Tuesday, August 31, 2010

my inability to hide my facial expressions is ruining my chances at being a normal human being

I'm walking to my car to buy biscuits to eat for lunch, because the gumbo soup, Campbell's soup shit that I bought the other day when I was shopping and pretending like I had money, tasted like absolute water with spicy ass, fake ass sausage in it.

The sun is in my face. I don't have on my sunglasses because this isn't home and I'm not familiar enough with the contour of these streets to ride without the over-protection of my Versaces. So, I keep my glasses on, and the result is that I am squinting my eyes because the sun is getting inside my corneas, making it so sight is practically impossible without looking like a dried up prune, or like a child who is frowning.

But realistically, I am frowning. I'm frowning as I walk to my car, and I know that when I get to my car, I will lessen my pout, because I will have a few moments of freedom; driving less than half of a mile to get biscuits and talk to my mom on the phone.

In reality, I am frowning. I am frowning because I am thinking about all of the things I would rather be doing, I am frowning because I dislike the fact that I am complaining, because there are many people who would take my place in a heartbeat's half-tick, and leave me to their less appetizing life plates. I am frowning because the sun is in my face. I am frowning because I'm still mad about that soup shit. I am frowning because I can; I am frowning because I feel like a big baby and I want to pout because things are not the way I want them to be. I am frowning.

And it is while I'm frowning that I realize that my facial expressions are completely and utterly ruining my chances for being a normal human being. I don't lie, because I can't--I say that everything's straight, I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine, and I barely believe myself. I've become so in-tune with the truth--the truth of myself--that lying is a waste of my borrowed breath. You'd probably believe me, because you wouldn't know any better, but I don't lie.*

Many people could equate this to simply being my own fault--facial expressions can be controlled, don't be upset, just be happy, I'm sure they would say. But I say that my facial expressions have ruined my chances for being a perfectly normal human being.

I have eaten my biscuits. I am at my desk. And I am frowning. Even if my face is not actually turned down at the corners, my mind is frowning. And that I can feel.

*--this is a lie.


I feel like crying.

This must be what it's like to watch the child you gave birth to step on to the school bus and wave goodbye to you as the bus drives away... well, in my case, it would be the child I gave birth to stepping away from me after I walked them to their class...

Needless to say, I don't have any children.

That's not why I feel like crying.

I'm so used to working with kids, being hands on with kids, being the one they run to, the one they hug, the one they depend on for all of their immediate life's knowledge... and now, that's not me.

I'm the supervisor who sits at the desk, and looks at the computer, and checks email, and makes phone calls, and tinkers around on the Blackberry, and plans shit, and does all of the things I always said I never wanted to do...

Sure, it's good to know how to do these things, so when I'm sitting at someone's desk one day soon, wanting a job from them though I don't want to work at a corporation and I don't want to have a traditional job and all I really want to do in life is be happy, healthy, under God's favor, have my family healthy, write, write, write, get married to an amazing person who is my other half that I don't know I'm missing, have a bunch of beautiful intelligent babies, travel the world with my hand in his, get old and drink lemonade on the porch as long as we're blessed to have life, and on and on and on and on,

I can say, of course I'm prepared for the position. Let me show you my resume...

Sunday, August 29, 2010

This is just a quick note... on the 90s...

I miss the 90s.

This is a completely random insert, but I figure I should add it before my actual entry, which is admittedly not as nice as this one.

I'm watching Black to the Future on VH1 (these type of shows, e.g. I Love the 90s, One-Hit Wonder countdown, etc. are the only shows on VH1 I actually enjoy watching).

And I miiiissssss the 90s... though I wasn't that old (I was 10 in '98), I still remember everything from that era... the combat boots/Dr. Scholls/Timbs with cut-off shorts, the shirts tied at the navel (I had one, before I had any breasts to speak of)... and the things I wasn't aware of in real time (mostly musically--I listened to the old school my parents listened to, so artists like Mary J. and Snoop Dogg weren't people I was cognizant of until later), I learned about later.

