The Beginning Is The End Is The Beginning

I knew where this was headed. I gave him two weeks... and not even a text.

So I did what I did best: played my final song. Oh to be a dying swan.


And it ended just as terribly as I could expect. And I cried; I cried my eyes out in the back of the library I work at. It was Sunday and the office would only have a few people in it. And as I sat their surrounded by dusty tapes and stacks of papers, I cried as much as I wanted because I knew I wouldn't be heard. Though, I secretly wished someone, anyone, would find me and comfort me. I'll get back to why in a second.

So my next step was to call a friend in tears. That always is the next step. But after scrolling through my phone (covered with droplets, I had to wipe the screen several times), I found I had absolutely no one to call. There was no one in my texts or my recent call list I could think to call about this, which made me burst even harder into tears. I was alone.

I had felt alone for weeks. Isolated even more when all of my roommate one by one went out of town, because they have lives. I sat on the couch and sipped sangria or picked at plates of food saying to myself, "So this is what it would be like if I lived alone, I like this." when I really didn't. I'd like it more if I myself had a life, but I really didn't.

And so when I did fall apart at work, I secretly did wish for someone to find me. I wanted someone to see my vulnerability and my fall from grace, complete with mucous production and puffy eyes. I wanted someone to see me and feel connected, but that too was asking too much of those around me...no one came.

I know I am loved by my family and friends, but moving to this strange land with their strange customs has created a cylindrical process in my life where I can't tell if I'm coming or going. My dreams become my reality and my reality my dreams.

I can't tell if I'm awake or not.

I already wrote about this phenom. You're always tired, always waking even when you're not. I wake up multiple times during the night only to find I was sleeping. I wake up before my alarm clock, only to be awaken by my alarm clock.

It's tiring.

I finally decided to call some friends in Georgia. You see... when I say "I have no friends" I think what I mean to say is, "I have no friends in New York City that I met within these last four years who I see weekly." Which is also a lie, I have a friend I see pretty much every week, but we'll get to that soon as well.

I don't have a band of people I see very often. I haven't made friends who live in Queens (near me) or anywhere close by that I would be able to see them often. Everyone I've ever met up here, every woman I've ever started feeling attached to have since moved away to some distant land or place across the country. All the other women who do live here, live so far away that coming into the city is quite the event.

That one friend I do see often. As much as I do see and talk to her, this event was one I didn't want to bring to her: I had already been talking about it for days now. I just didn't want to overload that one circuit. Seeing as how she's my only constant friend, I need her for other stuff too, like hanging out, drinks, and yoga.

So I dialed number, after number, after number. It took me three attempts before I got a person. Adding to my belief that I am truly alone.

And I cried, and voiced my frustrations and my friend told me to get a hold of myself. I finally said out loud what I've felt for a very long time: I feel alone. I feel isolated. I'm so broken up over this situation because I feel like I'm constantly in this situation; where a man won't leave me alone until I let them take me out on a date. This is two time in a row that I literally had someone begging for my time. This is two times in a row that that person disappeared without a trace. Two times. I refuse to let their be a third.

My friend told me I need to work on me and I became defensive. What did she think I've been doing for the past six years...

But that's my nature. I feel like I constantly have to defend myself. Once I saw my walls forming I stopped, I listened and I agreed... I got off the phone realizing just how lonely I felt. But also that I still do have friends.

The second person I called called me back. We chatted a bit about my issues, but by then I had cried all the tears allotted to me and she did what she did best, told me cheery stories and silly events. And I was fine with that. It took my mind off of him for exactly 10 minutes.

Then the very first person I dialed called me back.Our conversation was short, but she did seem concerned. She told me to get a massage or a manicure, something for myself. I didn't tell her I was poor and that I don't really have the money. Why would I do that to someone who cared so much?

In the end, everyone I called came through and I thank them profusely for it. But I still feel broken. I don't think they completely understand why. It's not him, or the lack of him. That was the straw that broke the camel's back. It's me. It's pretty much always about me. I'm tired. I'm sad. I'm this, I'm that. Etc, etc, etc.

When I'm selfish, I'm a self-centered asshole. At least that's what I think others probably think of me. I'm so selfless; so selfless that sometimes I forget to take care of myself. And when I do, that is all I'm able to handle.

