Flirting, Friending and that Other ‘F’ Word

They say prostitution is the world’s oldest profession, but I think flirting is the world’s oldest diversion.  Flirting stems from attraction, whether it’s attraction to a person’s sense of humor, affable personality, or the very primal desire to ride it like a rodeo.  In it’s place, it can be fun.  (I’m hesitant to attach the word “harmless,” but we’ll address that later.)

Enter The Dragon.

By Dragon, I mean, The Internets.  Dare I say, it has revolutionized flirting, dating and relationships.  People from all walks of life and corners of the globe can interact in ways that were once impossible.  Of course, as with every new thing, there are high and low points.  Once taboo, meeting people from the internet is now the norm.  You’re “meeting” a person in a very sanitized, controlled environment. We quite often become very comfortable opening up to objective strangers.  So yes, on the internet, a person may well reveal the sensitive part of themselves they rarely share with friends.  However, you may not realize that they are rude to wait staff (sounds like a small thing; it is NOT).

Myriads of people are connecting romantically via the internet at an increasing rate.  The pull to do so is all but irresistible.  So we poked and threw sheep on Facebook (you should NOT be doing this anymore).  We send thinly veiled suggestive “@replies” on Twitter.  We comment on pictures and blogs.  We laugh our virtual asses off.  We roll on the floor while laughing said asses off.  We IM.  We text.  We call.  They take too long to reply to our text.  They don’t call back.  We go to their Facebook page and don’t say anything.  We stalk their pictures and blogs.  We’re not laughing anymore.  Our asses are safely in tact, and the smiley faces are replaced with makeshift side eyes.  You know the ones: O_o.  We wonder why the hell so and so always “likes” his/her statuses?  What’s to like about “I’m on my way to the grind?”  Oh snap son! They’re e-creeping.  Ultimately, onlookers get to witness the passive/aggressive coup de grâce:  “Well maybe you’re getting me confused with one of your other girls/dudes.”

In my years perusing these here internets, I have lost count on how many times I have actually witnessed that progression.  Particularly the final blow.  I can tell you that I was originally inspired to write this piece, after witnessing some variation of e-player accusations/hate crimes three times in one week, and it was only Wednesday.  Infatuation makes us crazy.  Not everyone knows how to flirt, and some people have either never been the object of flirting in real time, or it happens extremely rarely.  When that’s the case, those people simply do NOT know how to act.

I can speak from my own experience: there is NOTHING harmless about my flirting.  If I take my time to send a couple of flirtatious key strokes, that means I have at least entertained the possibility of a dry hump.  (Do people still dry hump?  I don’t know the rules. I’ve been in emotional seclusion.)  Reason, however, prevails.  There are a million reasons that you should not become physical with every person you flirt with.  I do it almost subconsciously at times, so if I were to engage every object of flirting, I would quite possibly be a veritable Ground Zero of ho shit.  With that said, I can flirt with you, and though I might entertain thoughts, I have no intention whatsoever on doing anything.  Lots of people are like that.  We’re trapped in offices all day and we need something fun to do.

But we’re grown folks, and sometimes sex DOES happen.  Not everyone is going the marriage, 2.5 kid, white picket fence route.  People aren’t even always going the shack-up route.  Some people really, are just trying to have sex.  Ideally, these people should hook up with others of their ilk. Since I love you like play cousins though, I’ll acknowledge this:  There are people who just like to be players.  Having “just sex” isn’t enough for them, and part of their hunt is getting a person to be attached to them, whether they plan on sustaining a relationship or not.  Mentally dog-ear those pages where they let their true intentions seep out.  (I promise you they will.  People ultimately want you to know who they are so they can absolve themselves of guilt if necessary:  But I told you…)

If you are looking for something more, or just getting yourself through the day, govern yourself accordingly.  I’ve seen far too many people create, or fall victim to, what I like to call “Fantasy Monsters.”  You create these virtual romantic situations, yet one person is too invested, the other is not invested enough, and neither of you are equipped to deal because your communication is nonexistent.  Simple words on a page become this fire breathing dragon that makes you stalk pages and wonder why Person X is tagged in not one, but two pictures.

