Monday, June 18, 2007

the makings of a fucked up day

i woke up this morning panicking cuz i can't find my driver's license. i've looked everywhere...can't find it.

i need it cuz i'm going to a conference tomorrow and i'm renting a car. can't get on the plane or rent the car without my driver's license.

can't get a replacement license cuz the offices are closed today.

sat down on the couch and my water bottle spilled and put a big assed water stain on my ass.

too late to change clothes.

got in the car, turned the key in the ignition, and the engine light comes on.

and stays on.

looked in the car for the license. it ain't there. for once my car is fucking clean, so of course it ain't there.

got on the expressway and almost get hit by a greyhound bus.

got off of the expressway and get stuck behind a marta bus.

pull into the driveway at work and notice a really good looking black dude standing outside damn near right in front of my parking space.

so of course i've got the water stain on my ass and a crunchy look on my face and i've gotta walk right in front of this dude to get into the fucking building.

this dude ain't never been around when i'm looking cute. now he wanna be around when i'm both looking and feeling jacked.

come into the office...someone stuck a pile of 200 copies of some program brochure that has to be folded for the conference.


by fucking HAND, people.

by MY fucking hand, people.

got a pile of work on my desk that has to be done before i leave, none of which is nearly as important as me finding my fucking license.

trying to leave here early cuz i still gotta get a pedicure and do my hair cuz of course the place where i was supposed to get my hair done on saturday never bothered to call me back to give me directions to the fucking place (that's another story...i mean why you gotta call me back with directions anyway?!?)

got serious gas issues. i think it's because i'm panicking, but it just won't stop, and it's the silent killer kind that don't just dissipate.

no, these farts CELEBRATE entry into the world by hanging in the air, waiting for someone to pass them a drink so they can party all day.

i left my office so that i could take this gathering of gas from my ass to another location.

had to come back cuz fifteen minutes later i was still farting.

can't open a window so i'm stuck at the fart party.

just found out the hotel i'm staying in doesn't have internet access of any kind. what the fuck is this? they got me staying in a cave?!?

now i'm taking a chance that if i check in one day earlier, the people at the resort where the conference (not the cave mentioned above) is taking place won't kick me out. yeah, right.

got this email from a co-worker this morning, sent last friday:

"my whereabouts for the next 2.5 weeks!

...and it won't be here!!

I'll be in New Zealand until 1 July and will be back in the office on 5 July. I will check email occasionally, but will have no cell phone service.

See you on the 5th.


because evidently she mistakened me for someone who gives a shit where she's gonna be for the next 2.5 weeks. why would i ever wanna know where she gonna be?

anne, have i ever given you the impression i was curious about where you went when you weren't here? HELL no.

as long as you ain't here, i could care less where you at. you could take a vacation up your momma's ass and i wouldn't care so long as you didn't come back with photos of the trip. i have no interest in viewing images of the inside of your momma's anus.

another co-worker just informed me i gotta get to the airport three hours ahead of time because evidently the lines are so long they're leading out of the terminal.

so basically this means i'll be in line twice as long as i'll be on the damn plane (flight is 1.5 hours long).

what is 'y' class? does this stand for 'why the fuck did i book a flight on an airline that would dare place me in between some chick who equivocates sitting next to me with us being bff and an obnoxious child the mother refuses to discipline with anything more harsh than a 'stern talking to' which is comprised of her basically spending the entire flight begging the bad ass devil's spawn to "sit down please and stop smacking the nice black lady"'?!?

is nikki gonna have to choke a kid? if he/she smacks me, i will be that stereotypical angry black bitch all folk fear and choke the SHIT out of that kid and then smack the mom in the mouf for not keeping her kid in check.

shit...still farting. this is gonna be a problem...

still can't find my driver's license. this is ALREADY a problem.

this day can only get better, right?

