Lies, Lies and More Lies

Ambition sucks. Ambition is highly overrated. Whoever said ambition is noble or some other crap like that needs to be shot. Ambition is the reason I'm chained to the house this beautiful Saturday evening (well that and I'm looking like Buckwheat's cousin). Ambition made me think I could handle two aerobics classes back to back. Ambition has rendered me an invalid.
I know I said that I'm perfectly content to be a fat cow, but after careful consideration I've determined that I'm just too shallow to start shopping for plus sizes. The fact that I live with The Curly Haired Stick Figure doesn't help my body image issues, either. I tried losing weight by adopting her diet of fruit snacks and Faygo Root Beer, but it left me feeling a little less than satiated. As a mere mortal I've got to do it the old fashioned way: sweat and junk food deprivation. Goodbye Haggen Daaz, hello Stair Master!
With a recovered body (read the previous post) and renewed motivation I woke up this morning at 8 a.m. to go to a 9 a.m. cardio kickboxing class. I spent an hour throwing jabs, right hooks, and left uppercuts at exercise induced mirages of my boss and The Idiot Who Made Me Cry. I especially enjoyed kicking out their knee caps and throwing an elbow to their skulls. By the end of class I was sufficiently sweaty and out of breath and ready to go home. As I gathered my keys, membership card, and empty water bottle the instructor mentioned something about staying for the next class, Body Step. Of course I completely ignored her since I had burned the obligatory 450 calories for the day. I walked out of the group fitness studio and what happened next is sort of a blur. What I do remember is seeing a poster advertising the newest craze in fitness, Body Step. It's step aerobics without all the stupid dance moves that have people looking like rejects from a Richard Simmons' video. Hmmm, doesn't sound totally heinous. I don't know how or why it happened, but I asked the instructor for more details. She proceeds to tell me that the class is a lot of fun and how it's designed for strength and conditioning training. So far it sounds good. I ask her, "Does it hurt?" She says, "Hurt? No!! It's just a really good good workout. Plus it really tones the hips and thighs." Tones hips and thighs? Ding ding ding ding ding!!! She just said the magic words to get me to refill my water bottle, set up my step and get ready for another class. I was feeling a bit worn out from kickboxing class, but desperation to fit into the skinny jeans trumps muscle fatigue any day. Besides, she said it doesn't hurt.
The beginning strains of Brittany Spear's "Toxic" filled the room signifying the start of class. I should've known I had bitten off more than I could chew when the step together step combination in the warm-up proved to be a bit too complex for me. Still, I persevered, spurred on by the allure of smaller thighs. We get through the warm-up and stretching and into the strengthening and conditioning. That lying heffer was so full of shit! It hurt and it hurt badly. She's having us squat and lunge and fly across the step to the extended version of "Yeah" sped up on meth amphetamines. To add insult to injury she keeps telling us to kick up the intensity by power jumping off the step after every move. The best I could muster was a feeble stumble that might have resembled a bunny hop. Yet still I press on. As the hell continues that fibbing tramp starts adding dance moves into routine. I distinctly remember being told there would be no dancing. Shit, I may be Black, but I can't do this shit. Step, kick, cha cha cha...WTF!! The white chicks in class had more rhythm and coordination than I did. I was looking like a crackhead doing the Harlem shake. Why in the hell am I doing this crap? Oh that's right, those infernal skinny jeans. Class finally ended and after all that pain and suffering my thighs were no smaller than they were before class. I'd been hoodwinked.
Things went from bad to worse when I got home. All of that exercise rendered my limbs useless. I've since lost all feeling (except for pain) in both arms. My abs are so worn out that it hurts to breathe. I get a charlie horse in my inner thighs every time I attempt to cross my legs. It seems as though I have to keep inflicting this shit upon myself before I see even minimal results. If exercise is supposedly so damn good for us, then why has it left me in need of a full body cast and traction? Somebody has made a lot of money feeding that propaganda to the masses, but now I know what fat people everywhere know. Physical fitness is BULLSHIT!

Ouch

I am currently walking around looking like I had an encounter with an erratic vibrator. But don't worry, I haven't seen any action from B.O.B. in a while. The reason why I have an imaginary pole up my ass is because I made the mistake of trying to lose weight.
This all started 9 months ago when my favorite jeans started chanting "HELL NO! WE WON'T GO!" once they reached my hips. I knew this was a problem, but I let it go. All I needed to do was lose a few pounds and they would fit again. Fast forward 4 months later and those pants still don't fit, aren't close to fitting, and I'm starting to wonder if they ever will fit again. The final straw came this past weekend while trying on crop pants in the fitting room at BCBG. Now BCBG does ego sizing better than any brand out there, but even they couldn't make a size 10 that gets over my ever expanding rump. Right then and there I decided I needed to get back into shape. And I needed to do it by any means necessary. That's it! I'm getting a personal trainer.
I'm all fired up and motivated now. So Monday morning I march right into the gym, go up to the front desk and tell them, "I want a trainer!!" When I sit down with one of the Personal Training Coordinators I let her know that I want results and I want them fast. I need a trainer who's insane. I want someone who I'm gonna hate. I want someone that's gonna kick my lazy butt into shape. Oh yeah, and I want to start immediately. So the lady writes all this down and tells me she'll review the list of trainers to see who is available and have one of them call me that evening. Around 7 p.m I get a call from one of the trainers. We chat about my goals and time availability and then decide to meet at 6 a.m. the next morning. So far so good.
The next day I'm up before the butt crack of dawn and arrive 10 minutes before my scheduled appointment. I warm up by jogging a couple of laps on the track and stretching out. I'm ready to go! At 6 a.m. sharp I meet my trainer. He looked cool. Tall guy with an athletic build and a friendly smile. Little did I know that I had been paired with Satan's Henchman In Charge of Torture. That Fascist dictator took extreme pleasure from my extreme pain. I have the feeling that he was taking out all of the frustrations from his childhood on me. I could just see it in eyes. Mommy wouldn't give me a cookie...5 more reps for Liz. Santa didn't bring me a bike...add another 20 pound weight plate for Liz. Prom date wouldn't give me a hand job...15 more crunches for Liz. He wouldn't even stop when halfway through the workout I told him he was about 2 seconds away from seeing my breakfast on his Nikes. He just looked at me and said, "That's nice, keep lifting, you've got 8 more to go." At 7:10 I limped back to my car, drove home, and put myself to bed.
The next day I wake up to pain coursing through every fiber of my body. Everything from my back to my abs to my thighs was aching. I couldn't even stand, let alone walk. Stairs were completely out of the question. The worst pain was in my ass. Every time I attempted to sit it felt as though I was getting kicked in each cheek with a steel toe boot. The lean and plop method of sitting often used by pregnant women had to be employed just to get on the toilet seat. I didn't ask for this!! I said I wanted a trainer who was insane, not criminally psychotic. I said I wanted a trainer who will kick my butt into shape, not try to kill me. I said I wanted a trainer who will make me hate them, not make me want to hire a hitman. The most bullshit part of this is that I'm actually paying Satan's Minion to do this to me. I'm beginning to think that getting back into my skinny jeans isn't worth it. Screw it, I'll just be a fat cow. MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