At the end of the day, you are responsible for the people you let in your cipher.  Govern yourselves accordingly.  If you’re an emotional person and you ignore the signs and symptoms of a player, you must exist with the knowledge that you will ultimately be benched.  If you are a player and you ignore the signs and symptoms of a Stage IV clinger, you must exist with the knowledge that your spot can and quite probably will be blown up at any given moment.  It’s crazy in these internets.

Govern yourselves accordingly.


A Word on Arrogance

While politicking with the illustrious Cliff this morning, he brought up a topic which incited me to go on a tangent regarding human nature.  We see ourselves as superior creatures for several reasons, and I believe rightfully so, but we have the tendency to pad our résumés.  Not everything   Dare I say that in some parts of the animal kingdom that surpass us due to our devolution of common decency.*  We can develop social skills, but we can just as easily choose not to develop them, so I am not ready to say that we corner the market on things like fellow feeling.

I was, however, able to come up with one trait in which we humans corner the market.  Arrogance.  We have that in spades.  Our judgment, undeserved senses of entitlement (which we ALL have to greater or lesser degrees) and posturing.  The “fake it til you make it” effect, as it were.  That doesn’t fly in the animal kingdom.  We make foolish assertions, heap our views and opinions on others, and due to either a lack of interest, or simple exhaustion, a person can sneak into the role of the dominant or alpha personality.

Not so in the animal kingdom.  Take the lion for example – simply hearing “lion” evokes images of royalty, leadership and power.  This is not by accident.  The lion is the way he is because he is the king of the jungle; not because his number of Facebook friends or Twitter followers.  He is the king of the jungle because if you call yourself bringing it to a lion, he will wreck shop.  If you think you can pull one over on him, bring it.  The lion won’t duck fights or make excuses.  You’re bigger?  You’re badder?  The lion wants you to come get some.  In the end, there is a winner and a loser – possible a corpse.  The defeated lion doesn’t spend a week on Twitter moaning about how he beat himself.  “If he wouldn’t have kicked that dirt in my eye…”

An additional fact that Cliff pointed out to me, the lion stands on what he has done.  A lot of humans put up elaborate façades, to cover a string of non-accomplishments.  When a lion serves another, IF the defeated lives to see another day, there’s no discussion.  It’s obvious to all.  When the lion roars, everything else with sense runs.

Except of course, arrogant humans, with their compulsion to prove that they are “alphas.”  Just as a lion is a lion, an alpha simply is an alpha.  No amount of posturing makes a person something that they aren’t.

*Cracking jokes about a person who drove a segway off a cliff and died is definitely evidence of devolution.

Not the Anomaly

Blogging and tweeting are done for various reasons; at the core of those reasons, is the individual’s hearts desire.  Whether it’s health, wealth, an end to bipartisanship, or just good old fashioned notoriety, you can get a little bit of everything in the blogosphere.  Therefore, I’m hesitant to publicly criticize what individuals choose to express.  Yes, quite often, I read things that make me cringe, or say, “This so-and-so must be missing hugs and attention today,” and things of that nature; but free speech rules the day, man.  I can either log off, unfriend or unfollow.  Frankly, there’s a whole rack of people who have fallen victim to my Facebook “hide” button.