So my beginning has become my ending. Once again I find myself in front of the glow of my screen begging you, the reader, to love me; unconditionally, including all my faults...all my musings.

 I will sulk and find a sick comfort in knowing I'm not even an afterthought to him. And yet gloss over how much of a current thought I am to so many others.

I really do need to learn to focus on the many positives in my life, instead of the few negatives.

 

What It Means To Be Black

There are no words I can produce that will ever fully encompass what it means to be black. That being said, there are no words to encompass what it means to be white, latino, muslim, gay, christian, mixed, atheist, the list continues.

But as a black young educated woman, I need to try and find those words that express my blackness.

What does it mean to be black? For me, it means from an early age being ostracized. I was told as a child I was "different." I had another child tell me "I was chocolate" when all I saw was her being my friend. I felt the uneasiness my parents felt when we went to Stone Mountain Park for the laser show, and people around us were drinking and waving Confederate flags; even though I didn't understand their fears, I could feel them deep inside myself. It means being called "colored" by my neighbor who was upset at how the neighborhood had changed. It's about feeling ugly because my hair didn't sway, or my eyes didn't sparkly like the ocean. It mean being taught early in life to always stay alert, to never cause any trouble; to always have "a way out." To be black is to get your license and almost NEVER be stopped when your Vietnamese or white friends are in your car, but if you drive around with two black young men with braids or dreads you will be stopped immediately and often. It mean feeling depressed and looking for help, and though not on purpose, those in the mental health clinic showing great surprise at your articulation of words, of feelings. It's knowing you are human but often being seen as some sub species. It means being invited to a Yacht club and being stared at. It means living in a majority white suburb and having the neighbors run for the front door when you turn the corner. It's being blamed for the economy, it's being the sole reason for why black people struggle. It's the fear of having children; regardless of what race I marry, because if my child has enough melanin in his or her skin tone, it is solely my fault; because I myself am black.

What does it mean to be black? It means enjoying sushi dates with friends, traveling to other countries, and thinking about grad school. It's about jogging and eating quinoa and finding a special place in your diet for skim milk. It's about visiting beach houses and swimming all day, listening to indie music and having deep and profound conversations with your friends about the world around you.

Honestly speaking, being black is no different than being anything else, other than the differences we put on ourselves; and others have put on us.

Being black means being human. Why can't we be human?

An Open Letter to My Internal Proceedings

Last night I came home, lay down in my bed, and fell asleep before 7; fully clothed and oblivious to the world.

I dreamt of nothing. I woke a few times only because of the sweat forming on my brow.

Mentally I stumbled awake around 2 in the morning, followed by physically rolling out of my bed-- in search of a toilet.

I returned to my room and haphazardly proceeded to undressed myself completely.

I got back into bed only to realize.... I was fully awake.

So of course I've just spent the past 3 hours replaying life in my head and watching the sky turn purple outside; feeling the onset of panic slip in and out of my throat as it often has for the past few months.

Taking deep breaths, massaging my chest; poking at mosquito bites, fiddling with my hair... anything subtle but real to wake myself up if I were really still asleep; if I'm really just dreaming of wakefulness.

I'm not.

At least, I don't think so.

From time to time I forget if I'm awake or asleep (or is it that I've lost the ability to tell the difference).

From time to time I wonder if I'm dead.

I wonder if I'm in some strange purgatory. Sometimes things are just so ridiculous, presumptuously daft, sometimes all the coincidences are too perfectly fitted together that I'm unsure if it's reality or just a trick of the mind.

I've hit a point of consciousness where the edges of my reality have melded with the edges of surreality, fantasy; the unknown.

I was feeling so good a week ago.

But that was probably just manic.

I Went For a Jog and Came Back...

...a cynic. Just like that; dredging through life it seems one minute at a time judging everyone I see and drawing in my perimeter: Don't touch me. I loathe you. Why are you breathing near me?

I wish I could blame others. Society is morally crumbling faster each day; but I have to blame myself. Curse my cancerian signage! I really do try and open up: I'm not a prude. I'm pretty easy going, but I do take things very personal.

More often than not some poor human judgement on my part makes me scuttle back into my shell. No more adventures for me.

And when this happens, either I care too much or not at all. there is no gray in that thought process, though rarely do I not care at all. I guess what I'm trying to say is, it usually will eat at me.