FAQs

The male species seems to have a bone to pick with women. Lately it seems I can't go anywhere without some guy saying, "Yo, why do chicks go to the club, if they don't want a man to holla?" Men just do NOT get it. It doesn't seem to matter how many times it is explained or how slowly a woman speaks when explaining, they just can't wrap their little brains around the idea. We go to the club to kick it with our girls, get our drink on, and dance our little behinds off to songs that degrade us. It has NOTHING to do with you! Since it seems as though this a really difficult concept for men to comprehend, I'm going to answer several frequently asked questions. Hopefully this will once and for all end the incessant whining.
Question #1: If you don't want men to try and holla why do you dress that way?
The way a woman dresses when she leaves the house has nothing to do with trying to attract a man, and everything to do with how she wants to feel about herself. Yes, I put on my tightest jeans, my lowest cut top, the come fuck me heels, and sexify my hair just for me and me alone. It is not an invitation for any man to palm my ass, talk to my chest, or breathe their hot breath on the back of my neck. Sorry guys, but the sexy is for me, not for you. I'm not trying to attract some guy that probably only looks good under minimal lighting.
Question #2: Why you gonna let a guy buy you a drink if you ain't interested?
Now this is just a dumb question. Why would I pay $10 or more for a drink when someone else is willing to do that for me? I didn't ask him to buy me that beverage, he offered. It's his fault for thinking that drink somehow bought him a friend for the night. Here's a suggestion, if you don't want to spend money to get nothing in return, stop offering to buy us drinks. Wait, scratch that. Don't stop offering, just stop complaining.
Question #3: Why don't ya'll dance when you're in the club?
Actually, we do dance. We dance in a circle with each other. It's fun, we like it, don't question it. To be honest the circle dancing eases us into dancing with men. First we dance in the circle, then we move on to the testosterone. Stop trying to rush the process.
Question #4: If you want to dance, why turn guys down when they ask you to dance?
Let's get something straight. Most men do not ask a woman to dance. Pointing to your crotch while wiggling your hips and telling me to come shake it right there is NOT an invitation to dance. Nor is sneaking up on me from behind and poking me in the rear with Mr. Weasel. Oftentimes it's all about the approach, and oftentimes your approach sucks. Plus, just because we want to back it up on someone, doesn't mean that just anyone will do. Even though I'm not looking for a relationship on the dance floor, giving Quasimodo's twin the same treatment the driver's seat of my car gets whenever "Some Cut" comes on the radio isn't gonna happen. Although a dance is just a dance, part of the fun is pretending it's something more. For the 3 minutes and 50 seconds that I'm grinding my little money maker on his nether regions, we're together. He holds my waist, I throw naughty glances over my shoulder, we act like we actually know and like each other. When the song is over, so is the fantasy. He goes back into the sea of nameless faceless men and I adjust my top and go back to the circle from whence I came. It's like playing make believe for a few minutes. I don't know too many women that like to pretend with dudes that got hit with an ugly brick. Plus, the ugly ones never know you're just pretending.
I hope this list of FAQs clears up any and all questions any male has regarding women in the club. And to be honest, even if it doesn't, who cares!! We're women, and our rationale doesn't have to seem rational to men. So Black girls, you dress like a Hunt's Point professional whenever you go to the club! White girls, you make out with each other on the dance floor while your boyfriends watch! Hispanic girls, you do the merengue with one another instead of that short greasy Mexican. And Asian girls, hhhmmmm....well I don't really know what the hell ya'll are doing, but just keep on doing it. We're women, and if it makes sense to us, that's all that really matters anyways.

Sister to Sister

Dear Star,
I think there is something you should know. I don't quite know how to tell you this. Alright, I'm gonna let you in a little secret. Are you alone? Okay, here it is. Star, you're husband is GAY! Aww, whatever! This ain't a secret. In fact, Star, you seem to be the ONLY person who doesn't know that he's gay. Star, look at him. Go on, really look at him. There is not a straight man alive who sits up that straight while showing everyone his crotch. No straight man's jeans would fit that tightly either. Let's examine some more evidence. I mean, do I really have to point out the obvious?! Just look at him. He just screams, "I'm HERE, I'M QUEER!!" Oh Honey, why can't you see what we see.
I realize that you have been deluding yourself for a while, so this may come as a shock to you. But I think that deep down, you know that EVERYONE is right. If you were wondering why you've never actually had sex with your husband, it's because he thinks your vagina is icky. Oh there, there, Star. Don't take it personally, he thinks ALL vaginas are icky, not just yours. This explains so much! The excessive toiletries, the hair styling, the time he spends with that guy 'Twan, everything!!
Girl, don't feel bad. You are NOT the first desperate woman over 35 to be turned into a fag hag. You're in great company. Let's see, there's Diana Ross and Liza Minelli. You're in the company of legends! A Supreme and an Oscar winner. Look at it like this. Knowledge is power. Now you can go warn others before they turn into you. In fact, you could help out poor Katie Holmes. She's about 2 words away from becoming Tom Cruise's 3rd official beard. Help the poor girl. Help her.
Star, the reason I'm telling you all of this is because I care. It hurts to me to see you gushing about your ring, your wedding, and "your" man on The View everyday. It especially hurts whenever the camera pans to your co-hosts looking at you with eyes that are saying, "Riiiiiiiiiiight." Actually, everyone on the set is looking at you that way. Someone needed to tell you the truth, instead of just laughing at you behind your back. Now I know it's going to be difficult being all alone again, but you can do it. Dry your eyes, put on that wig, and cake on that make-up and you go out there and find you a man (preferably one who's NOT into other men).
In Sisterly Love,
Liz