My biggest issue, as of late, is the misconception that black women are standing on the side of the road with “Will Make Sandwiches for Love and/or Penis” signs.  This phenomenon has brought “gurus” out of the wood work.  Not only celebrities with a trail of failed marriages, and their folksy down home shenanigans, but “everyday unmarried girls” who are in the trenches and all too ready to weave their tales of battle.  I’m basically tired of all of them for two reasons.  Not only do they create this inflated list of requirements/accomplishments/instructions, but they seldom adhere to their own bullshit…because it’s bullshit.  You’ve got:

The Angry, Manless Trenches

The trenches where, a man had-better-be-coming-100%-correct-because-I-work-too-hard-for-all-the-sh*t-I-got-for-some-m********a-to-come-in-and-ruin-my-good-credit-and-piss-on-my-toilet-seat-to-just-to-say-I-got-some-less-than-stellar-dick. Of course, this chick made all the wrong decisions in her youth, so has now gone to the other extreme.  In some cases, she’s secretly (or not so secretly) hoping for a white man to Calgon her life.  She creates this obscenely detailed list of must-haves for potential suitors, and you can almost see her mentally checking off whether or not homie fits the bill when she does go on dates.

The Farce

She doesn’t do that stuff man.  Not where it counts.  Sure, she has her moments of you go girl empowerment where some cats are easily dismissed for not fitting the bill.  But I can assure you, these dudes are invariably lacking something that is material or tangible.  He fits the bill but his clothes are only so-so and he has an old car.  Or he’s unattractive and maybe spits when he talks.  The moment she meets a dude that can spit some slick stuff at her, and is throwing down in the bedroom (because that three month rule is just some stuff she saves for her blog) she’s sold.  She’s move him into her mama’s crib if necessary.

The Sex Kitten Trenches

A.K.A. the “How to Please Your Man By Some Lady” (c. Dave Chappelle) Diaries.  This is the chick that will detail how she has fucked and sucked her way into the hearts of men by knowing how to please.  What dating drought?  Her chest of drawers are filled with lingerie and condoms.  Her fridge is stocked with beer and an impressive selection of post coitus deli meat.  The idea of any man having dry balls –anytime, ever – is cause for her to go on an earth shattering tirade.  Mother Nature coming to call doesn’t stop the party.  She’s more than willing to advertise her fellatio skills, and she’s got at LEAST one thirsty commenter per post asking “Why aren’t all women like you?!” Samantha Jones would have to have a B-12 drip and three daily ginseng injections to keep up with this chick.

The Farce

Remember Lili von Schtupp?*

Women are not men.  Period.  We have different motivations, and different makeups.  This is not to say that women do not have healthy sexual appetites and automatically devolve into sexless librarians.  However, being the Non Stop Cooch Shop runs will run you down, no matter who you are.  Kim Catrall was just a pretend skank (I know nothing of her every day life), and she looks rode hard and put up wet.  Additionally, even in the cases where this type of behavior yields a relationship, it’s often tenuous and drama filled.

The Bunned Up And Still Pissed Trenches

THIS bitch. She was every woman, then she met a guy who was spitting her type of hype and she dug it.  There’s nothing wrong with that.  But these men are still out of pocket, and she has to be down for the cause.  Her boyfriend is annoying, and she constantly reps on how she had to train-him-so-that-he-could-be-prepared-spiritually-mentally-physically-financially-emotionally-makeupwordially-for-a-strong-black-sister-because-I-don’t-play-that-shit. Her profile pic will either be: Alone and strong sisterish; visibly annoyed with him while he’s doing something stupid in the background.

The Farce

Her desire to not appear like a hypocrite, or at a minimum admit that her past views were somewhat unbalanced, has outweighed her desire for a healthy relationship.  She’s either lying, or has spent so much time railing against men, even if she has a good one, she’s not quite sure what to do with him, so she’s driving homie away.  Ultimately, she’s getting in her own way, unless she has a real sucker dude.

The Real

Those women are all caricatures of some adopted standard of womanhood.  They’re only offering what they want the public to believe.  It makes for good readership.  In truth, women want healthy relationships.  Even the “I’m-at-the-point-where-I-don’t-need-a-man-thank-you-Jesus” set is only rejecting the drama that seems to be part and parcel with the current state of relationships.  And there’s nothing wrong with saying that.  Most normal women, when you really get to the core of things, will admit that the “crisis” faced by black women in the dating world is overblown.