Nothing to me is as cool as the 90s. Maybe that's just because that's when I was a kid, but I miss it. Kind of wish I'd experienced first hand some of its gems. (I still haven't ever listened to The Chronic... yeah, I know. Way, way late.) Oh well. Back to 2010.

**side note: now the same show is on, but it's for the 00s.... *sigh* I am really missing childhood now.

Friday, August 27, 2010

Friday afternoon... I'm supposed to be working.

--So, I'm clearly the last bozo in America to find out that Oprah is, as one blog put it (quite some time ago, I might add), one of us. In fact, this just raised my Oprah-like meter by like a thousand points. I didn't dislike Oprah until she featured a show about puppy mills on the anniversary of Dr. King's death* or something to that effect. But that's another subject. I distinctly remember my mom telling me that Oprah's hair wasn't a weave.

Mom: oh no, that's her hair.
Me: (stares quizzically at mom, clearly doubting her logic.)**

Clearly, I still have traces of that "'regular' Black people don't have long hair" syndrome that gets passed down to you practically from birth.

Nevertheless, the point is that Oprah is now my friend again... almost a year and a half after she told everyone her hair isn't a weave. Oooops.

--Timberland boots are only sexy in places where the heat index doesn't make you feel like you're melting. For whatever reason, today, in the CY room, the air conditioner decided to be a punk and stop functioning properly. (It's probably because it's as hot as Hell's microwave outside.) Oh, it's still on, and yes, cold air is coming out (I think), but the room isn't getting cold like it was this morning. I've been sitting here, supposed to be doing work for the last hour, but have been staring blindly at the screen, trying to push little thoughts through my head. Must.go.get.water.Must.leave.desk.

I definitely dislike the cold, but I simply can't function efficiently when it's too hot. How do I live in Miami, then, you may ask? Well, as long as I don't have to do anything that requires significant effort of thought*** (such as working, writing things for work, pretending to be working, etc.) then I'm fine. Lying in sand and drinking cute drinks with umbrellas in them**** requires no significant effort of thought whatsoever.

Back to my point--Timbs are too hot to be sexy in Miami summer. So I'm sitting in my room, with my uniform and nametag on, with my boots off and my pants rolled to the knees. It's too fucking hot, I tell ya.

--Maybe it's because I ate McDonald's for lunch for the first time in a long time that I feel like a drugged alien. Actually, that shit was delicious, so I take it back, that's not why.

--I think the problem is that I got eight hours of sleep last night. Before you pummel me with hard, hot stones from a Miami sidewalk, I'll explain--my body is not used to getting eight solid hours. From the IB program to now, my hours of sleep have shortened significantly. And because I'm like my mother, I can function on little sleep. (One time, I went to work after having stayed up for 24 hours.*****) So, frequently, I get little sleep. I always tell him that I'm always fatigued, and that's just the life I live. Last night, I got in the bed at like 10 and was gone to world within probably 5-10 minutes. And now I'm sleepy.

--That last sentence is a lie: between the time I was finishing the last paragraph and starting this one, I engaged in a conversation with my corps members about other languages, and because my brain was stimulated, I woke back up and now I don't feel as hot. So, the key to body temperature and fatigue is brain stimulation? This is good to know... the more you know...

*ding* (What up, VSB.)

*--don't quote me on this. I'm going off the dome right now.
**--thanks Shari from The Brisk Convergence for your dialogue inspiration. I love the way you depict conversations with your mother.
***--you could argue that writing requires significant effort of thought, but for me, it doesn't. It's like my second skin, so I mentally kind of fall back into myself and let my second skin do the talking. So right now, I'm not even really thinking, I'm kind of just operating on this different plane of existence where I don't really know what the hell I'm going to write until it's written. Cool, huh?
****--I have yet to go to the beach in Miami, and I have yet to have a drink with a damn umbrella in it. In fact, when I was in the Keys, I was on work time, so there was no alcohol consumption whatsoever. Drat.
*****--I stayed up all night on the phone with him that night, and then when the sun rose I had to hang up because I had to go to work... I got there at eight, and was fine until I sat in the chair and realized by nine that I'd fallen asleep with my head back and mouth open. Needless to say, I can't function on no sleep.

money, money, money... SMH

You know how yesterday I was talking about hating being broke and all my money woes (and other various irritations)?