Cuckoo Cuckoo

I'm listening to the Emancipation of Mimi ad nauseam. It has suddenly dawned on me that Mariah Carey has issues. Really deep seeded, personal issues. And I'm not just talking about that stint she did in the looney bin a couple years ago. Wait, excuse me I mean her 6 month "hospitalization for exhaustion." Honestly, I don't even know why people were surprised about the whole situation. Just listen to her music, the signs were there the whole time. That bitch is crazy.
Have you ever really paid attention to what she's saying? I mean really, really paid attention. Alright, take that song "Always Be My Baby." Yeah, I know you've heard it a thousand times, but I bet you totally missed the fact that Mariah is a freakin psycho ass broad. Don't let the dulcet tones of her voice fool you into thinking that it's just an ordinary love song. Hell no it ain't! Mariah Carey is a stalker. Check out these lyrics: "You'll always be a part of me/I'm part of you indefinitely/oh Boy, you know you can't escape me/oooohh Darling, cause you'll always be my baby/It'll linger on/time can't erase a feeling this strong/there's no way you're ever gonna shake me/oooohh Darling, cause you'll always be my baby." Looks kind of scary when you see it in print now doesn't it. Personally, it conjures images of Mariah being carried away from the object of her affection in a straight jacket, with those light brown locks flying everywhere, as she's kicking and screaming, "NO WAY YOU'RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME!!!!!! NO WAY YOU'RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME!!! YOOOOOOUUUUUUU AND IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII WILL AAAALLLLLLLWAYS BEEEEEEEEE!!!!"
Don't get me wrong, a little bit of stalking is normal. There's not a single red-blooded woman alive who hasn't stalked a man to some extent (remember Denial is not just a river in Egypt). I'll be the first to admit to it. Back in high school I was butt crazy in love with this boy who had a lazy eye and a receding hairline. Oh, he was so fine!! I used to make my older brother drive by his home really slowly so I could maybe catch a glimpse of him coming out the house. I don't do stuff like that anymore. Nowadays what I'll do is come into town without telling a guy. Then I'll call up one of his friends (but not good enough friends to call him and tell him we spoke). In the course of conversation, I'll ask what's going on for the evening, weekend, or whatever. When I get the goods on where stuff is gonna pop off, I casually ask who's expected to be where. Nine times out of ten, the friend will tell me where old boy will more than likely be. After that all I have to do is call one of my girls to come along as a buffer, put on something that shows plenty of cleavage or thigh (not both, cause that looks so desperate), show up at the designated location, and "accidentally" bump into the object of my affection. This is perfectly NORMAL and ACCEPTABLE behavior. It can't even be considered stalking because the person doesn't feel stalked. What Mariah is raving about, on the other hand, is definite cause for a restraining order. If someone said that stuff to me, I wouldn't want them within 500 feet of me. I'm telling you, the chick is just CRAZY!!

Test

Beeeeeeeeeeeeep Beeeeeeeep Beeeeeeep This is a test of the Recently Updated Blog System. If this were a real update to my blog my pithy rantings about the thoughts in my demented head would follow. However, this is only a test. Thank you.

Aspirations

Don't judge me. I want to be a video girl. Yep, that's right, I want to be one of those chicks that everyone sees on BET shaking their ass in music videos. I too want to climb on top of a red Caddy and jiggle my ass on it's roof. Wait, I hear the ice cream man. I'll be right back. Mmmmkay, remind me to never again run barefoot down a half paved street in pursuit of a rinky dink ice cream van (yeah I said van, not truck) that doesn't even have the decency to stock 10 cent rainbow gumballs and blowpops. Trifling bastards.
Now, back to the lecture at hand: my upcoming video girl career. After watching the making of Sean Paul's new clip for "We Be Burnin" on BET's Access Granted I'm so positive that I'm more than qualified. I can gyrate with the best of them. I'm especially adept at running my hands across my writhing body while giving sultry stares to anyone who glances in my direction. I can also pop it, drop it, pick it back up, then bend it over and shake it (I follow Lil' John's instructions well). The wardrobe isn't a problem either. My underwear only half covers my ass anyways, and a t-shirt and panties is my favorite outfit.
Some might say that I'd be wasting my Ivy League education if I left my job counting Cheerios to be the newest addition to 50 Cent's next video shoot, but I disagree. I honestly think I'm wasting my talents now. My butt ain't always gonna look this good so I might as well get paid for it now. Plus, I spend countless hours watching the current video hoes (oops I mean entertainers) doing their thing and then practicing in the mirror. Besides Candice from Lloyd Bank's "On Fire" video has a law degree from Northwestern* and that cost way more than my piddling Bachelor of Science in Policy Analysis and Management (whatever that is). That chick is a lawyer, and if she's not too good to walk out of a hot tub dripping wet in 2 scraps of cloth resembling a bikini, well then damn it, neither am I!!!
Just so that there is no confusion, I have no intention of being just anybody's video chick. You won't catch me doing low budget videos for the likes of Webbie, Mike Jones, and Won G. Oh no, I'm high class with mine. Only the top selling rappers like 50, Ludacris, and Jigga can pour Cristal all over my chest. Cause I respect myself, damn it!

*King Magazine - March 2005 Issue

You Again?