But there is hope yes? Hope for those who are angry and snarky and pessimistic like me. Just kidding not really...

Well actually I don't know. All I know is the more I press forward the more it burns my skin, this hell I'm living in (hey it rhymes).

Flames licking at me when I sleep and when I wake, no down time. Interacting with others takes so much of my energy. It's exhausting. Especially when someone wants my time and I'm hesitant to give them it. I feel tired just thinking about it.

Oh, I also don't trust anyone. *sigh* Of course I do a little... because I am the one person who will always give a benefit of the doubt. But every time I get burned I trust a little less.

I really want to believe mankind isn't a giant quivering asshole. But it is. Bleached pink and ever flowing with the endless shit that is...well, shit.

That's okay though. That's what being a cynic is all about. Finding the brown lining that is undoubtedly hidden behind the silver. Pointing it out and saying, "Hey look everyone! Look how shitty this thing is. Isn't it terrible? Isn't it the worst?" 

hmm..Don't you hate those awkward dreams you have? Those sex dreams with a person you never were attracted to or felt anything for. During the dream you're loving it, but when you wake up you feel weird, maybe even ashamed that you fucked your friend's dad, or your ex- boyfriend's brother.

That's how I feel sometimes ... that weird slightly worried but mostly confused feeling you get when you realize you mentally fucked someone (or didn't, maybe you just dreamt of weird sexy things with them). Either way it stays with you.

It lingers.

It's annoying.

I'm annoyed.

Broken Dreams Club

"I... Just want to get high...But everyone keeps bringing me down."

It's just easier to blame everyone else. It's really just me, bringing myself down. I still can't wrap my head around my own ability, beauty, and strength. I think the most important years for self love are when you are a teen. So much of what everyone says **effects you for life. But I'm looking at myself now, as an adult, and I see I am hanging on to things I should have been let go. I also am using having a full time job as a crutch. That way I don't have to do what I'd like to do, or am ordained to do well. Yes I just used the word ordained. I think I have a knack for writing. Sure I could use a bit more attention to my grammar, but I think that for someone who lives in the age of computers I'm doing pretty well; I mean my screen saver is the dictionary. I also try my best to look at the way I spell things and the way the auto-correct spells it. That way I am less likely to misspell the word in the future.

I've been told countless times I have a beautiful smile. Without being lude, for the most part I've been told I have a nice body. I've also been told I am smart, which is news to me. For whatever reason, I am spending all my time trying to find myself instead of just be myself. I read somewhere-- oh who knows where, New York Times maybe?-- that my generation is the generation of "finding itself." This means my generation of youth is more interested in figuring out the meaning of life, of there life, then moving up the corporate later. I can attest to the truth behind that.

My father worked very hard for a very long time so I could be myself. I think I owe it to him to take what I was given and spend my early years ( gawd half of me can't even say that with a straight face) and make something out of it. I'm turing 27 in July and I don't necessarily feel accomplished, but I do feel like I am headed in some sort of direction... maybe. I don't know. I think I've spent so many years feeling like I had to be headed in some direction. Even If I live to be 80, I will feel like I spent a quarter of my life confused and dazed. Even if I'm suppose to only bring a momentary amount of joy to the lives of a few people around me, I (already) feel like it was a menial existence. Mostly because I don't know how to enjoy the now. I am ALWAYS thinking of the future. Fret over the past, scrutinize the future, overlook the present. I honestly don't want to live that way. I want to better accept myself and that which is around me. I wanna be happy and take one day at a time. For what ever reason I am not built for that. I read countless time that once you leave your 20's, you start to "get it." As I approach 27 I'm feeling less and less confident that I will get it. I'm forever questioning and fearing. I'm forever wondering and putting off. Oxymoron maybe, but seriously I am: Fretting worrying and yet putting things aside and saying, "I'll come back to it eventually."


That's why I really really REALLY need to start today with all that stuff I put to the side.

I need to change my life. I don't want to be that stereotypically 20 something year old of the 21st century who think they can spend all their time finding themselves. Not saying I need to shack up, get married and have babies to be an accomplished part of society, but I do think I need to start honestly looking at myself and trying to better myself; completely. This starts with loving myself completely. Something I've spent most of my life pretending I understood how to do, but rarely if ever do. Whatever. Here's hoping I get my shit together...