Well today, when trying to get my stuff assembled so I can go pay this rent, I realized that my money looked funny. And that restaurant I went to swiped my card twice for the same meal.

FML and SMH.

Sour taste is definitely in my mouth, and you better believe as I'm typing this, I'm on the phone with my bank, and I'm getting ready to be on the phone with this damn restaurant as well.

SN: the lady on the phone from the bank cheered me up with her simple delivery of the lines I know she has to say to every customer. She wished me an awesome day, and I felt the sour taste recede just a bit. Good humanity is so simple. But still, SMH.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Thursday afternoon

I hate being broke.

I hate the fact that I feel like I'm constantly budgeting, constantly worrying about money, constantly feeling like there's not enough.

I hate when something comes up--like going out to eat with friends--and the fact that I always worry about the money I've spent, no matter how small the amount.

I hate that I think about money the way I do.

I hate that I can't afford to go abroad off of my own money.

I hate that I worked a job that I started to greatly dislike, though it paid quite well.

I hate that I'm working a job I like now, but at quite the pay cut.*

I hate the way the word hate looks, so I'm going to stop using it.

I'm mad that I can't find a way to access Facebook at work. Damn you, proxy sites, and damn you, school system filters.

I'm mad that I can't afford to live by myself, but motivated to find a way to, because this roommate shit's gotta stop. In fact, this roommate shit should have stopped like yesterday. God in Heaven preserve me.

I think it sucks that my room only gets two channels, but it is at a school after all.

I think it's funny that the last time I worked as a supervisor, I said I wanted to be closer to the children--which you can't really do as a supervisor--and now I'm back in that role, version 2.0. Though the school, the people, and the experience has already proven to be twenty million times better than that bullshit from before.

I hate that I spent money I did not have last night because I was really hungry and really just wanted to kick back and enjoy a night of eating out without having to call my bank ahead of time to assure that I would have the funds.

I hate that the food that I purchased wasn't even good. MAJOR fail for that dish. They better be lucky I paid money I didn't have for it, otherwise I would have never taken it out of the restaurant. In fact, it was so lackluster in comparison to other dishes I've had at that restaurant that I should have flung it in the air and watched as it splattered all across their white couch.

I think it's funny that this started out as an "I hate my finances" rant because I'm sitting at work and my brain is crying out for stimulation (damn you, Facebook being blocked), but it turned into a random rant. Beware of these. My laptop will probably accompany me to work. Everyday.

*--I tried to calculate the math to make it more dramatic, but math is not my strong suit, despite the fact that saying that out loud could acknowledge that I'm being less than idealistic. I don't give a shit. Math is not my strong suit, and just know that I'm broke. That being said, I was broke before too. With more money, comes different types of problems, but the same problems nonetheless.

poking around is sometimes not wise

So, being the inquisitive child young woman that I am, I got on Blogger this morning and messed up my blog-- do NOT use the new template designer unless you know what the hell you're doing. I clicked on a couple things, not because I wanted to use them, but because I was bored and just clicking around, and I've now spent 20 minutes trying to restore my blog to the glory that it was.

It's not restored to spoken glory, but it looks decent. I think that means it's time for an updated look. Just not now... when I'm at work... supposed to be working.


Later... later it will come.


statistic* = 64% of problems result from invalid, irrelevant statistics

from Tuesday evening

I put down my food to write this.

Like, you have no idea. I'm looking into my plate beside me and staring at that last chicken nugget, hot and waiting for me to send it down the passage to my stomach.

