Merry Christmas

I have been pretty pensive lately.

I don't have any internet at the new house, but yes, the move did go fine, thank you... If you were wondering at all, that is. I'm at my mother's right now. The bodybuilder is in Virginia. He's supposed to come back tomorrow morning while I'm at work (I work at the mall now, weehee, no more bagel shop for me...) but I doubt it. After all, both of our states is swathed in snow at the moment. I hear the roads are perilous. It is the first white Christmas Winston-Salem has had in 41 years. That's really reflective of my life for awhile now. Things have happened to me that I haven't and probably won't understand for awhile (rare strange perilous things, like snow), because I didn't know such things existed. Like how people can be so snarky and mean; I won my case in court, in which my former landlord said he just wanted to ensure I was leaving by using court as a threat. He says he takes EVERY tenant whose lease he terminates to court... Expensive, I think. The office manager promised me my deposit back, but Wednesday I recieved a letter saying I wasn't getting it back, and I owe them over $370 for "damages" to the apartment--damages they refuse to let my deposit take care of. Not only are they refusing to give back my deposit, but they have the gall to demand more money. How interesting. I barely have it in me to fight against them anymore, because if I refuse to pay them then they will get creditors after me. At my age I really can't afford to sully my delicate (and few) lines of credit that I have. ...How annoying.

It's Christmas and despite the snow and my fabulous presents, it passed with a whimper. I consider it over, which makes me bummed. But we celebrated it yesterday because Mom worked today, and I ate tons of ham just now. And banana split ice cream. I worked an overnight shift yesterday, then opened presents right after. I don't think I've fully recovered; right now I am an odd mix of content and exhausted. I will be attending Forsyth Tech on January 10th. Finally getting a real start on the future that I want more than anything. I feel like I'm wasting time, like I'm old, like I am going to die young and my age is just a ticking time bomb, set to merely implode within me and render me to ash, and dust. It's a strange feeling. I turn 20 next Sunday, eight days I suppose, and I watch the date approach with bitterness. I'd like to get roaring drunk, after eating a wonderful meal, and hopefully unwrapping the present that I've asked for the past two birthdays that no one will get me---a cream colored, silky, sexy kimono robe. Short (mid thigh, over my ass definitely) with big sleeves. Please? Why won't anyone get me one? It's $20 at Target. I don't get it.

I've been training at the gym tons. I got a particularly gross cold a few days ago so I've turned my back on it for about a week (feeling too drained and plehgmy), but most weeks I go for an hour and a half on five or six days out of the week. Splendid really. I'm trying to get in wonderful shape so that I can train MMA at a 24/7 gym near my house. I'm training at another gym right now to turn into this hardbody I envision myself as in the future, so that when I do go for my MMA classes, no one there will know how awkward and silly looking I was when I started toying with the idea.

The future does look nice for me, I must say. I just want to sleep. I wish this whole business with my (former) landlord would just fizzle away, so that I can forget I ever lived in stupid Greenville, and it can all be a distant memory. That'd just make everything a little sweeter...

Weekly Things I Love

I'm gonna start doing this every week, coz there's so many things in the world that I love :) Love needs to be shared, don't you think? ....I love Kate Moss. She's gorgeous. She gives me hope, because she's so unconventionally pretty, and yet so successful. Drug addiction and her quotes encouraging anorexia aside. Hey, I never said she was a role model. Just that I adore her. Look at those hipbones. Geesh.

* * * * * * *

Things I Really Enjoyed This Week...

My wonderful boyfriend, he's gotten so amazing. He leaves me adorable messages on my cell phone everyday, and tells me how much he loves me and misses me and "can't get enough" of me. I adore him even more than I ever thought possible. --- All the good news I got today! --- How soft my doggie, Nova, is the day after I bathe her. --- The new steak chili at work. And the gingerbread man cookies. So delicious and so against my nutrition plan. --- Rediscovering the deliciousness of baked classic Lay's. --- Mug upon mug of hot green tea. --- New episodes of Spongebob. --- Wearing shit I never usually wear because all of my favorite stuff I wear over and over is packed in boxes already, ready to be moved. --- Having tons and tons of nookie. --- Having tons of hope that things are going to work out. --- Starting the "no-poo" routine, as detailed by this article. --- Organic apple juice in a itsy bitsy carton. --- The feeling I get when I was really close to E on my car's gas tank, then pulling away from the gas station with my mind at ease because it's full! --- Three words; mint hot chocolate. No whipped cream please. --- "God's Gonna Cut You Down" by Johnny Cash.

What a Tangled Web We Weave,

And You Work So Hard to Deceive Me.

I have been lost in a limbo. I have found myself laying on my mattress, my limbs curled up inside each other, feeling like a bird kicked from a nest... There was warmth and comfort, then nothing but air when I am hurled towards the ground with my wings spindly and furled against me, before I crash to the ground spattered like a thrown egg. I have that feeling on the mattress, and I am crying, because it is so easy for you to hurt me, to desert me... You are a different kind of sell out. You'd sell your soul, your heart, your girlfriend, just to make your point drive home. Just to have the last word. And then when I have gathered myself up again, when I have stitched the wounds on my wings closed all on my own, you are ready to shower your kisses and your love upon me. I am only relieved, and in my fucked up mind I am happy because it's like you're you again... Only, I don't know who you are.

Who are you? Are you the person that holds me close? When we sleep, are you the person that entwines your legs with mine? The man that whispers in my ear and clasps me ever so tightly as you move inside me? Or are you something else... The monster with the cold eyes, the hole for a heart, sucking me in but giving nothing, the man that has always been so selfish... I don't know who you are. I am scared to look within you and see the truth, that you are both, and that the person you really are is something else entirely; everything else is fake, a front, a defense mechanism that prevents anyone from getting too close. Even me.