I've been dating the same man since I was 18 years old. Sure, over the years he's had different names, but still in all, it's the same man. Who is he? Why none other than Mr. I'm Going Through Some Shit Right Now. Say word? You dated him too? The dude that can't call, can't email, can't see you, can't function because he's going through some shit. Wow, and all this time I thought I was the only woman he was with. Cheating ass bastard.
Some shit comes in all types of different degrees, but the two most common types are Ex-Girlfriend/Baby Mamma Drama and Broke Ass Nigga Issues. It's all about those Broke Ass Niggas for me!! In my own defense, let me just say that I do NOT intentionally date financially challenged men. They don't appear to have money issues in the beginning. This is not to say that they come off as ballers, cause I have never been lucky enough to find me one of those. But they don't fit the typical scrub stereotype either; meaning they have a job, a place to live besides Momma's basement, and a reasonable mode of transportation. Heck, they've even taken me out to eat and let me supersize and everything. Definitely not the actions of a man who's hurting for cash.
My first exposure to Mr. I'm Going Through Some Shit Right Now came when I was 18 years old and started seeing Sweet but Sporadically Employed Boy. Now when we met he had a promising career as a UPS stockboy, but that gig ended about 2 months into the courtship. From that point on, he never held a steady job. The less he worked, the more I heard, "I'm going through some shit right now." He doesn't call. "I'm going through some shit right now." He doesn't come visit me (he lived 2 hours away). "I'm going through some shit right now." I knew for damn sure he was going through some shit when he asked me to let him hold some money from my hard earned financial aid refund check.
Even though I broke up with Sweet But Sporadically Employed Boy after a few short months, I kept on dating Mr. I'm Going Through Some Shit Right Now Cause I'm a Broke Ass Nigga. Let's see...there was Broke Ass Auto Mechanic, Broke Ass Student, Broke Ass Property Owner, Broke Ass County Employee. You name it, he was broke. But I was always the last one to figure it out. Looking back, I should've known something was wrong because when we would go out he would pay for everything in cash. He might as well just put it in neon lights. "Broke Ass Nigga who's about to be going through some shit." If a man pays for dinner, a movie, popcorn, soda, and jujubees without once pulling out a credit card, RUN, don't walk, to the nearest exit and never look back. More than likely if he's carrying cash like that, he doesn't even have a bank account. If Visa, Mastercard, American Express, and Discover won't take a chance on his broke ass, why should I.
I have to admit that oftentimes, I wasn't even feeling Mr. I'm Going Through Some Shit Right Now like that. Actually, I didn't feel much of an attachment until he started going through some shit. All of a sudden he's hanging on to the bottom rung, and I'm experiencing this uncontrollable urge to be there for him. It's funny because when I think he's just being a prick and ignoring me I'm ready to say screw him. But the second I find out that he's "going through some shit right now," I morph into Captain Save a Scrub. Obviously I'd been listening to way too many rap songs about Shorty standing by her nigga when he ain't have nothing and blah blah blah. Somehow I got hoodwinked by every rapper (and the cluck clucks like Ashanti and Charli Baltimore backing them up) running around extolling the virtues of being a down ass chick. In reality, what exactly is the benefit in being by dude's side when he's going through some shit? You help him get the keys to that V.6 and then what? Oh yeah, that's right. He starts fucking them girls, but don't worry cause he's gonna get right back.
I'm not trying to invalidate the issues people go through. However, going through some shit is not an excuse to effectively check out for an indefinite period of time. Basically saying that you're "going through some shit" is a crock of shit. Unless you're homeless or in jail, going through some shit doesn't prevent someone from living their life. I go through shit all the time. Hell, every month I go through shit for 5 days straight, but you don't see me hiding under a rock until everything is okay. Not communicating for days on end is completely unacceptable. And 5 orgasms in one night is NOT going to make us forget that we ain't seen or heard from you in damn near 10 days. Well at least not entirely.

Crack Kills

I think I now know how a crackhead feels. You don't want to get high, but like Pookie said, "That shit just be callin, man." Well my drug of choice called at 12:08 a.m. and I answered. I swear I didn't mean to fall off the wagon so soon. I had just received my 48 hour sobriety pin and I was going for 72. The phone rang while I was laying on my couch dozing in and out of sleep while watching Sideways. Mr. Can't Get Right in Chicago was supposed to be calling, so without even looking at the caller ID I picked up. Wrong move there, Lizzie. "Hey, did you forget about me?" he says. SHIT!! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Wrong Y chromosome. Not him, anyone but him!! Hang up, STAT!! "No, I didn't forget about you." Shouldn't have said that.
You can learn a lot during a 15 minute conversation with The Idiot Who Made You Cry. I learned that he and the perfectly nice woman with the big hips are seeing other people now. I learned that I have a place to stay the next time I come home. I learned that he was worried about me when I didn't call. I learned that he's planning a trip to my neck of the woods later this month. I also learned that I am completely incapable of having a backbone where he is concerned. How difficult is it to just say that I'm sleeping and I can't talk right now. Or even better, say that I don't want to speak at all, period. He could totally sense that something was wrong with me and kept asking what's the problem. I don't quite know how to tell him that HE is the problem. How do you tell someone that? Especially if technically, besides existing, they haven't done anything wrong (at least not lately).
This wasn't intentional. I didn't mean to pick up his call. I didn't even know it was him. He no longer has a distinctive ringtone since I decided that playing "99 problems but a bitch ain't one" whenever he calls was a tad juvenile. Until 12:08 in the morning, I was doing just fine not speaking to him. Withdrawal symptoms were minimal. It only took 15 minutes, but that's all down the drain. I already know where this is going. Damn, I should've looked at that caller ID.

Delete

Thank God for unlimited text messages. I text messaged damn near everyone in my phone book with the good news. I finally did it!! I was finally able to do what I couldn't do for the past 3 years!!! I deleted him.
I turned my cell off Sunday night because the battery was basically dead. When I woke up Monday morning and turned my phone on it immediately went off with a voicemail notification. So I check my messages as I'm brushing my teeth. The recorded voice lady is saying some crap that I'm not paying attention to, when all of a sudden I hear a voice that I recognize but can't place. Then he says it. "Liz, this is The Idiot Who Made You Cry. Call me back. Lata." WHAT!! I'm so NOT expecting him to call. He hasn't called in a month. I press repeat. "Liz, this is The Idiot Who Made You Cry. Call me back. Lata." Repeat ".....Call me back. Lata." Repeat "...Call me back.." Repeat "...Call me back.." Arrggghhhhh. DELETE! Now what?
I didn’t call back. I have no clue what he wants or if he wants anything at all. I’m past the point of caring really. I won’t pretend that part of me doesn’t want to speak to this man. I will readily admit that a big part of me does. But that is the last thing I need to do right now. Getting sucked back into the abyss that is me and him is pointless. I didn't quite get that when he broke up with me via voicemail and then didn't speak to me for 10 months. I missed the memo again when I wound up in his bed a year and a half later only to not speak to him afterwards. And I wasn't quite grasping the concept when him saying, "I want to see you when you come home," turned into watching the NBA finals with him and his new girlfriend. But I think I've finally got it now. And it only took me three years to figure it out (I wasn't in the gifted classes for nothing ya know). This isn't going to work out. It's the same damn thing over and over again. We start getting remotely close, he disappears. In 3 years the story has never changed and it never will.
For so long I thought that whenever he came back in my life (sometimes with a little help from me...okay damn near all the time) after being absent for weeks or months that I had won some sort of victory. I mean, he contacted ME first, not the other way around. So of course if he initiated contact, he must want something, right! Ummm, how about WRONG! He never wants anything. The second I make myself available again, he's suddenly unavailable. I'm home for weeks and barely see him. The second I leave he's calling me to ask when I'm coming back. He never wants me around unless I'm not around. It drives me crazy.
The worst part about it all is that I blame myself. I let him do this to me. I may be really good at not calling him, but I'm really bad at not picking up the phone when he calls me. I answer the IMs, I return the phone calls, I go to his place to kick it whenever he invites me. I just keep it going. The strange thing is that if I'm honest with myself I don't want to be with him. Seriously! I don't! I talk to him and hang out with him because I genuinely do like him as a person. I want to be friends with him. He's a great guy and we get along splendidly. There's just this thing between us that gets in the way. It's always been there and it doesn't go away. The more we hang out the more obvious that thing becomes. But all that chemistry is just a bridge going nowhere. I don't know why I even get my hopes up and start thinking that maybe for once in his life he'll drink his ackrite and stop acting like an overgrown toddler. But I do, and he always disappoints me. Why stay on this ride when it keeps making me ill? So this is where I get off. I'm done. He's sending me instant messages now, "Hello....Hello....Hello....You there?...." Oh well. DELETE.