I put down my chicken nugget, to write about how fucking sick I am of the news (and all other bored individuals) making up and printing statistics to simply "spread news" while in reality they are promoting stereotypes and wasting my time when I could be learning about real news.

I was in the last stretch of World News Tonight, enjoying those savory ass chicken nuggets, when I was unfortunately subjected to seeing the quick blip about "a new statistic" that was to be reported, to my vexation.

The news wanted to find out who in the country used their phones more--well, who cares? Of course, the "new statistics" were nothing new--the South talks on the phone more, African-Americans talk 44 minutes more than whites, women speak 22% more than men, and teenagers send 92 more text messages than their parents.

Seriously? Maybe I'm just feeling snarky because I can feel snarky, but really, are any of those statistics relevant to anything? I just have a problem because it plays into stereotypes that society continues to perpetuate, and then complain about.

A). The South will talk you to death, whereas the North will curse you for talking to them
B). Black people are always talking, always, always talking
C). Women talk too damn much
D). Teenagers have nothing better to do than to be on the phone

Tell me you've never heard of those stereotypes, or heard someone say something regarding spoken stereotypes, or that you've never seen someone play one of these stereotypes out, and I'll call you a damn liar. I just think studies like this are stupid, because they are always comparing the same typical categories, and affirming the same binary opposition that people are trying to break down. That the South and North are so drastically opposite, that Blacks and Whites are always opposite, that women and men are always opposite, and that the new generation and the young generation are so opposite.

Don't get me wrong--yes, men and women are different. Trust, Blacks and Whites are very different. But that's all on the surface. How are we ever going to get to a place where we look at people as people if the news keeps sending little statistics like this our way---and if we keep paying attention?

Besides, statistics only represent the group which was polled. Which certainly wasn't all teenagers or all Southerners. In fact, the statistical poll is theoretically null and void because the people who responded to the survey are probably people whom already use their phone more often than everyone else anyway.

Thus, back to my chicken nugget, probably cold by now, shaking my head all the way.

*--I have no problem with statistics that actually offer me useful information. It's just that statistics have started to be thrown around so often that I can't really tell whether these statistics are even useful. Plus, as I already stated, statistics are supposed to be used as a general representation of society, but statistics really only measure the group that was polled, which is never everyone, and probably not that representative of society (or groups within society) anyway.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010


I like to shower in shadow.

In younger days, at my parents' house, the best time to shower was in the late evening, when dusk washed over the air with a hazy, quasi-darkness. Not wanting to interrupt nature, I would shower with only that semi-light of dusk, or, if the moon was out (which was always visible from my shower window), by the light of the moon.

Tonight, I shower in replicated shadow--without a window, and considering the fact that it's long after dusk, I create shadow by leaving my light off and cracking the door a bit. Though the room will never get hot enough for my body, I'd rather be slightly chilly in shadow than to be warm and cozy in artificial brightness.

I step into the shower, arched right foot first, thinking that, maybe I should touch myself tonight. The thought of you persists in my mind, so maybe touching myself will help me be closer to you, or, maybe touching myself will help me clear my mind so I can sleep without wanting to wake up next to you.

It's clear from the moment I step into the shower that my physical pleasure is not on the menu for the evening. Though I slip my hands all about my wet flesh, I can't bring myself to slide my fingers down to that quiet, hungry place. I realize that, she's not hungry at all. Not right now. She lies dormant, while the rest of my body and spirit long for you.

I fold my arms upward and squeeze my shoulders with my hands, enclosing my breasts between my forearms, letting the warm water run down the side of my face, onto my neck, then onto my chest. Somehow, this makes me feel safe and warm, the way I do when you hold me while I'm falling asleep. Somehow, I know that, in your arms I will never trip, will never fall, will never be in danger of anything, except drowning in further need of your protection.

I can't let my fingers slip down to the hungry, quiet place, because tonight I need more than a moment of fleeting physical satisfaction. I need something deeper than the hushed groan shitohmyGodgoddamnit and uncontrollable quiver of an expertly-elicited orgasm. I need the way looking at you makes my heart smile; the familiarity of the routine we've built that we shall soon break.