I wonder why you hold me two arms length's away and still find it so easy and appealing to hurt me, why I can be broken and crying during an argument, even after I haven't cried in so long, and you can still snub me so easily, eager to have the last word. It disgusts me to cry in front of you, to be so vulnerable when you are so cold, and the tears choke me and hurt like there's glass in my throat, in my lungs. I have tried to take care of you, tried to make you see in yourself what I see, make you see that when we are together and happy, we are strong and can do anything... That I have trusted you to be the two legs that I stand on, to be the other heart that mine has been searching for, and yet you take a leg from me so easily, relishing it when I trip up so you can say something smart and then rub it in my face. You say I try to mold you, and I guess it is what it is, I just wanted you to reach your potential. I just wanted you to be better. I just wanted you to see the pedestal that I put you on and know that you are capable of flying far above it, if only you'd let yourself. I guess I was wrong for believing in you, and it's always wrong to believe in someone, if they can't believe in me, or in themselves.

I find that I am empty; water rushes through me, and there is nothing in my bloodless veins but the dripping of the water, and I am hollow, with nothing and no one to fill me. Not even myself.

On the Waves of Change...

So today after particularly annoying day at work (due to being insulted by managers, obnoxious customers, and my register drawer being ten dollars short), I came home to a nasty piece of news... My apartment's lease was being terminated (a fancier term meaning hey, you're being evicted, only nicely so it won't affect your credit). Don't even let me remind all of you that I have only lived in this apartment since August. Now, I've written a post before about my shitty neighbors, and they were even shittier than I thought, as is my landlord, a man named Mike. Ever since we moved in, we have been blamed for things; one of our dogs was marking the bushes outside, because we were never told not to, and we were immediately held responsible for the dying bushes, even though they were dying before we moved in. Our dogs sometimes howl when we are gone, as do three other dogs in the complex, but we again are blamed solely for it--most likely because we are the only ones that didn't complain. There are roaches in our apartment and those close to us, and even though it says that any pests are the landlord's responsibility, we are being held accountable for the entire roach problem in the building, and that among the other things is reason enough for our lease to be terminated today, literally with no notice. I had never known that was in the equation. Mike also cited complaints that we have been having "domestic disputes." When Justin and I argue, we give each other the silent treatment, although I can't remember the last time we've had a real argument (let alone a loud one), and that's being completely honest with myself. Maybe we've been having sex too loudly, and our neighbors are jealous because they're not getting any. I wouldn't put it past them, because of how petty they are. However, on one side the guys can sit outside and smoke shitty weed all night so the whole complex reeks of it, and on the other side that bitch can party and blast music til 2 in the morning and come home drunk and yelling, leaving the porch light on all night every night so moths, spiders, and flies take up both our front doors as their new domain. It's so silly, because not once did I complain about them, despite the thin walls (I can hear our neighbors talking on the phone, using the toilet, slamming cabinets) but the entire time we've lived here, they've done nothing but. It's just one more to add to the plethora of reasons that I hate Greenville... I hate the college kids, the traffic, and the cramped roads. I hate the racist, tough attitude of the locals, and how there's nothing to do but get high and drunk. There's no museums, no pretty boutiques, no hip restaurants. Just Mickey D's for miles and an overcrowded Wal-Mart. I despise the strange weather; either too hot one day then freezing the next, but mostly rain. I even hate the name; both Greenville, and that stupid slang name, G-Vegas. I will not be unhappy to leave, especially since I was going to move to Winston Salem anyway next summer, although the timing couldn't be more terrible, which is the thing that really sucks. Maybe this is supposed to happen. I don't entertain myself with the notion that everything happens for a reason, but I can hope that the big things do, and maybe this will all turn out for the best. I'm sure everything will pan out...

For obvious reasons, my address is blacked out, but here's my "lease termination" notification letter for a bit of a fucked up laugh.... ;) 

How to Get A Significant Other

I am a champ at dating, and you know why? You're probably scoffing at the fact that I just said that, because I have been with the same guy for four years, but our relationship hasn't always been rock solid, and I've managed  to let several other guys fall in love with me, though really on accident, just for being myself, and unconsciously using the tips I'm about to give you, because really, these tips are just part of who I am as a person... And I'm really sorry that they work kinda, coz they've hurt a few people in the long run, mostly because even when another guy has fallen for me, there's only been one for me. Even when that one was SO wrong, he was and still is absolutely it. So then I thought, how can I make all this worthwhile? How can all that trouble for all those fellows come to fruition for the people that know me? And this post was born. (Not only that, I have a few tricks up my sleeve that I used when I was single and flirty that normally worked, but hey, who can swear by them, because there's nothing out there that will work on every single person in the universe. Impossible.)

I am a really honest person, ha, isn't that funny? I am really open with everyone I meet, mostly because I'm scared that if I hide something I'll let it slip later and look dumb. Whatever the reason, I try to just be honest from the get go. Honesty is the best policy. Stupid cliches aside... No, really. Cliches are such for a reason, and they all have a grain of truth to them. Maybe even more than a grain. When I thought a guy was good looking, I would tell him so; and of course, when I was single, because this is about how to get a new boyfriend, not how to cheat on the fabulous guy you have now. So don't try to trip me up on technicalities! HA! This is for guys or lesbians or whatever, I don't care, we all deserve someone to love and cuddle and have sex with... Please be honest about your intentions. If you're in love with someone else, and it's clear your friend is wanting more than what you're willing to provide, say so, and pray to God that their infatuation for you doesn't grow, as it did in a situation or two of mine... EXAMPLE; you just met a guy, and you think he's cute so you want to hang out with him. Don't play games. Don't try to get him to make the first move. Tell him you think he's gorgeous and ask him when you're gonna hang out together, period. He will think you're refreshing. And in a way, it is still kinda playing games because it's definitely a tactic, but he will appreciate that he didn't have to do all the work. Plus, lots of guys are shy. And it's not hard to be easygoing about it; just drop a compliment, and then say, "So when are we hanging out?" like you know he already wants to... because don't you know he wants to?