I know of several women in loving relationships with partners to whom a government wedding is just an unnecessary hoop to them.  I know happy black lesbians who, due to politics, can not legally marry.  I know personally eight black women who have gotten married within the last year.  I, though currently single, was married once before, so I don’t even fit in the “black woman never married” mold.

There are tons of us out here, so let’s do something crazy.  Let’s admit that as a whole, we’ve never been objectively represented in the media.  Acquiesce to the fact that there is more likely than not, an ulterior motive behind a sudden concern with black womanhood.  Free yourself to define your own existence by who you meet and what you do and abandon the statistical mind fuck.

Yeah.  That would be cool.

*You’re welcome.

Big Black Dick

Unless you have been under four rocks, a building and an opera singer’s bosom, you’ve heard about Mel Gibson’s latest racist rant.   In a recent argument with his baby mama (whose name I have no interest in attempting to spell, despite the fact that I could have copied and pasted her name in less time than it took to write this), Mr. Gibson gifted us with this gem:

“You look like a f***ing pig in heat.  And if you get raped by a pack of n***ers, it will be your fault.”

There is a part of me that wants to give it a standing ovation.  I always love when people tell folks how they really feel.  Outstanding.  A random tweeter said that Mel actually went for a two-fer if you consider the pork reference, but that is neither here nor there.  On it’s face, Mel is a racist asshole that thinks black males rove in packs in search of white women to violate.  This is quite compelling, because Mel is quite obviously racist, an asshole, and we’ll throw in nutty as squirrel shit for good measure.  But it goes deeper than that.  Mel is a desperate man.  He is not only losing his relevance and credibility in Hollywood, but he is now losing his new family.  You know.  The one he left his wife for.

Mel’s rant over the “pack of niggers” does not rest solely on the shoulders of his bigotry. It is also attributable to the fact that he KNOWS what he had on his hands.  A woman who was perfectly fine with being impregnated by a douchebag in a long term marriage with several kids.  Apparently, he’s never heard the term, “You can’t turn a ho into a housewife.”  It’s not that he had the sudden epiphany that she was a skank, it’s just no longer convenient for him, so he chooses to take issue with it.  It’s not about black men and rape.  He fears she is one fuck away from having his precious child in cornrows and a dashiki.  He doesn’t believe she will be Mystikaled.  He believes she’ll be Jack Johnsoned.  And therein lies the problem.

It’s 2010, and the black penis is still the Boogey Man.  I’ve heard sportscasters make jokes about going into the NBA locker room.  Speaking of the NBA, in the case of Kobe Bryant, a woman, by all appearances, falsely cried rape, and the big black dick jokes surfaced.  Kim Kardashian was branded a whore for having video evidence of taking her boyfriend’s – not jump off, not random party guy, not stranger – big black dick.  No one can convince me that she would have received the same backlash if her companion was white.  The preoccupation with black male sexuality does not border on obsession – it’s baptized in it.

When we as a society discuss the problem with black women and the HIV/AIDS crisis, before we put the weight on women to have protected sex or not share needles, we scream “DOWN LOW BROTHERS.”  Though men of any race can be gay and in the closet, here, the offenders blackness is understood.  So, these gay men and their big black dicks are sticking them in innocent black women and killing them with reckless abandon.  As a society, when we discuss man sharing in the black community, we don’t bring up women who do this knowingly, or at the very least, ignore all the obvious signs.  We scream that men are dogs who are compelled to put their big black dicks everywhere.

If gone unchecked, one could surmise that the big black dick:

  • makes one a smooth president
  • can cause any argument
  • can end any argument
  • is responsible for all of the ills in the black family, and therefore, the black community
  • will try to rape you in prison
  • will try to rape you out of prison
  • can not wait to find itself a white woman
  • killed and hid Jimmy Hoffa.