** Honest to God for the life of me, I can not figure out whether to use effect or affect ever in a sentence. I've read White and Strunk a million times. I've looked it up. I've read the AP style, and at least two others. I will be forever plagued with the fear that I am using the wrong word...

Admission: Movie Review

To start off I love Tina Fey. You could even call her my idol-- if you're into that sort of thing.

"Admission" is a very heart steady, outlandishly mediocre story trying its best to pass itself as more. Tina Fey and Paul Rudd as possible love interests fizzled into watered down blandness and the movie is dotted throughout with a weak and awkward screen chemistry. Sadly, it's still a better love story than Twilight. I will try my best to not spoil the movie for those so inclined to give their hard earn money for a light napping session, but I can't not talk about certain parts so here we go.

SPOILER ALERT (sorta)

Tina Fey, Portia, plays just about who she always plays: socially awkward, hard working, childless mid 30's something woman (with glasses no shocker there) who is a Princeton University admissions officer; long term relationship with a Princeton... professer? --who knows!-- who are contently unhappy with each other. Paul Rudd, John, plays the cool "there are no rules man" adventurous school teacher / Greenpeace member / Mr. unconventional hot guy running an alternative school that teaches kids to be free spirited and cognitive thinkers-- he also adopted an african kid and is rich. The rest is movie fools gold. While watching it, I felt like the screenplay may have been the final project written by a college sophomore taking his first screenwriting class. The momentum is lacking, and even if it meant to be unconventional in its story arc set up (you know three acts, 2 set backs, and a climax) Karen Croner did a terrible job setting up fluidity. As much as it hurts me to say, I am not a fan of this style (believe me, as a woman in this business, we really should stick together). Maybe it's not even the writer's fault! Maybe it's Paul Weitz, the director of the yawn inducing film. Either way... meeeeh! Let's continue 

Portia's mother is all over the place with her woman's feminist time warp movement. There's a Princeton professor who has no purpose in the movie, it seems, other than to be painfully blunt and to prey on Portia's mother for sexual enlightenment (though I must say his accent is devilishly sexy, and there's a certain sort of allure to the character). Come to find out, there's a possibility John only contacted Portia because he did some snooping and thinks Jeremiah, boy genius who happens to be a student at his school (have I not mentioned him yet?), might be her illegitimate offspring she gave up 18 years prior. That's right, Portia's a whore. Just kidding. It's much deeper than that.  John knows the potential Jeremiah--boy genius-- has and would like to help him get into Princeton. Coming across possible information that points Portia as possible mummy makes him think he has the right to barge into her life. 

Some scenes weren't even necessary, which is always a bad sign. Once you get past the drag, you do however see some of the underlining social issues that the movie is trying to touch on: college age pregnancy, adoption (and if you think about it abortion or the decision against it), what motherhood means to some, life cycle, family, the list can go on; kudos on that. But more scenes were about awkward kissing than real issues. Another redeeming quality of the film is the running gag through out between Portia and her previous boyfriend (that one I mentioned before, he becomes her ex). Portia finds herself constantly running into him at what can be possibly her lowest points in the movie (with his pregnant lover in tow). Those parts made me laugh the hardest because they were hardly necessary and yet very much welcomed for their awkward randomness. Without those little golden moments and the social worker's laundry list of societal problems, the movie would have been beyond tolerable.

Oh I lie. There is another redeeming factor: how the movie ends. Movies are suppose to be this gateway to another world almost. Boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl back; happily ever after. I'm a big fan of the movies that have loose ends and reality checks. This movie definitely ends with a pretty forward reality check: if you do something wrong, illegal, or bad there are consequences; you won't magically be exempt from them. There are so many decisions we make in our lives and the consequences that follow may take years before we realize them; and sometimes we don't get a second chance. I didn't see it as the happiest of endings and I was okay with that. It wasn't the happiest of stories. It's not a comedy (outside of the running gag).   

I have a tendency to only write reviews about terrible movies. I'm trying to change that. I want to also write reviews about great ones. Admissions is not a great one. Watch at your own risk... of dying from bordem. 

Sorry Admission; your denial letter is in the mail!

Angels, Demons, and God. Oh My.

