time alone to become happy with themselves.
Why can’t we just say “I’m sorry you’re feeling icky, would you like some vodka?”
Our friends are a testament to the fact that we need interaction with others. We should judge people as empty or not self aware because they are seeking a different kind of social interaction.
I’m incredibly angry.
I’m angry whenever I think of my obligations. I’m upset that I feel constantly burdened.
I’m upset that I don’t have a partner to share those burdens with. I’m enraged when I think about having to make bricks without straw. I’m terrified because I’m always building houses without bricks.
I’m stifled because I can’t express myself. I can’t express myself because I’m jammed with emotions that I can’t explain and that I actually don’t want to talk to anyone about.
I want to break things when I think about how I’ve been robbed. You don’t ever want your friends to steal from you. Especially something that no one can replace. Someone stole all of the joy, which is ridiculous because I have such a small area of joy to begin with.
I’m pissed when I think about how everyone else can sleep at night without drugging themselves.
I’m upset when I hear about other people having sex. I used to enjoy sex, now I have no desire for it. I suppose it was dwindling, and someone stole the last bit of desire I have left.
He took it from me.
Now I’m this unattractive angry thing that can’t sleep. He’s sleeping. But I’m not.
I’m angry that I feel like it’s my fault. I’m pissed because I feel like all I’m doing internally is whining about something that I can’t change.
I’m sad because I don’t have a job.
My hair looks like a fucking disaster.
I feel like crying is a waste of water. I wish I had mended from the theft before I got fired.
I didn’t mend. Now the roof is caving in.
I want all the hugs. But I don’t want anyone to touch me. I feel completely powerless.
I feel worthless.
I wrote a poem about it but I can’t finish it. I make jokes that are inappropriate.
Everything is a big secret that I can’t tell anyone about. The kicker is that the thief was someone that I always confided in. Who am I supposed to talk to now? I guess I’m supposed to write abstract blogs.
I saw the person responsible for the death of my cat the other day. I can’t really be angry with her because she’s a nutcase.
So I just have all of this angry that just sits on me.
We’d recently gotten a new cat, but it’s like I couldn’t bond with it. I couldn’t give it any love. I’m just all dried up. It was a cute kitten. I just couldn’t bond with it. I’m not sure I can make any kind of bond.
I’m working a small job on the side for a friend for extra cash. I dread doing the work, because I really don’t’ want to do anything.
My friend told me that I should write about the theft, so I am. I’m not feeling any better. I’m just being vague.
You can run around for an entire night making me feel awful about things that I can’t control, like my general appearance, and then hours later steal from me. Because maybe theft isn’t about attraction. Theft is just about power.
When I was a little girl, I used to cry often.
Most little girls cry, but I was always burdened because I didn’t feel that I was good enough. I was burdened that unlike with math, or science that there was no way to prove that I had value.
The great thing about being a minority, is that even thought you’ve talk in political philosophy that you have inherent human worth, your upbringing forces you to drop that premise. Worth isn’t giving to everyone. In fact, as a thinking individual you not only have to consistently prove your worth, but you also have to vouch for every other person in your entire race.
“Apryl, I saw little Timmy stealing on the news the other day. Do you know him? Do you know why black people steal? Is it a systematic problem? Is that what you think.” I’m just kidding. It wouldn’t be Timmy, it would be Dontavious.
I wonder why I have to know all the people in the US that are black. I grant that we’re only 13 percent of the population, but I’m not that much of a social butterfly, and it’s hard for me to mingle with all of the other black people in America when I’m trying so vigorously to impact crime in a way that makes the media’s representation of criminals accurate– since I’m only on piece of 13 percent. Being black in America is completely time consuming. I don’t even know why I’m writing right now, I should be getting pregnant and then getting on welfare to support my non existent crack habit or stealing something.
Sometimes I get to be the exception. This is also a burden. I can feel some what okay about winning over the admiration of a modern racist. How do I protect all of the other millions of people who are just like me? Should I send them a t shirt that says “I know Apryl. She is the exception for black people. Much like her I don’t break the law, so you don’t have to lock your car doors when you seem me crossing the street. But do watch out for that white guy with the crow bar behind me. That’s Apryl’s ex, and she knows for a fact he is trying to steal from you.”
I can’t do that. I don’t have that kind of production system in place. That is also too long to put on a t shirt.
So, this rant with racism has always been present. I feel compelled to write today for two reasons. First take a look at this article:
A good friend of mine posted it on the internet. This was my original response after skimming the article.