Speaking of shyness.... Being shy sucks. I used to be shy, like to the point of being crippled by it, which actually was a turn on for guys because they liked my vulnerability and innocence and shit. Turns out, I wasn't innocent or vulnerable. Just scared shitless. It's not hard to push shyness out of your system. It takes a lot of awkwardness, and maybe even rejection and plenty of stupid moments where you look like a stuttering, bumbling idiot, but once it's gone you won't miss any more opportunities because of your shyness. I ruined my entire high school "career" because I was shy, and so people wrote me off as unapproachable and stuck up, which wasn't it at all. Once I realized that this part of my personality was taking away some valuable elements from my life, I started putting myself out there. I smiled at strangers. (Baby steps, guys. Baby steps.) I took a job that forced me to speak with over 100 strangers daily and convince them to sell things for the company I worked for. Not only did I have to speak to these strangers, I had to be charming and endearing, and later I had to meet them in person when they came for their job interviews and be gracious about it. Oh dear, what practice. That job killed my shyness in a week or two. You can do it by taking speech classes, or by making as many new friends as you can. You wouldn't believe how many people passed on you because they were intimidated by you... Trust me, they probably told you later. I know they told me.

Be open with your sexuality. No, I mean this. I am a female. I have soft skin and I like to smell pretty and I wear heels sometimes. I adore showing the beginning cleft of my cleavage and I know my lashes are long. If you're a man... guess what, the smell of your sweat turns us (women) on, and I like your hairy knuckles and veiny hands and broad backs. If you're lesbian and you are more masculine, flaunt that shit, because somewhere your next catch is eying you like "Whoooooa, Momma." If you're a feminine homosexual male, wear your scarves and coif your hair perfect and oil your skin because first of all, you're hot, and second of all, I want you to be my best friend. :) Your sexuality can be however you want it to be, and you have to be comfortable with that side of you to be comfortable in your own skin. It's part of the body peace, it's like being comfortable with freckles or cellulite or red hair. If you're not comfortable with the procreating, sexy part of you, how can you expect someone else to be? I'm not saying, hey, go fuck everything and anything that crosses you, you crazy slut, you. I am saying... you are what you are, and someone thinks you're sexy, so go for it. If you think you're sexy, and I stress again, SEXY not SLUTTY, then someone else will too; and sex is a vital part of every healthy relationship.

Lastly (kinda), confidence doesn't mean not nervous, it means knowing what you want and going for it, while being scared out of your pants. At least in most cases. Like, I respect every guy that comes up to me genuinely, not the guys that say "Hey baby, lemme stick my cock in you!" but the guys that summon up their courage and ask me out for real, because that shit is hard. Lots of attractive people are taken (yep, sad truth) so when you ask out somebody on the fly, and you're about to puke and everything, the fact that you did it is so respectable, even if you get rejected. I'm sure you're wondering, Pft, respectable? Who gives a fuck? I just got rejected! Rejections are valuable, because a lot of the time, it's not you, it's that the other person is blind or prejudiced or having a bad day or taken, and it happens. But if you're sitting there thinking, "God, that person is too gorgeous, I can't ask them out, they'll say no" then you'll miss out on the person that says yes to you, every time you don't take the plunge. Plus, it's great practice on killing that shyness.

I said "lastly (kinda)" because I have oodles of dating advice, to be completely honest, and I'm tired of typing and I'm sure by now you're tired of reading. Actually, I'm sure that you've probably been skimming this entire thing anyway, and I appreciate the fact you're on this page at all... But I'm gonna stop here, because I put the key facts out there, and if I get personal requests for more, I can satisfy those however, depending on the volume of requests.

;)

Why Have My Posts Been So Dumb Lately?

Not that I get a lot of traffic on this shit anyway but still, it's important to me and maybe a few other people and I keep fucking it up. Gah.

Normally, I don't have anything important to say and then I'll either get to thinking really hard or I'll get something stuck in my craw and I'll have tons to write about. I've been thinking lately but nothing has been interesting or enlightening. All articles I've ever read about how to start up a decent, somewhat popular blog advise you to pick some sort of topic and stick to it on your entire blog; something I find impossible. There are tons out there; in fact, all the blogs I follow, except one, revolve around fashion and bettering yourself but I don't think I can do that. I have my own fashion, of course, but I don't feel like posting about it because most of my days are spent in workout gear (shitty stuff too, nothing sexy or functional at ALL) and Panera stuff, followed by ripped jeans and trapeze tops. And maybe earrings, to add variation. I love fashion and have tons of clothes, but I stick to a few essentials because the little time I have in passing weeks to wear what I want, of course I want to wear my favorite things. I wish I could find a homeless girl or two to give some of my clothes to.... And I don't write extensively about bettering yourself because I feel I am an intensely silly, flawed person, and that life isn't really all about being all you can be to the point of the most complete perfection, it's about being yourself and living your life to its full extent, even if that means embracing all your flaws. That isn't to say I don't like bettering myself, or that other people shouldn't... Just that I won't write about that.

Which leads me to something vital; what IS my blog about? Silly tidbits that even I don't care about? My life? Advice? Various recollections? Occasional fashion/makeup tips? Everything sounds kind of stupid, plus I have posts that fall into all those categories. I am going to be posting again today, because my mind is on fire with things to write about, and I'll probably schedule these posts to be up later in the week (because that's how cool Blogspot.com is) but don't come looking on my site for something specific because I can guarantee that it won't be here... Unless of course, it is asked for, which is what my next post will be focused on ;) Cheers.

I'm a Work in Progress.

I've finally figured out a wonderful way to successfully keep the demons of my insecurities at bay. Because of that, you know that I couldn't keep it quiet. I had to share the fruits of my nearly decade long struggle with you. 

I guess I should tell you WHY I've always been so insecure... For every person that has called me beautiful, there are two more people telling me different. Negative things are so much easier to believe; ever noticed that? When complimented, I protest and deny. When put down, I hang my head and am struck silent by my acceptance, because it's probably something I've already thought before anyway. Put downs are so easy to swallow; they melt like sugar in the mouth. My mother has always told me that people put me down because they are jealous; they disdain me and isolate me because they wish to be like me, and so separate themselves from me because they can't be like me. I can't say I'll ever believe that. I'm not a jealous person; in the rare times I've felt envy, it was an emotion hard to name because each time it's new, a hard rock in my chest that takes me awhile to identify. 

