Saturday, July 9, 2011

I'm Not a Princess

"All girls are princesses," he said. "That's what my grandmother always told me."

"Well I'm not a princess," I told him. "But I'll take it..."

I'm not a princess! Princesses are perfect dainty and delicate little creatures. They're an unrealistic personification of females and in the end, they're supposed to live 'happily ever after.' But life doesn't work that way. Maybe if it's not right to speak for everyone else, I'll say FOR ME at least, life doesn't work that way. See, I've had to work for what I wanted: my car, my tuition, my clothes, my phone... My parents didn't 'live happily ever after.' She had an affair and they divorced. Now she's alone and he's the one with the new family. I'm not trying to come up with some sob story but that's exactly my point: life isn't a fairytale. And princesses belong in them. See, princesses are easy, simple individuals. Cinderella meets her prince at a ball, the shoe fits--and she leaves with him. In Sleeping Beauty, she wake up and marries the guy. Snow White bites into an apple and wakes up with a kiss. Know what happens when I bite into an apple? I find fucken worms and shit in it 'cause it looks "good" on the outside but to my surprise, it'll be rotten on the inside.

Rant to be continued...


because you eat everything like you've never eaten before; and you think your stomach can hold it all in--but it can't; but you don't care so you eat some more and then feel like shit being a gluttonous little pig

because you put on makeup and pretty clothes but all you want to wear are sweatpants and a hoodie

because you wear sweatpants and a hoodie on a beautiful day as people in sundresses and shorts pass you by

because you feel ugly

because you don't want to do any work but lay in bed with the blinds closed, the lights off, and a whole tray of food ready to be dominated by you, prepared at your disposal

because everything irritates you: the sound of people's voices, the sound of your voice, the little dog you allow to sleep on your facem the dumb shows on tv, anyone laughing and being happy, the overplayed songs on the radio...

because your cramps attack you randomly causing you to jerk in awkward positions at awkward times of the day

because you never know whether you have to poop or fart

Random Bits on the poison called Love

High drunk
Dizzy dazed
Stoned fantastical

How is this happening? I can't say I hate it though, it feels so good, it hurts. I want it to stop but if it does, i'll call for it to come back.
Like a cloud, like a bubble floating freely in the air, like the wind whistling in your ear, like a bird flying over a waterfall, like the sound of music singing inside of you--soothing your soul--telling you sweet secrets, you smile and your blood melts, this is it: this is how it feels: you're in love.

Sleep and dream and escape and wake up to a world where you dance and float and smile and dance some more... and there's nothing but it's you everything. you sigh and breathe and it's good. then you wake once more...........................................

I've had this song stuck in my head... for eleven years. I don't know the words, i don't know it's name, I just know its tune. I find myself humming it and not even know how or where it came from. The song in my head comes to life whenever I see you.

"let's be high," he said to her.

"...i don't do drugs." she says.

a smile forms at the corner of his eyes.
"yea i don't either."

"...then i don't understand," she says. you can hear the drops of nervousness in her sweet voice.

"come with me," he says.

"...where we going?" she asks.

"you'll see," he says.

taking her hand, he leads her to a floating staircase that never stopped ascending. into the air it went, passed the clouds, neighbors to the stars, and above the earth.

"are we almost there?" she breathes.

"maybe," he says.

finally at the top, there lay a door.

"let me open that for you, miss." he plays.

"why thank you, sir" she curtsies.

at the other side, the door exposed the sky.

"I think we're going to fall..." she says, worried.

"then let's jump," he says.

"i cannot." she says.

they hold hands and together, they fly.

Yea it goes away, but let's not have that yet.
Let's relish in the moment; get lost in our hopelessly hopeful bliss; blinded by romance, unsevered from reality yet--no, let's please ignore it. let's enjoy it. just this moment--let time freeze--let your mind empty of nothing but us.

How would I know if I do or don't? It's been so long, I can't remember right now. I'm gonna do that thing everyone says not to do and over think it: what if I never felt it before? What if it wasn't real? So today, how am I supposed to know what to do with it when it never happened before? I don't want to play that dumb game, where you make sure you don't respond too quickly or where you make sure you're busy enough not to think about him. That's dumb, and I'm gonna do what I want and I won't regret it later.