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

three is all of me

television ain't telling nothing but the truth.

i mean, all black women are sarcastic and angry chicks with an adversion for people seeing their va-jay-jay's during labor. you know, the chicks who despite being surrounded by oversexed beautiful people, are somehow the only folk in the entire ensemble who don't want or need sex cuz they're married (as though marriage has stopped other folk from screwing around).

or they're successful, then unsuccessful, then straight up unstable chicks, who despite having money and a hot body and good friends around them are so preoccupied with the task of finding a man to save them from their unfulfilling lives that they end up drunk on the side of the road after having crashed their sports car...

or they're among the chicks whose occupation is to stand around looking sweaty and sexy or draped over some guy with her ass in the air, wearing shorts so tight the video director keeps yeast infection medication on the set next to the prop bottle of cristal. the perks include giving blowjobs to rap artists who already wear a permanent tattoo of saliva stains on their balls, standing around in three inch heels wearing nothing but a bathing suit while the men around them rap about fucking hos like them, and telling documentary filmmakers how they see this as merely a stepping stone to better things like working on shows where they get to play the love-starved black chick who can't get her shit together or the average sidekick black chick who gets to watch while everyone else get the ass and attention while she gets the sarcastic one-liners. better yet, she can become a celebrated authoress who ends up on oprah. come on, tell me that ain't the bomb gig...

and you're right! all black men are doctors or cops and they all date women who aren't black. but can you really blame them when their choices are the crazy chick who'd probably end up stalking them, the asexual angry chick who would slap his hand away if he attempted to touch the va jay-jay, or the skanky chick with dried cum stains encrusted in the corners of her mouth and enough yeast between her legs to be an oven at a wonderbread factory? shit, i'd be dating the asian chick too.

that's aiight though, cuz every now and again the black chick will end up with a cute white guy, so long as she's so light-skinned and european-featured she looks like a white chick with a tan. oh, and she has to have an accent and she can't be from america.

really, we need to be thanking television for it's sensitive and accurate portrayal of black women in our limited facets instead of getting pissed off and saying stupid shit like "black women are woefully underrepresented on television overall and damn near non-existent in series that don't require us to break into song or crack a fucking joke." or "out of the 28 new shows in the fall lineup, only THREE shows have a black woman as a part of the regular cast."

cuz as you can see, all we really need is three.

Friday, June 08, 2007

creating new sex, dating, and relationship blog

i was a part of one last year before it was discontinued. i'd like to start a new one. this time the focus won't be on just bad sex, but on good sex and all the sex in between, along with good and bad dating experiences and relationship moments. i'm looking for folk who wanna be a part of it.

you won't be getting paid. this is for us to share stories. it's a chance for you folk who have a story to tell but don't think your blog is the place to tell it. there will be no censorship. you write it true to you.

if you're down, hit me up via email (i know some folk might wanna do this incognito, so i don't wanna put 'em on blast).

Thursday, June 07, 2007

passive aggressive folk can kiss my natural black ass

if you're one of these people, i don't like you. nothing personal, but i have an aversion to folk who can't just say what they mean and mean what they say and be accountable for what they do. if i gotta figure the silence out, then you gotta go. if i gotta look at your actions (or lack of) to get what you too scared to say, i have absolutely no use for you whatsoever.

do you even know if you're passive-aggressive? well if you're wondering, ask yourself if you:

just stopped calling or picking up the phone, hoping he/she will 'figure it out'

instead of telling someone you're mad at him/her, you let it simmer and manifest in your actions, doing shit you know will irritate him/her, in order to 'punish' him/her. THAT'LL SHOW 'EM!

don't actually say you don't wanna go with him/her somewhere. you drag your feet about it beforehand, then make him/her fucking MISERABLE when you're there, hoping he/she never asks you to go there with him/her again.

blame someone else for your foul behavior, using childish terms like "you made me do it" or "if only you hadn't done that, i wouldn't have had to do this..." or the classic "it just happened...i couldn't help it! you just made me SOOOO upset!"

lied because the truth would make you look bad.

let a person irritate you to no end, then instead of telling that person you would prefer they behave differently, you go and rant to your friend about that other person's behavior and how much it irritates you.

dislike a person at work or a person who is a part of your group of friends, so you bring up discussion about that person under the guise of being concerned for his/her well-being, when really all you're doing is looking for opportunities to diss him/her on the sly by using sarcastic remarks or uncovering his/her dirt by using slick lines like "well i heard such and such about her, but it can't be true because she's such a great person!". doing that shit all the while hoping everyone will eventually turn against him/her.