There are things that make me beautiful. Although as of late, I have avoided makeup, even though I've always fancied myself a sort of cosmetic novice and have always expressed myself through the paints on my face; still, a brush of bronzer (I miss you, o summer tan) and a touch of mascara prepares my face for the judgement people will pass on me. That bronzer and mascara is my war paint.  I soothe myself with the fact that even though my face can sometimes be too dry or oily or that I'm breaking out that at some point, tomorrow is a different day and everyday that I work on my skin is a day that it will be better. Everyday I survey my naked body with distaste I comfort myself knowing that working out six days a week, drinking water, and limiting my calories (for life) will eventually chisel me into the femme fatale that I want to be. And of course, each time that I look at my newly clipped curls growing awkwardly into some weird yield sign shaped monstrosity, I remind myself that my hair grows 1/2 an inch a month, time passes quickly, and in a year it will be half a foot longer than it is right now. 

See, I'm a work in progress... My body, my face,  my hair, my mind. If anyone has anything negative to say, then their words deflect off of me, simply because everything about me is constantly getting better, and aging like wine. If you hate something about yourself, give your haters (including yourself) the bird, awaken that sexuality per this post, and work on changing what you hate. Hate your dishwater blond hair? The fact that you suck at long division (hey I don't know...)? Maybe you hate how your thighs jiggle. Come up with some sort of idea after getting to the root of your insecurities, and fight to change them. Give yourself time and you will be on the path to getting better and better... And if you need some advice, or a little push, you know who to call ;)

I haven't posted anything in like, a week.

This isn't anything new or interesting or exciting, just thought I'd share a little piece of myself with you guys. I've got five minutes so I thought I'd get on here and stop being so neglectful.

I've figured out my future for the most part and it is entirely and enchantingly feasible... I don't know who knows this and who doesn't, but I am from Winston Salem, which is better than Greenville. Winston kicks Greenville's ass. Where Greenville has rowdy kids, vomit spattered sidewalks, and countless Mickey D's, Winston has historic buildings, green expanses of lawn, and kids riding their bikes. I can't say that Greenville is all bad, or Winston is all good, but the bad side of Winston looks how the majority of Greenville actually looks. I got to visit Winston Salem this weekend, and it was amazing. My mom took us shopping, she got the bodybuilder this great thrifted leather coat (new it would've been over $200!) and a comforter for our bed, it is so gorgeous and plush with braided trim. AND she washed it with fabric softener... I don't use fabric softener, because I normally have trouble affording detergent, so that's that. It's amazing. I got to go through downtown, and see all the shops and new restaurants, and realized how much I missed the small city. I used to complain a lot when I lived there; mostly because I was silly and immature, and I didn't understand what I had. Also, my mom hated my boyfriend, and so it made the entire atmosphere tense and restless. I daren't say it, but that's the real reason I hated Winston. Now that my mom actually misses me, and bears my bodybuilder no animosity, Winston Salem is a lovely place, and I didn't realize it because I hadn't been there in so long. I told myself, "Greenville isn't so bad, I have a decent apartment, and a steady job..." Silly, because for what I'm paying now, I could have something historic in the Art district of Winston, and the job market is better there anyway. (Luckily, I am one of those people, I can easily find a job while others are complaining that they can't find a single thing.)

Not to mention, currently my mom thinks I am in school. If I lived in Winston and attended Forsyth Tech for awhile with her blessing, there would be no need to lie... And I hate lying. It causes me much distress. I also figured, if I move, I need to find a good university in Winston Salem, and not move again for awhile. Wake Forest is out, simply because I dislike it. WSSU-- hell no, I will never attend a predominantly black college. Which left, in some strange twist of fate, a college I never really considered; Salem. An all female, Moravian college. 5% of their graduates pursue law school. It's a gorgeous campus. I definitely don't need to be concerned with the all girls thing. I hear the financial aid is fabulous (Thanks, Yasmeen.) It's on the right side of Winston. I swear, all this was meant to happen. I was supposed to be a lost soul, only to find myself OUTside of school and to eventually find my way back again to the right one. My mom loves this whole idea of course, and she even supports the Forsyth Tech thing. I'm utterly convinced that this is what I want to do, and I love how easy it is... Now is just a matter of doing it, and of convincing my adorable boyfriend it's worth it.

Looking ahead to the future is making me so happy right now, whether than afraid, or apprehensive. It's a lovely feeling, and I enjoy it. I haven't been truly happy for awhile-it's hard to feel happy in the present when the future so close ahead is uncertain and dark, and everything you've been through in the past looms behind you like some bad omen. I take comfort that things are actually looking up again, and could be (overall) good for a long while.

Smaller, inconsequential updates...
I found two new idols-
Marilyn Monroe

Sir Isaac Newton

I can't seem to get my puppy to stay potty trained.... and the poor little thing came back from my mom's house with fleas :(

Come on Nova, you're nearly six months old, grow up!

SN: I wanna use more pictures/color in this blog, all this black and white text is killing me.

Jealousy... "Am I Beautiful?"

In a "Letter to Men" Christina Hendricks pens, "We remember forever what you say about the bodies of other women. When you mention in passing that a certain woman is attractive — could be someone in the office, a woman on the street, a celebrity, any woman in the world, really — your comment goes into a steel box and it stays there forever. We will file the comment under “Women He Finds Attractive." And this is true. 


I have said before, I struggle deeply with my own insecurities; for example, my entire life I've wanted short hair, and it took a hair disaster for me to finally take the plunge. That's simply because I know so many people that loved me with my long hair (even though I hated it), including every guy I've ever dated. Even my current beau. In the nearly four years that I've been with my bodybuilder, as in any other relationship, pressure comes from both sides to be a certain way. (In the early days, when he was more of a prick, he once told me I resembled Chucky's bride when I wore an oversized lace dress with a leather motorcycle jacket. This was true, but still hurtful) When he began to show an interest in tennis and the only music he would play in the car was Jason Mraz, I called foul; where was my manly man with his shaved head and gangster music? After my hair was clipped, he pressured me to grow it back, and I decided to, because I was feeling even more pressure from outside sources (media, work) to have long, pretty locks, even though this whole awkward growing out phase was KILLING me. I am a woman of extremes; it's long, or short. It's all, or nothing. Fuck bobs, fuck shoulder length. Fuck fuck fuck it. SN: My boyfriend says I look like a supermodel with my new pixie cut. ;) Funny because when I REALLY came out and asked him if I should cut it, he encouraged me to. What a sweetie.