Your Mind
It's amazing how your mind can play tricks on you. You'd think it speaks the truth your soul tries to hide but at times, it's really just feeding you fantasy and ideas and hopelessly hopeful snacks. Your mind... it plays magic on you. It's the heart of your head and it's the eyes of your world, but at times, they're nothing but broken lens; clouded vision, shining on desires and blinding you from reality. Damn your mind for being your deceitful friend.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

My Mother

It takes a specific type of patience to 'get' her. To understand her in the present time, you'd have to understand her in the past.
Her mind is constantly racing; always moving, never at ease. Even in her sleep, her thoughts are restless. She wakes as if she never slept. When she's driving--as cars pass her and cut her off, she speaks her thoughts out loud: did I unplug the small oven?
That question alone-as harmless as it may sound-can trigger a domino effect of possible unfortunate events. "If I left the small oven plugged in, then that means it can still be on, and if it's on, then it can start a fire. If it starts a fire, then it'll burn the whole place down, and since we live in an apartment complex, then that means everyone else's apartment will burn down too!"
It's that type of neurotic thinking that can be contagiously poisoning.
I'm not proud to admit this but it's the truth: I make the conscious (and subconscious) attempt NOT to be like my mom. She's emotional and moody. She's over analytical and insecure. She worries more than she breathes and everything is overwhelming for her. She can't trust anyone and so, subsequently, no one can completely trust her.
I'm learning more about myself just by learning more and my mom. It's a surreal feeling to have more than one perspective of your mother--as the daughter. Living and growing up with her--without everyone else--has forced me to see her more than what I believed she was. She's not just a 'mom.' She was a little girl once, also indifferent towards her mother, begging for freedom without being abandoned. She was a sister who lost her big brother to a unresolved homicide. She was a a wife who wished for romance and assurance from a distant husband. And today, I think the most significant thing I've learned about her is that, in the end, she is a woman, a human being, NOT a robot, NOT an angel, but a creation loved by God. She makes mistakes, she arrives to places late. She gets lost. She trips and spills things. She throws things when she's angry. She cries when she's upset. She flinches when she's scared.
And nonetheless, she is--my hero.
To live and survive life will forever be inspiring to me. She is thoughtful of herself and of others. I like to believe that I've gotten my caring and charismatic side from her. I like to think the reason why I have so much love for my sister, my brothers, my friends and Life is because of her. My mother.

12:55 AM

"While the rest of her apartment peacefully sleeps in silence and darkness, her bedroom is lit with the sounds of Smokey Robinson  playing from the Pandora application on her Blackberry. It's been a long day at work and through her sore body aches for rest, there's no other way to unwind for her than to lay half-naked in bed, snuggled comfortably beneath the covers, music playing sweetly in her ears, notebook in one hand, and pen in the other."

I Hate Boys

They stink up the whole room with their stale air smell. They speak louder than they should. It's like they're deaf because of the dumb music they blast in their bright neon colored cars. They spit when they talk and they eat everything in sight. They laugh when they burp or fart and they need to cut their toenails and brush their teeth! They cover up their stench with cheap cologne and they wear their clothes over again because they're too lazy to do laundry.
I hate boys!
They spend all their time going to the gym so they can look tough--but we all know they're scared of black people--They expect girls to clean up after them and be their perfect little push over princesses, but they're no princes! They think they're special and don't hesitate in taking complete credit when they do things like take out the garbage or wash the dishes or take care of their children.
I hate boys!
I hate the big ones from far away, but little when you're up close. Big muscles, but small character. They talk more than they listen. They live to work and spend for the weekends to get drunk, only to repeat the same mundane routine the next week. And they proudly call that Life! They are the ones who are babied by their mothers and care for no one but themselves. They are the ones who get bored with their unfulfilling lives so they smoke and forget to make time go faster.
I hate boys!


Show me what a man is
Let me watch and learn from you
Let me find someone like you for myself and be proud
Let me live and know you love me
Let me be yours
Let me grow and still be yours
Let me never feel unwanted because you'll forever want me