say some really foul shit about someone to his or her face, then cover that shit up by saying "i was being sarcastic" or "it was a joke" when you know you was being dead serious.

during arguments, you deliberately behave in a way that you know will make the other person question his/her sanity by using twisted logic cuz you're so fucking clever...

you: i'm not saying you're crazy. i'm saying crazy people do the shit you do.
him/her: but that sounds like you're saying i'm crazy.
you: you said that, not me.

you know that's some bullshit, right?

if you see yourself here, don't be mad at me. i wasn't doing this shit to single anyone out, but i damn sure did it to let any potential friends/lovers know ahead of time what i refuse to put up with. (and i've done some of this shit too so i ain't untouchable, but grown folk grow out of kiddy behavior).

don't say you weren't warned.

Friday, June 01, 2007

hell if i know...

as many of my longtime readers know, i had stepped away from regular blogging for a few months. i'm thinking it was a combination of cynicism, grief, and lack of inspiration that did it. things got a bit hectic late last year. between offline impending loss and internet drama and the larger audience, i started to feel as though i was losing sight of why i chose to blog. in the end, i do it because i love to express myself as creatively and candidly as possible. i absolutely love writing, all of the little things that make it possible...from sitting in my car and looking out the sunroof to witness a beautiful sunset and thinking to myself "how would i write that into existence for someone who couldn't see it?" before i turned off the radio and drove in silence, putting together phrases to describe it.

what does the sun taste like? is it a peeled orange i pierce with my teeth until the pulp bursts and the juices squirt and dribbles down my chin? or does it taste like lambent rage? a bitter fruit of smoldering vexation burning a path of acrid hatred down my throat before settling into an intolerant ulcer in my stomach? could i suck on it until it was flaccid and empty of sunlight or anger?

if i touch it, will it pebble like an erect nipple? does it weigh substantial like a scrotum if i hold it? if i run my fingers over it, will it secrete heat?

how come i'm always think about sex?!?

or when i'm talking to a friend on the phone and i exclaim "he did WHAT? oh, i GOTTA write about that..." and then i've got all kinds of scenarios in my head on how i'd re-tell this story about the guy who got married but went to his ex-girlfriend hoping the ex would rent a car for him, this despite the fact that brotha don't have a valid drivers license...and he's served time for drug trafficking...and he plans to use the car to go out of town for 'business'...i mean, YOU CAN'T MAKE THAT SHIT UP.

or like last night when i checked lebron and his masterful play against the pistons. i thought of all kinds of things while watching him...

what is that brotha feeling right now? is it a combination of desperation and fear? did he make the conscious decision to break through that wall to take those shots? did he consciously decide to take the game into his own hands, to put his team on his shoulders to lead them to victory? or was he just driven by ego? is he spilling over with adrenaline? is he choking on the fear he won't be able to come through?

i started looking at him abstractly, a form haphazardly illustrated with lines both fluid and furious, racing across a backdrop of blurred images exploding in sound, shadows trying to impede his progress with flaying arms and focused fingers. it was like i had stepped outside of the moment and into the emotions and the words that would describe those emotions.

that make sense?

shit it rarely does to me, so i would understand if it makes no sense to you.

writing is more than an activity for me. it's like i've eaten the experiences and the enzymes breaks them down into molecules of moments before the esophagus massages the messages to the surface in preparation for the stomach where they're then bathed in awareness. as the molecules are further broken down into consonants and vowels and pulled into my bloodstream, they form the nutrients that will ultimately feed my imagination, becoming platelets of sentences that will later spill from various orafices throughout my body in clots of creative expresson (or phrases of fecal matter, depending upon whom you ask...)

i don't just see or hear the words, i feel them, taste them, touch them like they were something i held in my hands and brought to my nose to inhale before rubbing them against my lips and licking off the letters, swallowing their intent.

i don't know how the words come or why they come or even if they're supposed to come, i'm only glad i've got at the very least the eagerness and patience to stroke them until they do.

how come i'm always thinking about sex?!?

i really need to find a new word to use other than 'come'...'occur' maybe?