Bad judgement, characters and decisions transcend race, gender and social status.  There are some offending dicks of all races.  There are offending dicks of all sizes.  Not every black dick is laying in wait for unsavory activity.  And please do not take my tongue in cheek writing to mean that I am glossing over the danger caused by this line of thinking.  Black men have had their humanity stripped away from their genitals since we were brought to this country. Additionally, the demonization of one group in the way of blanket statements covering all and in only looking at one party when others are equally culpable, is unconscionable.  I don’t have the answers to this, but for my part, I’m taking it upon myself to look at the big picture, rather than just the tiny Viewmaster version.

“Plan your work…

“…and work your plan!”

I can’t tell you how often my mom said this to us.  Basically, the root of success is an organized and well thought out plan, accompanied by the tenacity to see that plan to fruition.  Truer words were never spoken.  What makes this  comical?  Bless her heart, my mother would not have known organization if it brought her lunch.  Dear Tree, I am your apple.

Point for point, I’ve followed in, and surpassed her footsteps:  notebooks with great schemes, ideas, ambitions; half-finished projects; meals no one would really enjoy, but they were new and different.  Yeah.  And now I’m 33, the age where she’d given birth to her final child, and I want to kick it up a notch in a different way.  But the thing that gets me, and what may well have been the thing that got to her, is the blues.  When the blues hit me, I got it bad and that ain’t good.  There are days I just feel set adrift, and it’s hard to get my bearings.  The other part is, once you’ve created your millionth half-ject, and embarked upon your trillionth unfinished plot, the feeling of being overwhelmed is stifling.  Partially because, it’s not just a feeling – we really are overwhelmed.  Quite honestly, I know I have the ability to see myself clear of anything in my path – that ability just happens to be blocked by a million other things.  You can’t see the forest for the trees, the book report, the sewing project, the business venture AND that casserole you left in the oven.

So I’m reaching out to you guys:  What do you do to beat back the blues?  How do you combat feeling overwhelmed or even a little afraid of the notion that maybe you’ve bitten off way more than you can chew this time?  Or, how do you prevent yourself from being in the position where you are overwhelmed and spread too thin?  Being the come-back kid is great, but it’s also emotionally taxing, and I’m not so haughty as to presume that someone isn’t doing it better than I.  Feel free to share, and perhaps we can get a dialogue going.  When you take into account the times we’re living in, I find it hard to believe that I’m the only person who feels this way.

Let’s build folks.

But for real…who asked you to do that?

Once a person reaches a certain age, it is not uncommon to look back upon one’s choices and evaluate, “Was that really the right thing?”  It’s essential to your personal evolution.  It is human.  What we recall may cause pleasure, shame, or even an all too familiar, “Ooooh, yeah…I was so young.”  No one gets it all right all the time.  No. Not even you.  There will always be something you could have done better.

Therefore, when I look at my sisters of a certain age, who suddenly bemoan their lives, I get a little tight.  Certainly, there are some who have made deliberate choices that have turned their lives into a total cluster; but still other lives are simply the product of possessing slightly less wisdom than was required of the situation.  Do better today.  That’s what the life cycle is all about.  Even personally, I jokingly (and on bad days, not so jokingly) refer to needing a life revolution, when really, all I need is to make better choices going forward.  But frankly, is growth  what our female quarter/third life revolutions are about?

Hell to.  The naw.  We don’t want to learn from our past wrongs through a consistent stream of good decisions and evolution.  We want Mickey Mouse to show up in that Fantasia get up, wave his wand, and have dancing hippos stomp out that hot mess we’ve created…ballet style.  This is because nobody likes consequences.  Not you.  Not ya mama.  Not ya granny.  We SAY we’re okay with the consequences of our actions, but we’re not really.  And there’s nothing wrong with not liking them.  Show me a person who likes the bad shit, and I’ll show you a person that you need to avoid.  We all appreciate consequences to a point, but once we believe that point has been reached, we’re like, “Uh yeah universe…that’s enough.  Back to my regularly scheduled programming.  NOW!”  I don’t believe in spending the rest of your life playing for human lapses in judgment, but there’s also no off switch.