WMDs

The U.S. has been fighting this war in Iraq for about 2 years now give or take a year or 2. Our ever effective leader, G-dub, was on the hunt for WMDs, Weapons of Mass Destruction. But little did he know that the WMDs aren't in Iraq at all. Oh no, the weapon of mass destruction that can do the most damage has been sitting right under Bush's nose right here in the USA. And what pretell would this WMD be? None other than AOL Instant Messenger. And the worst part of this whole sordid ordeal is that AIM has been doing unspeakable damage for years and no one has tried to stop it.
AIM's treachery first became apparent to me my sophomore year of college. I was away from campus my 2nd semester doing an internship at the state capitol. Since free nationwide long distance didn't exist in those days, I had to use Instant Messenger to keep in touch with my friends at school. One night I was chatting with my friend, let's call him Jock Boy. So we're chatting up a storm when out of nowhere he takes offense to something I've said (I can't remember what it was...that was 5 years ago). Now I'm sitting there thinking relax it's a freakin joke, obviously. Little did I know that sarcasm doesn't translate well via instant messenger. Next thing I know he's bringing up OLD shit from 10 months ago and we're having the worst instant message fight in the history of AIM. I'm talking CAPS lock and everything!!! Needless to say we didn't speak for weeks and it took us months to get back to how we used to be. Now that I think about it, I don't think we've ever truly gotten back to the way we were before that night. AOL Instant Messenger destroyed us.
I see AIM ruining lives everyday. Normal, well adjusted women are becoming crazed baboons all because of AOL Instant Messenger. Anyone who has ever dated has played the "I'm not speaking to him until he speaks to me first" game. The rules are simple under absolutely no circumstance are you to call, email, instant message, or contact him in any way shape or form until he does so first. This game is usually played once at least 3 conversations have been initiated by you without one from him. Before the advent of AIM, the telephone was the only tool of emotional torture used. But AOL decided that 1 wasn't enough. Oh no, women needed more ways to feel the neglect. Enter the Buddy List. No weapon in the history of dating warfare has been more lethal. You can see him there. You know he's at home. There's no away message, the screen name isn't dim. He's there, happily chatting the hours away with EVERYONE else but YOU!! And the worst part is, you know he sees your screen name too, he's just choosing not to run his mouse over your name and double click. It's as if he wants you to know that he's purposely ignoring you. If that wasn't enough AOL likes to twist the knife even more with those damn IM sounds. Everytime that door slams shut you gotta check the Buddy List to make sure that man did not just log off without saying nathan for the past 2 hours. Now you could end your torture by logging off, but that's not gonna happen. Cause what if he all of sudden wanted to send you an IM but you weren't logged on. We can't have that now, can we. Another option is to just block him so you don't see him online, but the problem with that is he can't see you online either, and he must be able to see you are online and available just in case. So you decide the best way to end the torture is to just take him off your buddy list so you don't have to see him there. However, without fail, within 72 hours of you removing his name from your list you get the notification from AOL that sHiTHead2005 is sending you an Instant Message. And without fail we accept. AIM is a crafty son-of-a-bitch, because the second you click Accept, sHiTHead2005 goes right back on your buddy list and the cycle begins all over again.
It's sad that our government is much more concerned about terrorists and nuclear and biological weapons. The real terrorists are right here at home and they use their WMD at leisure. They fire away from college computer labs, public libraries, home offices, EVERYWHERE. But have Bush, the Cabinet, or Congress called for any widespread campaign to snuff them out? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! Probably cause they're using AIM themselves. Freakin terrorist bastards.

Obsession

Spoiled, rich bottle blondes who all look alike, with a combined IQ of about 12, saying like at least eleventy times in the same sentence, flipping their hair, and traipsing around Daddy's house for approximately 30 minutes every Tuesday night at 10. I'm so hooked. La la la Laguna!!! I LOVE Laguna Beach. I love watching a bunch of rich white high school kids that live on the other side of the country. These teens are so vapid they make Paris Hilton look like Socrates. I can't get enough of the drama that is Laguna Beach. Because I have no life out here in Grand Rapids, MI, I just live vicariously through my Laguna friends. I think I've broken half the Commandents watching this show. Thou shalt not covet (or something like that). Well let me tell you, I'm coveting LC's house like a mugghhh!! I'm coveting her wardrobe and her car too. It's not right that someone who can't even vote gets to wear clothes I can't even afford. Thou shalt not lust (is that one of them?). Well I'm lusting after that fine piece of white meat Stephen. Don't tell anyone I said this, but those pouty lips and that bird chest make me just a wee bit moist. Kristin and LC aren't the only ones that wanna tap that. Oh and before you say anything, that boy is 18 so that makes molesting him perfectly legal. Speaking of Kristin and LC, I just don't get why Stephen waffles between the two of them. Sure, Kristin is a "hot" party girl with big boobs and skirts shorter than the time it takes J Lo to get married and divorced, but LC would drink Stephen's bathwater. That's gotta count for something, right? LC has made staring longinly at a boy who doesn't want her into an artform. Let's applaud that woman! And Kristin...as much as I want to hate on her, I can't. Hell, I want to be her. That bitch has her own theme song ("we've got more bounce in California than all of ya'll combined...). How tight is that? I want my own theme song that'll play everywhere I go! She dumped Stephen cause she started dating someone else while they were still together, and dude still wants her. That chick must got gold b/w her legs cause that dude's whipped. Not to mention that this girl is dumber than rocks and still managed to make it to her senior year of high school. I'm in awe of her really.
Season 2 just started and I'm still getting used to the new cast members. Here's what I know so far. Casey's got more extensions than AT&T, but she lives in a phat ass crib. Jessica's nose is wide open over her boyfriend Jason who's trying to bang Alex M.'s back out. There are other folks who I can't remember right now, but I'll be sure to get to know them too. Stay tuned...