Even though I love my (even shorter) hair now, I still feel the pressure. I always feel the pressure; to be thinner, to have long hair, to wear lots of makeup, to show more cleavage. I am always asking myself, what is beautiful? What will make me pretty? Am I even pretty? All my talk of fabulousness and silly rituals is just a booster seat to chase my demons away. It can be a bad thing; I am often tempted to starve myself again, which is surprisingly easy for me to do, as much as I love food. When that treacherous voice purrs into my ear, "You don't need to eat today" I buy a pumpkin muffie from work that's smothered in powdered sugar, and tell that voice to shut the fuck up. Anything to keep self starvation from coming back onto the scene and morphing into some sort of messed up state of normalcy. 


I recently found out my heritage; this probably seems random, but trust me, it has relevance. My mother is adopted, but when she visited last month she told me about how when she'd had a DNA test when she was pregnant with my brother (SEVEN years ago) what she is made of, so to speak (besides coffee and snuggles.) In regards to that information, here are my stats;
.25 Cherokee
.25 African American
.25 German
.125 Irish
.125 Chinese


What the fuck. 1/8 Chinese. Are you serious...
Anyway. Being a relative mutt has always been a problem for me. Hispanic guys have approached me, tittering away in Spanish, and while (for the most part) I understand and can respond... I am not Hispanic. Thus, they slink away. Rednecks run away from me screaming; most redneck guys seem to find me attractive, but are almost ashamed of it. I kid you not. In lots of relationships, a beau's parents will disapprove of me instantly; not only am I not white, but I'm mixed? I've got diluted blood? Geez, why couldn't my parents stay in their own race? >Sigh.< Then they'll order their sons to dump me-again, I kid you not. It's happened. Once I got in a heated argument with my bodybuilder's father because he was using the word "nigger" like it was going out of style. (He told me he forgot I wasn't Caucasian. Aww, how sweet, I guess I should be... flattered? Maybe?) It's interesting. It's like if you're dark skinned, or you're a whole bunch of things, you're not pretty, and you shouldn't be accepted. I've been swamped by the Big Green Envy Monster many a time, because I see evidence that a boyfriend of mine is fawning over something that is CLEARLY nothing like me (my bodybuilder is fixated on black chicks with annoying voices, weave, and huge booties... None of which I have, thank God), and I wonder inwardly of course, are they prettier than me? Do they turn him on better than I can? Should I strive to have a big ass and long hair? Is that appealing? I remember guys along the way (that I never, ever dated) saying that if one thing, ohhh just one little thing, was different about me, they'd jump my bones; "Oh if your ass was bigger..." "Oh, if your clothes matched..." "Oh, if you didn't laugh so much..." It's funny, I even feel the pressure nowadays to be black, or white, or Puerto Rican... to be anything really, but what I am, (even though I find great pride in my mocha skin and mixed blood. I feel it makes me more worldly; I am a chameleon and was raised to be able to fit in anywhere.) and I know other women feel it too.... Like darker skin is uglier than light with black people. I see that a lot. A loser guy turning down a gorgeous, intelligent girl because she was "too thin and dark". It's funny because going down to those African roots, ebony skin was savored; darker skin meant strength and fertility. It meant beauty, while this whole thing with "redbones" and "yellowbones" would've been disdained. 


So here's my ending note, as always on a chord of being fabulous... Embrace the skin, and who you are. If you've always dreamed of cutting your hair, cut that shit off; I wish I'd done it years ago. Confidence is sexy. Being comfortable and secure is sexy; if you're uncomfortable with yourself, even if you're following every rule that society measures beauty by, then you're not going to BE beautiful-because you don't feel it. Practice self love like it's a religion.

I Have Crappy Neighbors!

I love my apartment. The office manager, Lillee, is the sweetest woman in the world. She eradicated our small roach problem. She referred us to a good locksmith that copied our house key-for free! She ensured our fire alarm was fixed. She's just an all around nice lady. We're allowed to keep our dogs, and there's no horrible landlords sneaking around trying to charge us for pet fees that we've already paid like at our old apartment complex. The carpet is grey and white patterned, easily cleaned; the walls are beige in the living area and bedrooms, yellow in the kitchen and bathroom (I love yellow!) and I have decorated it all cozy. Here they are, from the outside (they are nondescript enough that I'm cool with posting a picture I found online);

For those of you new or ignorant to apartment living, this is how it works; those who are without credit, get a cosigner (I used my mommy; although I do have credit, a score of 683 baby :D ) You spend mucho money on things to fill your apartment with (unless you have a mommy that spoils you and buys everything you need from Target, Goodwill, and yard sales.) You are immediately swamped by bills, and therefore stress, and if you are lucky enough you will have a roommate or live in boyfriend that will rip you a new asshole for doing a shitty job on the dishes or leaving a pair of undies on the floor in the bathroom as soon as you get home from working eight hours at a busy restaurant (okay, okay, I'm always going off topic...) Though really, I would think he would like seeing my frilly underthings tossed about the house, like some scene from a dirty erotica movie or something.

Anyway. My neighbors on one side are two men that drink a lot and chain smoke. Inside (yeah I looked in their windows! That's more reliable than a background check!) it's a serious bachelor pad, with a huge tv and well loved leather couch, and little else. One of them let me into my apartment once when I was having a particularly bad day and the fates decided it would be funny to let the screen door lock on me. The point is, they're nice. Next door is a woman with a really deep voice and too strong handshake, who I let into her apartment once with my bank card even though she annoys me. She also has a huge, 80's esque tv that she turns up so loud I can hear every word late at night, even when it's 1 in the morning and I have to wake up at 6 for work. She also talks on her cell phone (speaker turned up to the max) while loudly banging cabinets just as late as the tv is blaring. Next to her are some more chain smokers (I never realized how many people in the world smoke) that often let their dogs off their leashes, and these aforementioned dogs don't listen to them at all. On more than one occasion I have been knocked down, my dog (a sweet widdle 5 month old puppy named Nova) has been chased into the street by their dog, and once when theirs tried to attack Nova, I was dragged by my bigger dog, Yuma, as he prepared to protect me from said wayward canine.