I continue standing in the shower, not doing anything but bending my arms up in front of me and letting the water pour down my body. I rack my brain for a song I could sing, and settle on the beginning of "I Will Always Love You" by Whitney Houston. I only sing the opening line of the song, and I'm not even sure if I got the line correct, or whether I added words that fit the way I needed them to.

In the end, I have yet to figure out whether her logic is admirable or flawed. She sings her song soaringly about a woman who lets her lover go, because she knows it's best, all the while ensuring him that she will always love him. They say that if you love something, let it go, so maybe it's admirable for this woman to know that it's best to let her lover go, while still being selfless enough to vow to always love him. Or, maybe it's foolish of the woman to let a true lover go; maybe it's the easy way out for her to let him go, assuring that he'll always be loved, instead of fighting for the love she so clearly feels.

Regardless, her logic goes undetermined, and I turn the shower off abruptly, welcoming the rush of cool air onto my warm skin. Maybe I should have just touched myself after all.

Monday, August 23, 2010

you, in writing

eye to eye
and dance
in fading dusk
sweat collects
in tender places--
bellybutton, arch in back,
tears fall with
need of you
to explore the
deep places
in me
that even I
know nothing of.

an untitled poem from last week that i don't particularly care for. but i had to post something because it had been too long without me saying something. unfortunately, though i've been spending all my days working toward the greater good, the greater good of my artistic mind has been fading without exercise. (speaking of exercise, i was so supposed to exercise tonight, and now i'm comfortable, and it's already past 8, and it's not happening. such is the story of my life.)

anyhow, i don't like this poem because it doesn't convey the way i need it to. it says the things that i feel in the most cliched ways possible. and cliche is not me. the entire beginning of the poem i am not pleased with (vocabulary wise) though i am kind of taken with how short it is and the (possibly) awkward spacing.

it tells a story that of course i know well, but it is not descriptive enough. is it because my feelings (in this case) are so esoteric that words will never adequately tell you how i feel?

eh, i don't know, but saying i need you to explore the deep places in me is an understatement. but acknowledging that i know nothing of these places is truth.


Thursday, August 19, 2010

"Baby I'm a star!"

I'm a star!

Lol, no, I'm not (quite), but the lovely Julochka from Moments of Perfect Clarity granted me a little space in her marvelous blog (seriously, it's serious, her blog, that is), so head over and read all about me and who would play me in the movie of my life, and where I would go if I could go anywhere :)

one minute self-reflection

i mask my emotions for him
rosy, baby lipped pinks
sunrise yellows
raindrop-covered leaf green
a courtesan's rouge
saturday's drunken black of night
because it's easier to be fearless
when you're playing a character
who's not quite you.

...i shouldn't have left you, without something dope to... read to (?)

It's been almost a month since I've written anything for you. Not quite a month, but long enough to make you out there in cyberspace wonder if I've lost inspiration (as I have before), if my computer connection is faulty (which it has been before), or if I've simply disappeared (which I have before).

Well, none of the above apply. My internet's great, I haven't disappeared, so to speak, and a few days ago I had more inspiration than I knew what to do with.

It's just that I've finally embarked upon this journey known as my City Year, and it's true what they say: the first thing you lose in City Year is sleep. Well, I haven't really lost sleep (lost too much of that in life to do that again), but I have lost time.

Every day (except the weekends), I've been at work all day, creating, thinking, planning, envisioning... it can be tiring, and I really hadn't realized just how significant of a chunk of my day it had become until I realized it pretty much was my whole day. Now that school is getting ready to start, it will be no different.

Ah, the life of a leader it is for me.

I'll be back at some point. You're probably wondering why I just didn't write something all fancy right now, since I clearly have time to sit at the computer and write this.

Well, don't worry about all that. I'll be back soon. Promise :)

Unless otherwise indicated, all words here are property of Miss Malorie

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