What a Waste

I'm a waste. A complete and total useless waste and there's really nothing I can do about it. You see, I'm 5'11". That's it, there's nothing more to me. I'm just 5'11" of wasted space. I've lost count of the number of times this conversation occurs. I meet a new person and they say, "Wow, you're so tall." Then I smile and nod cause I really can't say thank you. It's a statement of fact, not a compliment. Then New Person says, "So do you play basketball?" I say, "Nope." New Person says, "Do you play volleyball?" I say, "Nope." New Person says, "Do you run track?" I say, "Nope." With each negative response I can see the chances of any decent conversation slipping away. Still grasping for any hope to converse, New Person looks at me with expectant eyes and says, "Well have you ever modeled?" I just shake my head and once again say, "Nope. I'm just tall." And with that bubble bursting "nope," I've dashed any chances of holding a meaningful conversation. Disappointment washes over their face, followed by a fleeting then-what-the-hell-are-you-good-for look. Then New Person finally gives me a nervous, but polite smile and says, "Well it was really nice meeting you." Another one bites the dust.
It's not as though I meant to waste my height. I tried playing basketball in high school, but the only position I ever got to play was right or left bench (if I was really lucky the coach might move me to the middle of the bench.) Volleyball never agreed with me. I kept running into that damn net every time we played in gym class. The highlight of my track and field career was trying to keep my spankies up while running the 200 yard dash. As for modeling, I have yet to be discovered by a famous photographer while walking the streets of New York City. I fear at the age of 25 that window of opportunity is closing rather quickly. So what's left? It seems the only thing my height has been good for is giving short men a chest to lay their heads on while slow dancing. It pains me to know that somewhere out there is some beautiful girl who at 5'6" and 98 lbs dreams of being the world's next supermodel. Alas, she is about 4 inches too short to make that dream a reality. Oh, how I wish I could give her 4 of mine, because obviously I'm not using them for anything important. What a waste.

Yep, You Really Are That Stupid

About a year ago I decided that I was no longer going to chemically relax my hair. I missed my fro and wanted it back. So I grew my hair out, cut off the relaxed ends and "went natural." In the 7 months that I've been completely perm free I've learned a lot. I've figured out how to flat twist, braid, style, and moisturize my hair. But I think the biggest eye opener in all this time as been that Black people say the dumbest shit!!
Scenario #1
I was at a barbeque kicking it with friends. We were all chatting it up and laughing when one girl looks at me and says, "I really like your hair. How'd you get it like that?" Now, I expect white folks to ask me stupid questions about my hair (Note to Suzie: If my hair is 12 inches longer today than it was yesterday I didn't put miracle grow on my head; they're called extensions!!). However my mind absolutely wobbles when a black person looks at my fro and has the audacity to say this dumb ass shit. Excuse me, but WTF!!! Bonkweetah, I sincerely hope that you are not so delusional that you believe that blonde silky straight Yaki #5 that you're sporting actually grew from your scalp. Dumb ass. Seriously people, has it been that long since you've seen your natural hair texture that you forgot that you too are Negro and you too grow napps.* FYI: I sat on my black ass and breathed and that's how I got my hair like this.
Scenario #2:
So I'm on a date with a guy I met in a Walgreens parking lot (look, times are hard). As we're driving to the movies, he looks over at me and out pours this nonsense, "You're really afrocentric aren't you?" Okay so where the hell did that come from? Ahh yes, that's it: my freakin hair. Note to Stupid: It's a hairstyle! That's it. Nothing more, nothing less. It's not that I have a problem identifying as afrocentric, because if I think about it, I am. However, it has absolutely NOTHING to do with my hair. I was just as afrocentric when I was sitting in my stylist's chair with my scalp on fire making sure every last kink got straight. Why does my afro have to automatically mean that I rock a koofi and sport the red, black and green Africa medallion? I bet he doesn't walk up to Becky wearing her natural straight blonde hair and ask her if she's down with the White Power movement. So for the record before I get asked another idiotic question I'm just gonna let ya know. No, I am not a vegan. No, I'm not "natural everywhere" (that's nasty). No, I do NOT burn incense. No, I do not listen to Jill Scott, Floetry, or any other neo soul artist. No, I do not meditate. No, I am not a Planeteer. No, I am not bohemian. No, I do not feel at one with the universe. Any other stupid questions?
Scenario #3
If you're going to insult me, please say something about me that I would actually be embarassed or offended by, otherwise you just look like an idiot. I'm chillin with a group of my sorors and some bruhs after my chapter's ball. One of the bruhs digs his hands in my fro and says, "Dag girl, you need a perm, yo hair is NAPPY." Oh really?!! No shit, Sherlock. But thanks for letting me know cause obviously I wasn't aware. Do you seriously think you're gonna play me by telling me my hair is nappy? Am I supposed to be insulted by that? Newsflash: I want it this way. Calling someone nappy headed like it's a bad thing only says one thing about you: Your shackles are showing. And oh yeah Shit For Brains, you ain't fooling nobody with that Scurl you got dripping all over your forehead.
Can someone please tell me what the hell is the big deal about a black woman wearing her hair the way it naturally grows out her head? Why must anything about my lifestyle, interests, spirituality, or anything be inferred just because of a fro? You don't see me walking up to chicks with perms or weaves saying, "You must have a lot of self-hate going on." Why? Cause I don't make those assumptions just cause of a freakin hairstyle. Really people, it's just NOT THAT DEEP!