Neighbors are annoying. There's no way to live with them, I think. I'm sure I'm not a picnic to live with; I slam cabinets sometimes too, and every time I look at my neighbors I wonder if they can hear us having sex (I just LOL-ed uproariously as soon as I wrote that coz I know they can.) I guess I have to put up with them, just like they have to put up with me. Speaking of my apartment... it's dirty. I need to clean! I have too many clothes. I'm thinking about planning a clothing swap. Anyone up for it? I have some great stuff I just don't wear. I'm one of those people that wears a bunch of jeans, button up shirts, and a couple other dresses, and all my other stuff just sits there. .... Getting off topic again. This was a meaningless post, but sometimes I have to write something meaningless. Gotta get all the stuff that annoys me off my chest ;)

How to Control Yourself at a Party

     So last night I drank tequila with my boyfriend. I don't drink very often; we've gotten to be pretty health conscious, save for that fact that I often gorge myself on cinnamon crunch bagels, and I haven't been drunk in over a month; at least until last night came along. We made a point to have limes, Coke, and salt to go with our shots of tequila, and a Black & Mild. (Coz when we get drunk we like to smoke, too. It was a bad idea, I inhaled on accident and deeply too, my lungs feel like I punched a hole through them right now) Whatever, I can't be a goody goody all the time.
       If I had been at a party or club or something, I would've embarrassed myself deeply, which tells me I need to provide some Do's and Don'ts to prevent my lovely readers from becoming a cautionary tale like me. :) That way, you don't find yourself dancing in your Hello Kitty underwear to Shakira, hugging your toilet and throwing up something you don't recall eating, and waking up early for work still under the influence. Oh, I also painted a coat of watermelon pink on my fingernails, but I was seeing kind of blurry so the color is sloppy, kind of like a watercolor. I didn't bother fixing them, haha.
        DO eat before, or while, you drink. Especially if you don't drink very often. That alcohol will be absorbed very quickly by an empty stomach, especially if you're female (women absorb alcohol faster than men anyway, so become drunker faster!).
         DON'T try to keep up with anybody. My boyfriend was egging me on to drink more, because he was just as trashed as I was, making him pretty stupid, and I listened to him-making me VERY stupid. That's what led me to the whole hugging the toilet thing-I don't regret dancing to Shakira though, even in my underwear, because it was fun. For once I was dancing without worrying about my jiggly thighs. It was nice. On the other hand, I don't recommend that activity in public. But, I digress...
          DO chat people up. But not aggressively. Back when my boyfriend was an addict/partier, he went to loads of parties, a lot of which I didn't even know about because he didn't want to go through the hassle of inviting me, ha! However, I have been to a few, and they totally sucked. I was shy, upset, in emotional turmoil, and overall pathetic. (Perhaps we can get to the "whys" of my past state in a different post) But it totally ruined parties for me. Sure, I had nothing in common with the people that were there (rednecks and I don't get along) and no interest in the activities that were being presented (I don't get along with weed or beer bongs either) but I could've had fun had I had it in me to give it some effort and chat up one of the many girls in cowboy boots that were present. Make the most of your current party situation friends, even if sipping a Cosmo in the VIP lounge in some hip club is more your speed.
           DON'T, under any circumstance, drive drunk! EVER. EVER. My boyfriend currently has a DWI that still isn't behind him and he drove last night like an idiot, bleary eyed and stumbling, just for one more Black & Mild. Dude, have you ever been worried and trashed at the same time? It is no fucking fun. For real. Don't freak out your friends, family, significant other, whoever cares about and loves you, because you've convinced yourself that you're "cool" to drive. Because you're not.
           DO figure out your limit. Do you know how many shots or cans of beer it takes for you to become irresponsible? Figure it out. Get with someone you trust and go get irresponsible. Remember what it took, because it's invaluable, that way you know when you should stop. You should always do your very best to maintain a reasonable amount of control over yourself, so you're not that drunk girl groping everybody that everyone avoids and eventually kicks out.
           DO treat your hangover. Apparently, the best thing for a hangover is a banana milkshake sweetened with honey; according to KGB anyway. Next time, I might try it. Also, after drinking you should be kind to your body. Exercise that liquor, beer (especially beer, so many calories!) out of your system, cleanse cleanse cleanse, eat well, and stay hydrated! And of course, spoil yourself with a hot bubble bath or chocolate or something, although you shouldn't need any excuse at all to treat yourself well ;)

Yep. The evil tequila, Jose himself!

How to Awaken Your Sexuality

So in the post I had up before this, I admitted I had low self esteem-and then I deleted it, because that post wasn't helping ANYONE, including myself. But especially not my readers, because when I read someone else's blog (I do it all the time) I do it either because a) they have great pictures up, b) they talk about everything that I personally love about fashion, or c) they teach me something. I want to do a little of all of that, and I'm sure that my previous post taught you a little about SOMETHING, a new word maybe, but I really want to reach a hand out this time. If I don't, I'm just wasting my time.

I know lots of girls that have self esteem issues; and men for that matter. Even my bodybuilder (the sexiest man I have met ever really, or maybe I'm biased?) suffers from his own insecurities, which is what propels him to work so hard. Me too; that's why I take supplements, work out six days a week, wear makeup, worry excessively on my bad hair days, etc. etc. etc. It's such a bore, too. I keep asking myself, "Who are you trying to impress?" Even though my boyfriend says I look like a rooster when I wake up in the morning, I know he's not going to leave me for it. He often tells me to leave the gel out of my hair (so he can play with it more easily) and to not wear makeup (because apparently, I look better without it). Yet, each day, I put in whatever hair product strikes my fancy and at least bother with blush and mascara. It's my war paint. It's my armor against the world, so that if anyone fucks with me, I am prepared.