“I think it’s really awful. I like white people. Socially I’m often told, “this is not a safe place for you.” Or “These people don’t know you and they don’t typically like black people.” If no one has every told you something like that or said “I’m sure it’s okay for you to be here because you’re not one of ‘those’ black people” then you wouldn’t understand the idea that maybe there could be safe haven anywhere. On the other hand, I can’t possibly thinks that excluding other people so that they can feel a tiny amount of what I feel all the time would be okay. I like my friends. I don’t think it’s okay to exclude other people. I’ve decided already though, that even though everyone is evolving to try to conquer a problem that shouldn’t exist, that if I’d like to be a human wherever I go, If I’d like to be in a place where we don’t have to make fucked up non nonsensical solutions in order to feel safe by exclusions, if I’d not like to have people refer to me and my offspring as pretty for black people or well behaved monkeys…I should book it to another country. The fact that this article exist is retarded”
This is my honest solution. Immigrate. I took it a step further.
“The other day in the car, a really good friend of mine told me that it took a long time for her to be happy with being white. I looked at her with a smirk, she is possibly one of the prettiest people I’ve ever seen in person. She told me that she used to wish she was anything else: Japanese, Brazilian, black.” and I cut her off. “Anything but black!” I exclaimed. No one wants to walk into a room and automatically be stupid and ugly. What a terrible thing for me to say! I’m fairly educated. I’m pretty quick on the draw, but consistently when I read comments on Facebook, I realize that none of those things matter. I don’t have my degree tattooed on my shoulder, so to the majority of the population, my race which represents a little over 13 percent of the American population is completed and utter trash. I realize that articles like that are alarming. I just hope that all the smart folks that realize there’s something wrong with reverse racism won’t take such offense to the fact that the solution is wrong that you turn your back against the problem. Honestly, intelligent readers and people who follow logic are the only parts of this country that give me hope. Don’t take offense and say “Yup, they think all white people are racists”, why not say, I read a bullshit article, and the solution presented was bullshit. Because if I didn’t tell myself that with all the crap I see on Facebook, I would run into traffic to kill myself and disrupt society as the illiterate hoodlum that the articles claim I am”
The people on the tread were pretty understanding. I’m excited about this experience. Now I’d like to show you what made me cry BEFORE I got my eyebrows threaded.
. Now we all know that facebook is not the end all by all of historical accuracy. Most historians agree that though there is accuracy to the story as one of the first displays, there is debate about it being the first. Let’s all be honest, if most racist white people found out celebrating something that was started by a group of black people they would have to all gather and drink poisonous kool-aid. It can’t be true, because all black people know how to do is riot and complain in their humble opinions. This is NOT what upset me.
All of the folks on there couldn’t just say it wasn’t true. I was totally necessary to through around racial slurs and completely degrade any idea of black history. It was so weird. I saw their thumbnail pictures and what not, they looked like completely normal people. I didn’t see any triple K hoods in the back ground. Why are we using the N word? It’s just a debate about history or whatever. I really thought Memorial Day was about honoring the soldiers who sacrificed their lives. We don’t need to take away from that to talk about how crappy black people are…it feels like those folks do that every day.
Sweet. Here’s another one I really like by white people:
I can’t say all police officers fit the mold, but I can tell you that when I’ve been in custody for traffic violations that I couldn’t pay, the cops kinda treating me like the lawless piece of trash America taught them that I was.
I am scared all the time.
I am scared that I won’t have time to convince the police that I have human worth in an everyday altercation about something dumb like speeding or not having my insurance card on hand (the insurance thing is pretty obsolete with smart phone.
I religiously keep receipts because I’m afraid people will think I’m stealing. If you know me, have you ever looked in my purse.
I’m afraid that jobs won’t call me for interviews because of the way my first name is spelled.
I’m afraid because I have to fight the poverty war, the class war, and the race war–and if I fail at either, my children will suffer.
I’m afraid that if I have a children, their mother’s American disgrace will rub off on them and they won’t have a fair shot.
I’m terrified that I won’t have time to explain to others that I have human worth. So, I kinda understand what the article is saying.
In closing, I went to the deli to buy meat and cheese. You know, normal people stuff. There were three older white ladies working behind the deli and a small group of about 4 people waiting. There was no ticketing system. The computer to drop your order and come back was broken. There was a gentleman, white lad who walked up right behind me. The deli ladies served everyone but me. When I asked a question about writing down my order, they all ignored me. The gentleman’s face startled to crinkle, he made small talk. He told me they were probably just really busy and thought that the other had taken the order. I told him he was probably right. After he left, three more people were served in front of me. The third woman, a blonde perky last told the deli person that I was next. The deli lady ignored her, and asked what she needed. The blonde said “She was here first and I’m not giving you my order until you take care of her.” All white people are not racist.The blonde lady was awesome and I thanked her.