*Unless of course you've got some White, Injun, or Meskin in your blood and got that "good hurr"

Rules of Disengagement

Let me start by saying that this post is in no way shape or form about being engaged to be married. I am not engaged, have never been engaged, and am so far from being engaged I don't even see it on the horizon. Now that the disclaimer is out of the way, let's get to what this post is about: breaking up. Oh, but I'm not talking about ending a 4 year relationship that you've been in 2 and a half years too long. I'm talking about breaking up with someone you were never technically with in the first place. Aaahhh yes, the gray area. It's not officially a relationship, but you're definitely involved with each other. Anyone who has ever dated has been in this gray area. Hell, if you're like me, you just might live in it. It goes a little something like this. Boy meets girl. Boy likes girl. Boy takes girl out. Boy calls girl every night and they talk for hours. Boy kisses girl. Girl's heart flutters. Boy tells girl he really likes her. Girl starts to envision future with boy. Boy stops calling. Girl thinks "WTF!!"
The only question that comes to mind is WHY? Why stop calling? Why tell her you like her? Why even start anything in the first place if this is how it's going to end? Why, why, why, why, why? Why can't you just say, "I don't think I want to be in this anymore?" If you ask most men, they'll tell you they would rather have a rectal exam than tell a woman, "I'm just not feeling you anymore...(even though my tongue was in your ear 2 days ago)." What are you so afraid of? That we're going to beg you to stay with us? Nope, go ahead and go. That we're going to stalk you until you change your mind?* Too much pride for that. That we're going to cry? Well, okay we might do that. But that too shall pass. Guess what. You aren't the first guy that hasn't worked out, and as sad as it is to think this, you more than likely won't be the last. We've gotten over it before, and YES, we will get over you. Yeah, we liked you. Yeah we wanted a future with you. But you're not so special that you won't become a distant memory just like whatshisname did. Get over yourself!!
I recognize that not every single gray area thing will develop into a black and white relationship. That's perfectly fine. But at the very least give it a proper burial when the thing dies. Yes, I know the break up conversation can be a bit awkward. But isn't it even more awkward to run into someone you just cut off without a word. What are you gonna say? "Hey, I'm alive, I've just been a prick and not called you in 3 months." C'mon guys, grow a pair and just have the "talk." It's best to do it in person, however if that's not feasible call her. If you get her voicemail, call back! Don't send an email or leave a post-it note on the fridge. Give her the dignity of a conversation. Say the words to her and give her the opportunity to ask a question or two. At least give her that respect. If she's good enough to take out, call, hold, and fondle, then she's good enough to be broken up with properly. After that you never have to come over, call, email, or even think about her again. You've done your part and given her closure. She's no longer left wondering why and what she did wrong and hoping you'll eventually call. FYI: Sometimes it's the way we disentangle that means more than the way we got entangled in the first place.

*If the woman you date would do any of the above, I suggest you stop hooking up with psycho bitches from hell. That's your fault.

What the Hell Are You Doing?

We've all done it. It's just a part of life. Each and everyone of us has looked at a friend whose life is a veritable train wreck and asked, "What the hell are you doing?" What's disturbing is when the friend you're talking to is the person that looks back at you everytime you pass a mirror. I had to ask myself this question about a month ago as I sat on my ex not quite boyfriend's couch watching game 7 of the NBA finals with him and his new girlfriend. Exactly how in the world did I get there? Ahh, let me see, that's it. I wanted to hang out. I wanted to hang out with him, specifically. Because, supposedly, we were past all the bullshit that is us. His bitch moves, my theatrics, him playing stupid, me being mad, any and all feelings, and all the lust stuff. Gone. Water under the bridge. I can hang out with him without supervision without falling right back into that blackhole and getting caught up all over again. I'm over it, he's been over it, we're adults, and we even developed something resembling a friendship. So with this rationale in mind, I call him and ask him what's good for Game 7. He says he's watching it at home and says I'm more than welcome to watch it there as well. So far, it sounds all good to me. Then it happens. He tells me he's seeing somebody. Mmmmmkay. Wasn't quite expecting that, but hey that's cool. I don't want him and he's a serial monogamist so he wasn't going to be single forever. He proceeds to tell me that she's coming over as well to watch the game and he just wanted to let me know so it wouldn't be awkward. At this point, I could've just said, "hey that's cool, I'll watch the game with other folks." But alas, these weren't the words that came out of my mouth. For the life of me I don't know why, but I said, "not awkward at all. So it's cool if I come over?" Stupid, stupid, stupid Liz. Of course it's cool. What guy wouldn't want the girl that used to do that thing with her tongue AND the girl that's currently doing that thing with her tongue on his couch at the same time?
Game day arrives and the ex calls just to make sure I'm still coming over. Do I back out? No, I bring over a bucket of chicken and beverages to share. When I get there, it's just me and him. Sitting there on the couch waiting for the tip off. He's tugging on my fro, I'm calling him an idiot. Just like old times, except all of our clothes are on. You know it's so cool, I'm thinking old girl might not even show up. Oh, but hold that thought, Liz. There's a knock on the door and there she is with her BFF right behind her. Now this is cool. She seems like a perfectly nice woman, a little big in the hips and thighs, but perfectly nice nonetheless. Her sidekick sits down on the adjacent couch and we exchange the usual pleasantries and watch as the Pistons and Spurs (boo) fight to the death. Ben Wallace scores, we both cheer! Woohoo!! Good times. Meanwhile Ms. Hippy and The Idiot That Made Me Cry are groping each other in the kitchen, but it's not like I was paying any attention to them or anything, cause remember I don't care who he sees. I don't want him. Around halftime the black version of "The Tom and Katie Show" decide to grace us with their presence. So she sits on the big couch next to me, and he sits next to her. Nope, this isn't awkward at all. She drapes her legs over his lap. I stare intently at the Spurs cheerleaders. He pulls her close. I'm wrapped up in a UPS commercial. This is fun!!! Then they kiss. Not a deep long passionate kiss, but one of those cute affectionate kisses that are just a smidge more than a peck. That's when it dawns on me. WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING?!!! Why am I sitting here on the same couch with the predator who ground my heart into mulch and his latest victim? Was I THAT desperate to prove that I am SO over him? Couldn't I be over him from my couch? Am I even over him, really? Who does this? But of course, A GLUTTON FOR PUNISHMENT!!