We spend our 20s living our lives.  That takes on many different meanings – college, motherhood, marriage, at times coming out regarding sexual orientation, the list goes on, because no life is the same.  Since we’re adults with limited knowledge, we are susceptible to a lot of mistakes, and we deal with those mistakes in the best way we can.  We throw ourselves into this, we detach ourselves from that, time marches on.  As we heal from these bumps and bruises, all to often we, either say or hear the dramatic, “And it took my identity. *faint* *swoon* *call for smelling salts*

Stop the madness.  A pleasant life is about balance.  Often, when things become unbalanced, we overcompensate at the opposite end of the spectrum.  That’s OUR bad.  I remember being a new mother and never sending my kids to the sitter outside of work, salon appearances were spotty at best, and I all but gave up shopping.  I had a husband with whom I not only had nothing in common, but we never talked.  Okay, fine.  Upon my divorce, I then went to the opposite extreme: nonstop salon appointments, compulsive shopping, never seeing my kids on the weekends.  I dated men who did nothing BUT talk to me.  I was being ME again.  The me I hadn’t been in YEEEEARS!

Uh.  Duh.  That’s because that me was gone.  Nobody asked me to walk around looking like my own country cousin and never go anywhere.  There were tons of people willing to take my kids off my hands, my stylist would allow me to assist her in the shop in exchange for services, and it was my choice to spend every spare dime on my kids and buying rather than bringing lunch.  At the end, I could have blamed my choices on a bad marriage or being an overwhelmed mother; but in truth, it was my own lack of foresight, and not utilizing my available resources.  The overcompensating backlash was truly unnecessary.  Thankfully, I had good friends and family who gave me a reality check (in the form of a case full of sitcho*).

I am by no means the only woman that has fallen into this, and it is not specific mothers, wives, or even ex-wives.  We buy into our own various forms of hype, without stopping to realize how absolutely ridiculous we’ve become.  To do things, not because they are right or beneficial, but because you think that’s how you should REACT is ridiculous.  So we look to revolution to erase this pattern of ridiculousness as the quick fix.  If my house smells like shit, and it’s because there’s a bunch of horse shit in the living room, precisely what does throwing that out, and loading a bunch of bull shit in the back room accomplish?

On the topic of men, you will never, NEVER, NEVER, NEVER, NEVER find a man that is 100% different from every man you have dated.  I’m willing to bet that if you get a man who is 25% different, and it is a quality 25%, count it as a win.  Very rarely do the bad choice guys come 100% wrong; if that was the case, unless you are certifiably insane, he wouldn’t have hooked you.  Objectively looking back, you can pinpoint what elements of his personality you knew were going to be problematic, yet ignored.  Don’t ignore them next time.

We tend to look at those past “uses” with rose colored glasses and ignore one crucial truth:  This is the SAME US that got us in this horrible mess.  I don’t want to go back to 21/22 year old Mel.  That chick was dumb as a bag of Yaki.  Most importantly, in that state, I was not fit to effectively care for two children on the precipice of puberty.  There is nothing wrong with the label mother, as long as you view it as a facet of yourself and not your entire reason for breathing.  If you do that, stop it.  Do not, however, use it as an excuse to plunge headlong into the horizon of irresponsibility.  BALANCE.

We never stop learning and roles never stop shifting, so for as long as we breathe, we will periodically have to acclimate to a new station in life.  We won’t always get it right immediately, and once we get it wrong, it can’t immediately be un-wronged.  Time.  Experience.  Patience.  Tweaks.  Not giant overhauls.  TWEAKS.  You’d be surprised to find that you’re working with more raw material than you gave yourself credit for having.