My mother is very religious. She prays daily (hourly) and is always doing something with/ for her congregation. She can be found at the Hall meetings albeit a few minutes late, but just about every day they are held, rain or shine. She looks to God and believes he is her lord and savior; the one who can save the souls of all who inhabit the earth now and past. She talks about it whenever she can.

It drives me nuts.

I've wanted to write about it for a while now. But I thought it would be in bad taste. After all, religion, politics, and money (?) are all things you should stay away from in conversation.  But for me, it was because I didn't know how to really approach it. A little depressed about my life, I wrote a short quip online about how "being an adult sucked," which in turn my father stumbled across, causing him to give me a call to "check up on me."

I love talking to my parents. I don't like talking to them when I'm depressed. I don't like to worry them. But mostly, there's nothing I can say that won't spark a talk about God. No, about my mother's religion. It always starts off the same way: like a salesman who slightly has his foot pressed against your front door, "There is a way to be happy. Eternally. God wants all of his children...." I immediately throw up my walls. I don't want a lecture on God and what he wants for me. I don't want to hear the spiel. I've heard it countless times before. I become defensive, almost antagonistic really; willing and ready to pick apart her theory, her belief. I assume it's probably unhealthy to want to crush your mom's hopes and dreams. 

I'm not really that bad a person. It's not that I don't believe. It's that I feel it's generic. Her immediate answer for all that happens is so generic. Why can't you give me a pep talk about something tangible AND not based solely on faith alone. I don't think that's really my issue though, I think my problem is my mother, at the age of 50, has found her faith. That part is great, anyone should be so lucky. My problem is that because she has found her faith, she feels the need that everyone she cares about --and a lot of people she probably doesn't purely because she has no clue who they are before knocking on their door-- should share in that said faith. I feel it's unfair to ask me to catch up in her faith game.

Spirituality is a very sacred thing. You may feel the need to boast and banter about it, (and from what I hear the Bible even tells you to accost people and "preach the good word.") at the end of the day no one can truly form a relationship with God until they are ready to. And what about those who already have a relationship. I don't go to church, or hall , or masque. But that doesn't mean I'm not exploring my options with God. 

I personally feel like my mother doesn't even see the many options available. She's  not allowing me to follow my path and grow. In fact she's doing the oposite; she's stifling me and causing me to shun the very thing she had hoped I would embrace. Some times I feel like religions is just a coping mechanism. A way to deal with the inevitability that is death and unknown. It places a possibility of happiness in a world, a physical world where it would not happen in any other situation.

I remember a time in my childhood, when I first asked about God. I was sitting in the passenger seat up front in my mother's van. I'll never forget that conversation. No more than a minute in length, but so much information I have kept with me since then. I asked my mom a very important question: how do you know which religion was the right religion.  There are so many in the world. It was boggling my mind.

My mother was driving the car. She paused and thought. I remember I looked at her, then I looked at my feet. I was about seven then; preoccupied with some candy I had in my pocket, but still worried enough about my mortality. My mother took a breath and answered, "As long as it is worship of one God, it is the right religion."  I know how hard that had to be for her. Years later, in my 20's when I told her she told me that, she rebuffed it, saying she should have told me the truth. But I know better. That was the best answer she had at the time. And way back then, as bad as she wanted to shape my thought process with her own beliefs, she gave me the most precious gift a person could give: the ability to think and feel for myself.

Sometimes I think to myself, there is no doubt there is a God above. Other times I can not be sure. I believe there is nothing wrong with questioning the "all knowing." God gave me the ability to think freely. I just feel like a lot of religions say God gave you free thought, but then turn around and ask you to not use that free thought because it will lead you away from his grace; but really from their dogma. How hypocritical....

My Aunt told me a story when she was visiting my parents this past December. She told me a story of strength and of triumph and of faith. I smiled throughout the entire story. I knew within seconds of her beginning it was a Bible story. My aunt had so much excitement in her voice as she told the story and I nodded in agreement as she told that story and I felt at ease. She didn't push it on me, she just said it. She sounded like she believed it. Every word. She didn't give me a spiel afterwards, she left it at that and I got to think about what she said. Before I had to fly out, my mom passed out booklets and pamphlets. I took them and thanked her, knowing I wouldn't read them. Anything I needed to know then, at that exact moment in life, I had already discussed with God himself. No middle man, just me and him.

And so far, s/he thinks I'm doing okay... For now.