And You Say He's Just A Friend

Ever noticed how some topics of conversation seem to come up no matter where you are or what you're doing? Lately for me, that topic has been male/female friendships and whether they are truly possible. Now before I get into the varying opinions that I've heard and my opinion on the issue I want to define what I mean by friends. I'm talking about a man and a woman being purely and honestly just friends. In the classic 1989 movie "When Harry Met Sally" Harry and Sally engaged in a spirited debate over this very topic. Harry concluded that at some point in time one or both of them - if even for a nanosecond- will have the thought of sex with the other in their mind and thus negate the "true" friendship, unlike 2 friends of the same gender.
It is under the "Harry Met Sally" parameters that I got to thinking about male/female friendships. For the most part, every guy I ask about it, says that men and women can't just be friends. They contend that if given the opportunity more than likely the man would "hit" if he could. On the other hand, many women I ask this question to say of course men and women can just be friends. "I have several guy friends and there's absolutely nothing going on there," is what these women will go on to say. In hearing these two very disparate points of view I have come to the conclusion that most men want to bang their unsuspecting female friends.
But I think that there is a happy medium somewhere in the middle, right? Let's be really honest. Most men and women (if both parties are relatively attractive) who haven't been friends since childhood are probably friends because the dating thing fell through. I say this because it’s not common for adult men and women to meet each other in a setting that’s conducive to an assumption of friendship right off the bat. If a man asks for a woman’s phone number, email address, or whatever, no matter what excuse he’s giving for wanting the information (networking, new in town, friends in common, blah blah blah), he’s looking at her as a possible dating option. Just like most women won’t really give their contact information to a man just because he seems like a cool new friend to have. Deep down, we’re thinking he might have potential. Chris Rock said it best. “I hate a bitch that says let’s be friends. I wanna be the friend that’s fucking you in the ass, bitch. That’s the friend I want to be.” If we are really honest with ourselves, that’s how most male/female friendships start. So this situation already fails the “true” friendship test. The initial association was based on the possibility of dating, it just didn’t work out.
Now let’s say that by chance you have a friend of the opposite sex that you met in elementary school, junior high, high school, or college. This person has been your friend forever and there has never even been a wayward glance in the other’s direction. In these cases it is very probable that one or both parties have heard comments like these more than a little bit. “Why don’t you just get together with __________ (fill in name of friend of opposite sex.) Or, “Are you sure there’s nothing going on between the two of you?” And of course my personal favorite, “You two would make such a cute couple.” After hearing these comments about fitty-leven times someone is going to start to think, “hmmm, well maybe they see something I don’t.” The thought of getting physical or starting a relationship will enter into thoughts just by the power of suggestion. Once this happens, the line has been crossed over and “true” friendship is null and void once again.
In spite of all of this, I still do believe that in rare instances men and women who are heterosexual and perfectly attractive people can truly just be friends, without either party having ever thought of sex or a relationship. I know it can exist because I have one “true” male friend. Unlike all of my other male friends who I have either dated, messed around with, schemed on, deflected advances from, or just know deep down inside would take the draws if offered, KPB and I have maintained a true friendship for almost 7 years now. KPB is a funny, successful, charismatic, stylish, educated, adorable, great guy that I wouldn’t touch or date if my life depended on it. That would be like dating my brother. I know he feels the exact same way about me because I sincerely believe that if he had had any choice in the matter, he really wouldn’t have even been my friend. It all goes back to my freshman year of college. I was the weird girl who needed to get her hair done, put on some decent clothes, and stop carrying around her old raggedy teddy bear (who I still cling to). KPB was basically a social climbing classmate who sincerely believed (and still does) that image is everything. Needless to say I was bad for his image. However, we had one thing in common....a certain football player who he hung out with all the time and who I obsessed over all the time. Basically Jock Boy was the tie that bound us. If KPB was gonna be friends with him, then I was part of the package, like it or not. After a while we sort of grew on each other. I’d start coming around his room even if Mr. Football wasn’t there. I’d sit there for hours as he tried to do homework and talk to him and his roommate about everything and nothing. Ignoring me wasn’t gonna get rid of me, so eventually the only option left was to entertain me. He found me to be embarrassing, goofy, and completely unladylike, yet loveable in my own unique way. He’d never want me for a girlfriend or even to mess with. I wasn’t high profile enough. And I never even thought about him as a potential anything cause I only had eyes for the Jock, who didn’t even know it. We’ve been friends ever since. We’ve both grown and matured and through it all I’m still not his type and he’s so not mine.
It’s under these rare circumstances that you can find something truly rewarding. Truly being friends with someone of the opposite sex has a quality that same sex friendships just don’t have. You get a different perspective on relationship issues. You have someone who can pretend to be your significant other when sketchy people are harassing you in the club. You have someone who can tell you what your ex really meant when they said, “I need space,” even though you should already know. So I think it can happen. Men and women can have “true’ friendship. When you find one of these friendships, hold on to it, cause they are one in a million.

Crash

I went to the movies last night. Originally I wanted to see The Wedding Crashers, since it had just come out this weekend, but changed my mind and decided to see Crash. If you haven't seen this movie yet, run, don't walk to your nearest cineplex and go see this! It's such a great movie. I swear this movie says everything you've always thought but were just too afraid to say. It exposed so many stereotypes and the hard truths behind them. The cast is amazing and I swear you will be on the edge of your seat for most of the film. If this movie and its cast don't win Oscars next year, the system is rigged. Matt Dillon was infuriating yet heartbreaking as a racist cop who cares for his sick father. Terrence Howard was riveting in his role as an Uncle Tom TV producer, complete with conked hair and everything. Note to Terrence: cut that perm out your head immediately!! Even Sandra Bullock was great as the bitchy wife of District Attorney Brendan Fraser. The only problem I had with this movie was that I had to pee within the first 15 minutes and I couldn't get up to go to the bathroom cause I was afraid I would miss something. You don't know how hard it is to "hold it" for an hour and 35 minutes. NOT fun!

Random Thoughts

Today is one of those days. It feels like there's something I should be doing. What that something is, I don't know. Maybe it would help if I took a shower and got dressed. At least that way I'd be ready to do whatever it is I figure out I should be doing, whenever it is I figure that something out. Senseless rambling. That's what I'm doing right now. In high school I would call it a brain dump. My brain dumps were actually pretty darn good pieces of writing. Somewhere in the middle of all the B.S. something intelligent would actually come out.
So I'm sitting here trying to put together an audition tape. I want to be a VJ. And I'm tired of talking about it, so I figure I should just go ahead and do it. Or at least try to do it. The problem is they want me to tell them about me. So I start to think, what is me? What am I about? And I realize I have absolutely no clue. Well let me not say I have no clue. I know exactly who and what I am and what I'm about. But actually conveying that in some meaningful way is a lot easier said than done.
I'm feeling really stinky right now. I need a shower. Until next time. Peace