Everyone should realize that I should never get to tell stories like this.
I believe so thoroughly and completely in the American dream, that I’m perfectly willing to immigrate to another country to see it come to fruition.
I’ve been watching Netflix for weeks now. I know everything there is to know about Meredith Grey, but I’m not sure what they guy I’m interested in likes to do or what his favorite color is. There’s something fundamentally wrong with this idea.
So I got to about season 5, and realized that I didn’t really care about what was happening at this pretend hospital, and then I started talking to real people that I know. These people may or may not be less stimulating than staring at my ceiling.
The reason why I can’t find another series to pay attention to on Netflix is the same reason why I don’t like going to the movies anymore. I’m spoiled rotten. It’s what’s wrong with all of us. Remember when you had to go to a picture show to see a film and you could only listen to shows in your own personal homes? Of course not. I don’t have to go anywhere to do anything. I have to many choices at my finger tips and the end result is that I literally do nothing.
Well not nothing always…sometimes I spend time on Facebook. That is another epic waste of my time. Often I get distracted from whatever it is that I’m supposed to be doing, and I read an article or two. When I say article what I really mean is a blog without any factual content that everyone is passing around like news. By the way, why don’t you guys share my blog like it’s news. We can share pictures of cats, but we can’t share my funny blog with other pessimists? Pretend like this is a picture of a cat if you’re a normal female. Pretend like it’s some random stuff that boasts about proving God doesn’t exist so that optimists can be just as unhappy as you are–well if you’re an annoying atheist. And if you’re a dude pretend like this blog is about sports or video games. The point is….share the blog. Here’s a picture of a super cute cat.
I got sidetracked while trying to make a point about facebook. That’s funny.
The same spoiled nature that makes it impossible for me to pick a movie is the reason why I am not finding the connections and communications from the men that I know thrilling. Well that and the fact that I like emotionally inadequate men with nothing to say unless they are jacked up.
In the days of our forefathers, romance was different. There was no internet. You couldn’t send a text to the person of your choosing whenever you wanted to express your boredom. You had to write a letter. When you sit down and take the time to write a letter, as a desk by candle light, I’m pretty sure you’re dedicated to communicate with that person. Not to mention that you would actually have to pay postage to talk to that person.
No one sent a letter saying things like “Sup?” Letters started with phrases like “my dearest Caroline.” And dates were important. People weren’t just hanging out. In some cultures you actually had to ask someone’s parents to be able to take them on a date with a chaperon. Old fashioned, but I bet that would eliminate all the dates that we go on today because we are bored.
Oh, and I bet when you went to the ball, or the fiesta, or the tribal drum jam that dudes actually knew how to dance. You had one shot to attract the girl of your dreams so that you had to communicate with her through costly correspondence. Guys were dressed well and competitive. Or they were along and trolling for brothels. I think if you’re sloppy and awful you should know that you need to pay for sex. Normal ladies should not have to tolerate your lack of dancing, writing and slovenly manners. Normal men shouldn’t either.
But now we have text messaging. We have an internet that provides us with instant gratification. We know through access to millions of pictures that we could always do better. We could always have more. This makes us never content with what we have or the love we could possess. Oddly enough, though we have the internet, we are not constantly looking for other pets…but somehow we are unsatisfied with people.
I bet if you thought that at any moment the love of your life could die from malaria or the black plague you’d stop dragging your feet. Maybe we’d have more to say to each other besides “Hey Girl, what’s up?”
Anyway, I’ve gotta get back to Netflix. It’s been an hour since I’ve watched Grey’s Anatomy.
I have this serious weakness for Grey’s Anatomy. When I lost my job shortly before Christmas, I started watching from the first episode. I think I’m on Season 4 now, but I’m not sure.
I always like watching shows where I have no actual knowledge of what the work is, with the exception of House of Cards. There’s something about people doing things that I have trouble dreaming up that really interests me. This is also the reason why I watch cooking shows, but still can’t cook. I like food. It’s just the measuring, the patience, and following instructions that I have a problem with. In the same way, even though all of my friends ask me about medical advice for reasons I never understand, and even though I do have a knack for combining over the counter medicines so that I can attend crappy jobs where I’m undervalued and misused, I still know that I could never be any type of medical worker. I would probably even weep over insurance claims.