Even though I don't always feel 100%, and sometimes, I feel downright ugly, every hour of everyday, I make it a point to OOZE sexuality. Yes. Ooze. Fucking ooze, baby. Because I've been through some fucked up shit (and made it!), I know I'm a strong woman. Woman with a capital W-O-M-A-N. Women have more power than they (we) realize. We could rule the world. We could drag around all the males by their penises, bat our eyelashes, and still pretend that we are hindered by that glass ceiling-and they'd believe us, too. That's how I get upgraded drinks and free snack sized McFlurries from Mickey D's. That's why I get paid more. That's why I got away with violating the dress code in high school and avoiding speeding tickets; because I am a sexual "vulnerable" female. And I want to tell you how to do it. (And guys, even if you're educating yourself on how to escape our female powers by reading this, trust me, it's not going to work--you are powerless against our charms.)

First of all, take care of yourself. Moisturize, exercise, eat right. If you do that, you will feel so good. When I exercise, I feel so powerful. Even though I only bench press 45 pounds (shut up) I feel like I could kick some serious ass. Even though I had to stop 3/4 of the way through my plyometrics routine, I felt on top of the world during my shower-and it wasn't just the endorphins. I'm not saying, do it because it's healthy. Sure, there's that-but I'm telling you to do it because in the end, when you see your glowing skin and your biceps coming in, you will feel so hot. Also, ignore all the fashion rules. Seriously. I let my bra peek out all the time. I wear white (including shoes) after Labor Day. My nail and toenail polish colors don't match; they don't even complement each other. (I think it makes me look eclectic and beachy-eccentric, even interesting.) I make my own rules. Right now, I'm wearing a backless, long halter dress, one size fits all, that I bought at last year's Dixie Classic without a bra (and you can totally tell) and I feel so sexy. Even though it's against the "rules" coz this is a summer dress and it's supposedly time to dress for fall, and even though it's slutty supposedly to let everyone know I'm braless, I don't care. I'm not a slut. I'm in a committed relationship and even though I have lots of sex, it's with my boyfriend only. (I flaunt my hickies too. Coz I'm an adult ;) ) I'm proud of the person I am, and you should be too. Flaunt your bralessness, your brashness, your boldness. It'll give you confidence. Don't be afraid to go naked-on your face that is. I'm going to be getting drunk with my aforementioned boyfriend tonight, and paired with my slut dress is my bare face, save a little concealer, just in case I fall asleep before I can do my nightly routine, but my undereye circles are covered because I gotta go pick up some limes. Again, who the fuck cares? I have nothing to hide, and let me stress; neither do YOU. You are beautiful. You are hot. Even if you have belly rolls, stretch marks, or you just feel like you look like crap (and I gotta tell myself this all the time) you are wonderful. You're a woman. Every woman has cellulite, and if she doesn't, trust me, she will someday soon, and I think those dimples are sexy. Love handles are called that for a reason; give a man something to hold onto. Go outside and scream into the wind; "I AM SEXY" and see how good you feel. I mean it :)

Remember, Marylin was a size 8 ;)

A Day in the Life of a Bodybuilder's Girl

     My boyfriend is an amateur bodybuilder. I think from now on, I'm going to call him "the bodybuilder" rather than "my boyfriend" because now that I'm getting new readers that don't even know him, I feel it necessary to protect his privacy. Not only that, but as a person, while I am embodied by many things, I am most clearly embodied as "that guy's girlfriend." In his life however, as person, he is not only my boyfriend. In fact, that is a very small part of him. Minuscule. He is a bodybuilder, above all else. (As for my identity, I am working on that. I am an aspiring lawyer and I am seeking out new passions, but right now all that I have that is concrete in my identity is that I am his. Sue me.)
     I have a job of course, but I am awakened a lot before it is my time because the bodybuilder likes to wake up at 6 or 7 am to go to the gym. He normally has to be at work himself at 12, sometimes later, but typically he needs to get his three hour workout in before work. I try to ignore him when he rustles out of bed beside me when the alarm goes off, although I'm pleasantly back to a groggy sleep by the time he rains goodbye kisses all over my face right before 7, 7:30. He normally guilts me into preparing food for him ahead of time for his entire day, as he needs around 240 grams of protein a day to ensure he is constantly building mass. For me, that means pan frying steaks that he will later complain are dry and baking or sauteeing whole plastic bags of frozen chicken breasts so that he alone can eat that day.
       I am gifted by my own pleasant sack of insecurities. I hate my haircut, my body, even my clothes sometimes. I'll throw on something I know is unflattering because I get so frustrated with myself. He is on the other side of the spectrum; he literally compliments himself more than he compliments me. I'm not a compliment fisher, but despite the various problems in our relationship that preys on my insecurities (including history in a previous relationship that was abusive, and the bodybuilder poring over porn starring girls that are more his "type" than I am--now that he'd say such a thing, but I'm not stupid.) you'd think he'd tell me I look good once in awhile. Yesterday, he actually put on a pair of jeans I'd picked out for him and looked back and forth between the mirror and me  pensively, while I prepared for some sort of compliment that I could soak in appreciatively...
       "Look at these abs," he says, pointing to his perfectly carved abdominals displayed over his tight True Religion jeans, "like a model's, with the underwear...." He trails off when he sees the look on my face.
       This drives me crazy, of course. I am working on that too. I don't know what you all know about bodybuilders, but they're very self absorbed, and rightfully so. Their livelihood and pride rests upon how they look; it rests upon how full, proportional, and large every single muscle is in comparison to every other one. I understand that, but I also wonder how any of them stay married. I am still a female, with various needs and wants, even though I'm more down to earth than your average girl, and I need to feel special and noticed. I wonder all the time where our relationship is destined to end up, because I love him desperately; I know love isn't sure all the time, and sometimes, it doesn't even mean much, but I feel a lot of the time that he is the skin that is holding me together. And of course, it is a problem that I don't have much of an identity beyond him, on top of all the insecurities I have both how I look and how I am on the inside. I'm sure it'll work out; it always does.