Reality Bites

Charismatics and soldiers.  When you get right down to it, that’s what the world is comprised of.  Some folks just draw you right in, and the chips fall their way with little more than a smile on their part.  It’s both a gift and a cultivated talent.  These are the individuals that get under your skin and make you want to do things for them, spend time with them, cater to them, and you have no idea why.  Then there are the folks who spend every moment clawing and scratching.  They battle easy credit ripoffs, temporary layoffs AND the chow line.  Battle, and WIN.  The ability to survive is a gift in its own right.

No prizes for where I believe I fit in.  I don’t say this in a way to toot my own horn.  This gift I have, sometimes I abuse it, as my ability to survive occasionally makes me careless.  I think, “Well, I’ve made it through everything else – what’s one more thing?”  As there are drawbacks with being a charismatic individual, being a soldier can also be a bit of a curse.

The very core of the soldier is the story.  You’ve been battle tested and proven worthy; who doesn’t love a tale of triumph?  Unfortunately, there is where you find the practical joke of this whole soldier lifestyle.  The soldier’s story comes with a very weighty obligation.  It goes without saying that stories of bravery are welcomed.  A soldier can tell of being wounded or trapped.  Our scars always hold the deepest and most meaningful of stories.  If the circumstances meet a certain criteria, a soldier is even allowed to die, and it is celebrated.

What you can NEVER do as a soldier, however, is be tired. No one wants to hear the story of the tired soldier.  It makes one uncomfortable to witness a moment when their champion is neither brave, valiant or wise.  It makes their own vulnerabilities that much more frightening.  I remember being young, and my mother being exhausted and overwhelmed, and when she finally went off, I was terrified.  It was not because she was not well within her rights, nor was it because she was abusive, but when the lynch pin weakens, what are the rest of us to do?  Later, even in her illness, she did everything to minister to the minds and spirits of everyone who came in contact with her.  If you were not in her immediate company, you didn’t know she was ill.  When she lost the ability to do that, it shook us all, not because she owed us a debt, but because we felt that if someone that strong could crumble, we didn’t stand a chance.

And now, it’s my turn.  When I buckle, people have become so accustomed to me fighting through, displays of vulnerability make them uncomfortable.  The make me uncomfortable.  Sharing too much makes me feel like a complainer.  When I falter, it all goes to shit.  Everyone has problems, and I’m sure most of those problems are bigger than anything I will ever experience, so I try my best to keep moving.  My ability to fight is my color purple, and I believe to disregard it would piss God off.

But the truth of the matter is that being strong is so damn hard; and frankly, I’m honestly not convinced that I’m all that strong.  I fear that were anyone to tiptoe through my thoughts, they would label me a fraud.  I actually hate the idea of dating for this very reason.  On the inside, I’m a mess.  “Hey Awesome Guy, you know how you kind of thought that I was confident, collected, wise and beautiful?  Yeah, that’s all kind of a crock of shit, and I’m actually just a regular ass chick.  My bad.  Will you accept me anyway?  No?  Okay, well I’ll just go back to suppressing the fact that this has bruised every one of my internal organs, and I’ll wish you well.” I pride myself on being functional, but I think it’s been almost a year since I’ve felt that I was really living life.  I don’t even know what to do with that, so I wouldn’t dare subject a life partner to these shenanigans.

For the time being, I’m working on answering the question, “Well, if you’re such a hot mess, why should anyone listen to you?”  There’s this gaping vortex at my center where I believe my purpose used to live.  Outside of being a mother, I have no idea what my purpose is.  I don’t know that I ever had it.  I’ve always walked on the fringe of everything.  Not that I’m a fence rider, but rather, I don’t let anything box me in.  I’m the consummate eclectic, so it’s hard for me to fit anywhere.  It always has been, but that’s a separate post entirely.

So, starting in this very moment, I’m spending the next year pioneering my happiness.  Lord knows how that’s going to work out, but since nobody is gonna give me my free, I’m gonna have to air out the nina and take that shit.