I like the interpersonal stories that are told in this giant soap opera about a hospital. Here in my little room it is finally safe to share all of my emotions. I cry when sad things happen, and I have the freedom to be genuinely shocked whenever something shocking happens. There is no sarcastic boyfriend or friend laughing and pointing and saying things like “Seriously? You didn’t see that coming?”
Of course I didn’t see something coming if I look surprised. Connect the flipping dots.
Here in my haven I am safe to have all of the feelings. I remember how growing up my grandmother was always so strict. She insisted on hiding emotions.The foundations of control were simple:
1.Sadness is weakness, You should never let anyone see you cry.
2. Appearance is everything. People will always thing you’re less because you’re black and a woman. You have to be twice as quick and three times as smart for anyone to take notice.
3. Never let a man know that you love him. (I’m not sure why she told me about the third principle, but it might be the reason why she never remarried and I’m having a terrible time dating)
Just kidding about the after math of Grandma’s third foundation of truth. I am 99 percent sure that I can’t form bonds with men because of my abandonment issues from my father.
When I fell down with her, it was imperative that I got back up on my own. No hugs. Just yelling. I am great at salvaging painful situations. I am excellent in a crisis for other people. I have little experience as a child with expressing any sort of emotion really.
I grew up super poor. We just didn’t have the extra money for emotions.
That last sentence was a joke, in case you’re wondering. In real life poor people are allowed to feel many things. Hunger. Being tired. Those feelings are completely free. Rich people don’t like seeing them though because it makes them feel icky, and in America they pay to avoid those feelings through taxes that really don’t hurt them financially.
As of late, I feel like my job has been part of a social clean up crew. I’ve been doing my best to be there for my friends. I don’t want to be depressed or sad. I’ve been so busy doing this that I couldn’t really process my panic about losing my job. Instead I tried to find someone to take care of me. I was unsuccessful in such a search.
I really seem to like emotionally stunted people. I can’t find anyone who I’m into that wants to listen to me complain and then hang out for all the food that I don’t know how to make. Sometimes I tell them they can complain, too. Some can’t wait their turn. Others are not sure what it is that I’m complaining about because with all of the drug use they have the comprehension of a third grader.
By dating Netflix, I’ve found a partner that really connects with my likes and dislikes. My computer stays with me through the night. It doesn’t care how much I weigh, and I don’t feel pressured to have sex with it.
We have a good relationship.
Drake mentions in several of his complex works of art that we call rap songs, that there are no awards for trying to take care of our people. I’m not really sure that people with lots of money deserve more trophies, but sometimes I’d like to know that I’ll eventually get a vacation. A spa day from worrying about my family unwinding into mad chaos. I was hoping my reward for caring about things so deeply would be that I got a partner who would give me all those hugs I was missing from childhood.
That’s all he’d have to do. Hug me and tell me I’m pretty.
And the coolest.
He also needs to smell great, be well educated. That’s it.
And have a sense of humor, and be slightly taller than I am.
Also, a work ethic would be nice.
I’d settle for the hugs though. Hugs are free and effortless.
So, there’s really no segue into racism. Let’s just make a sharp turn.
I’m thirty one years old, and I still don’t understand how someone could look at anyone I know and dislike them because of a color.
I was trying to explain to my five year old niece why it was that we didn’t see the sun all of the time. It’s such an easy explanation, but breaking things down so that she could digest it was so hard.
One of the only things I’m glad about in this world so far, is that I don’t have to tell my adorable niece, or adorable little ones of my own, that there are some people who are just going to hate you because of color.
I always understood how people cold not like me. I mean I wasn’t always aesthetically pleasing. As I get older I can add a laundry list of bad things to my tab of reasons why people might dislike me on face. I couldn’t see a reason for anyone wishing any type of ill on our little darling Arianna.
Recently a date asked me why I wasn’t like the rest of “my people”? I was offended, but I just let it roll off of my shoulders. The man is a moron.
The bottom line is that I wish I could go back in time and convince my younger self to start smoking pot. Then I could do things like waking and baking. I could probably forget some of the emotions that I was masking, and I’d have a whole community of renegades that would smoke with me whether they actually really liked me or not.
I’d have a refuge from racism and thinking too much
I could never get on that train.
So I’m going to get back to watching Grey’s Anatomy.
I’m also going to look for a man for mutual emotional support and free hugs.