The Abortion, Part II

       The following morning, I prepare myself by having my boyfriend close by before he goes to work, surprised my mother even let him in. I'm wearing my favorite pajamas, and I'm freshly showered, my wet hair tied back. Still being completely over the moon about my boyfriend, I apply makeup; it's almost like warpaint, as I prepare to wage battle on my own body.
        After settling into my bed with my boyfriend beside me, I take my next set of pills; these have some long, unpronounceable name, but they prevent nausea. It is recommended that I wait at least thirty minutes for it to kick in, to prevent me from throwing up the next (and most important) set up. My mother makes me wait an hour, saying tauntingly that if I throw up the pills and this abortion is unsuccessful, she's not going to fund another one. A grim layer of nervousness and determination coats my already shaky, frightened psyche at her reasoning, and I willingly wait an hour. Barely fifteen minutes after I take the most important medication, I vomit raucously into the trashcan that has been placed strategically by my bedside, while my boyfriend bolts up after me, keeping strands of my loose hair from my face. Deep inside, I am grateful, because I know how sick people throwing up around him can make him feel, and as I throw up I cry, terrified that my pills have come up. My vomit is bitter and acidic, and my mind tries to process the texture, trying to dissect it for traces of powder or pill fragments. There is a moment where I try to hold it back, but it seems like I throw up for a very long time. When I'm done, I begin to shake, my teeth chattering, and once or twice I bite my tongue, blood seeping between my molars. My boyfriend puts his coat on me, wrapping his body around mine, as though sheltering me from further harm while I shiver, and my mother watches my face. She says, "Your body temperature is plummeting, it's going to be soon," and I wonder what "it" is.
         Suddenly, the "cramps" begin. They are excruciating, like someone shoving a dull hunting knife into my uterus, plunging and twisting, over and over, and the blows ebb and flow; sometimes they lessen, but the pain never stops. My bedroom is in the basement so I rush from the bed to the bathroom upstairs, and when I pull down my underwear I see they are streaked with blood. I sit on the toilet, knowing that "it" is coming, and I think about what my boyfriend's parents said, how what is coming from inside me and into the toilet, what is now a bloody, pulpy mess, could've been a bouncing bundle of joy, could've been the first female president or a prodigy or someone's husband or wife, is now just dead tissue, and I cry. I cry and cry. I can't describe the feeling of it, beyond the excruciating pain and the strangeness of something so heavy and blessed with such potential leaving my pelvis, and I won't bother to; the only thing I can say is that even in the present, three years later, it can still make me sad.
           After a few more trips up and down the stairs, it gets to be like a regular period, and my boyfriend has to leave for work; he is my lifeline, a life preserver in the middle of this desolate ocean, and I am sure that he is equal parts sad and happy to go, while I am desperate for him to stay. Still, I understand his commitments and I know he hates to see me in pain. Later, my mother hugs me, and I hug her back, crying, knowing she doesn't understand because in her desperation to save me, and to give me a future, she alienated me from the only thing I needed at the time; support. I know then, even as I cry in her embrace and breathe in her coffee and cigarette fueled feminine scent, that it will be a long time before I can forgive her for this. I wonder then if I ever will.

The Abortion, Part I

     It all begins on the day of my appointment at Planned Parenthood. It's cold, December of 2008, and I am seventeen years old. It starts with my mother furiously signing paperwork, before she leaves in a bustle; though not before noting in amusement that my insurance would have paid for it. Meanwhile, my boyfriend takes out all his savings from his wallet, and I watch him with a a knot in my throat. It's ironic; my mother is the one forcing me to have this procedure, but she is the only one involved that isn't paying for it in any way. My boyfriend stays, and he holds my hand, his face drawn. After it's paid for and I can see the doctor and a few nurses, they explain that I'm going to get an ultrasound, I'm going to take some pills or maybe get the surgical procedure depending on how far along I am, and if I want to change my mind, this is the time. They tell me about the cramps, passing blood clots the size of golf balls or even lemons, the vomiting.
      "Does it hurt?" I ask softly, and the doctor says, "A little, like cramps from your period." I feel like he's lying, like before stabbing someone in the butt with an especially long needle, "This is gonna sting a little."
      My boyfriend waits in the lobby while I am led to an examining room for my ultrasound. The nurse is a sweet African American woman that is happy and smiling, exchanging banter with me to help me feel more at ease. She  asks me what I am interested in, and I tell her I write short stories, "What kind?" she asks, probing my insides with a cold, latex covered stick, as she stares at a screen. I say, "Disturbing ones." She laughs and tells me she'd like to read them, and I say I'll bring her one to read, knowing I never will. After a few minutes she tells me I am indeed pregnant, and that I am not too far along to take the pills; something called a "chemical abortion." I choose that, because I am terrified of the idea of a vacuum of sorts between my legs sucking out the bloody tissue.  They hand me a couple pills to take right then, my boyfriend at my side again; I have three more bottles, one set that will prevent nausea, another that will force the developing fetus from my body, and the last that will prevent infection. I take the first two with that knot in my throat again, and the finality makes my stomach churn. My hand never leaves my belly, and I swear I can feel the pills churning inside, while I wish futilely for my mother.
        We leave in a gorgeous Mustang that my boyfriend's father has rented, as he's visiting his son from Virginia. He's raging over the various people that were rude to him at Planned Parenthood, obviously yearning to project his anger over something other than me or my mother. He drives erratically, and my stomach tosses  due to the pills my body is currently processing-not really due to any medical effect they are having, but at the thought of what they (and the other pills) will do to what could have been my baby. Our baby. I do not let on, but I love him intensely for his anger; he is angry for me, and for what will happen to me, and it feels good that someone cares, even when my mother doesn't.
       "Baby," I admonish, as he takes a turn especially fast, his expression dark, "You're making me nauseous."  I know the only way to talk sense into him is if I act like he is putting me in danger, even though he is the best driver I know, angry or not, and a shadow crosses his face before his brow eases and he says, "Sorry, baby," and slows down. We pull in front of my mother's house, a house that probably would never be my home again for real after this entire situation is over.
       Now that the pills are down, I know I should be relieved, know that I saved my life somehow, and I know later in a way that I did. I don't know that though, not at this moment. I just feel regret, even though it's too late to take it back, and hope that somewhere I will have the strength to take the rest of the pills the next morning.