Has it really been five days? Maybe just three? Either way, I've gotten one too many jackass messages today about my blogging respite. I wish everyone would chill the fuck out. I am not dead or hungover, or any combination of the two. I've emerged a new woman after celebrating my quarter of a century. It is, however, with a heavy, one-gloved heart that I break this news to you all . . . Michael Jackson has passed. Yes, really.
I hate that I have to be the one to tell you; and trust, I am finding no secret or perverse delight in seeing your tears (as I normally would). I'm just as shocked and disgusted as the rest of you. His timing ("his" being God . . . or, judging my your upbringing, MJ himself) was impeccable. Albeit not untimely, the passing of my youth was incred disturbing. I was glum, angry, pensive, and on & on - all at once! I totally felt like Margaret from Judy Blume's "Are you there God? Its me, Margaret" . . . a fucking mess of emotion! Sickening! What's worse? The feelings seemed uncontrollable.
And then, enter Michael Jackson on a fluffy cumulus cloud beaming and singing like the angel he is (was? it's no longer figuratively, obvi). Homeboy pulled an Anna Nicole. How disappointing and unoriginal and on so many levels! Thank heavens they haven't released any pictures yet ( Joe Jackson is probably waiting for People to up the ante, but, alas, I digress) - and I can still picture Michael Jackson in that "Free Willy" video heading straight (no pun intended) to the "second star to the right and straight on til morning" - the Neverland in the sky. WTF - I'm starting to sound insane - like if the track marks on my arms are from Demerol, rather than heroin. Anyway. Totes kidding.
So, on the outside I adorned myself with a sequined vest and white glove I found in my attic whilst telling numerous (totally fabricated) tales about how much MJ meant to me and how he was the first black kid from Indiana that made it, and inspired me to dance (Jessie Spano, anyone?) on the inside I was bidding a tearful 'adieu' to my first twenty five years. So sweet, so innocent, so naive. Such a young girl - grown into a woman. Right? Fuck, this is total Hallmark.
What I'm trying to say is, thanx Michael Jackson. You totally made my rather loud (and rather public) grieving socially acceptable. I only had to get one LBD for the occasion! It's so like Michael, isn't it? Always looking out for others . . . after all, we are in a recession.
The foregoing is not to discredit the pain I initially felt (and still am affected by, although it has lessened with the help of the aforementioned Demerol and/and Jager) upon hearing this horrendous news. I guess part of me is sad because he was so young, and so white. Its always a shame to lose a Caucasian youth in their prime. Don't even act like he didn't have another "Man in the Mirror" up his sleeve (or under that blanket he hides his baby with), SWV was chomping at the bit to re-collaborate on a track. When it comes down to it, especially because he was acquitted of all charges, I guess I always assumed he would really love my children. IDK - I know I've been through puberty (decades ago) and am therefore too old for the companionship and comfort a best-friendship with Michael would have offered - but you know, for my kids to be blatantly robbed of such tenderness . . . it's a sadness I won't soon forget.
When it comes down to it - you go girl! (in this case "girl" is pronounced "Michael Jackson") and thank you for inspiring the likes of the Backstreet Boys and Chris Brown (dance-wise; shout out to Joe Jackson for the domestic violence influence! Yes!). And nice try on stealing my birthday thunder. I'll forgive you this once, mainly because I know you won't be around to do it again; and also because "PYT" plays on repeat for my birthday each year anyway - you just saved my favorites the effort of requesting it.
June 30, 2009
June 25, 2009
All in good time.
Goodness - y'all have been eager for the follow-up to Monday's post. I apologize for the delay - however, it is Birthday Week. For those of you unaware, typical B.W. activities include, but are not limited to, taking off work (even if only figuratively), tanning, journaling, reflecting, reveling in the newly published hypocrisy & shame of super-conservatives and the State of South Carolina (not to mention hiking enthusiasts worldwide), blackberry messaging and shopping - natch. I've done all of the above, and now, I think its time to finish up my initial Birthday Week chronicle, since you've all been waiting with bated breath.
To catch up those of you who have stumbled upon this bit of deliciousness - in my last post, I was detailing my lamentations, etc. before I turn twenty-five. I came up with one true regret. To my best friends and millions of readers - I'd like to start by thanking you for your guesses. I received a wide variety of Facebook messages, e-mails and texts regarding what each of you surmised this so-called regret to be. In reading these comments and thoughts, I laughed and cried - mostly because they were such outlandish suggestions. On Tuesday night, I even received a text from an old (2:00am) boo who lovingly said "I know that regret wasn't me. You're welcome!" . . . Clearly, I've taught him well, and no, you're welcome, darling.
So, to come one step closer to almost-ending your suspense (I totes feel like a straight version of Ryan Seacrest with way better blonde highlights) let's crack open our Merriam Webster just to verify we are all, in terms of meaning, on the same page. At first glance, Merriam defines the word regret to mean "sorrow caused by circumstances beyond one's control." False. IDK about y'all but every time I've felt regret its come up in a situation that causes me to say "Fuck, I regret not studying for this test." Yes, I'm sorrowful I'll probably have to make up some ridiculous excuse to my professor with fake tears and all, but there is an understanding that it was obvi my fault, and even though I don't admit this often (ever) but the only thing "out of my control" in those situations is the fact that sixth street bars close at 2:00 am. So, I'm not quite sure that is the correct phrasing, but, the fact that its regretful that every teacher I've ever had has mislead me to that word's true definition, I'll continue.
I am a firm believer in using what you've got, and I try to keep that in mind at all times. Knowing what you all know about me, many of you are aware of my high, real-life dreams and aspirations, and are cognizant of their true wide-reaching, well-rounded nature (because, as one of my favorites says, "Life is about money, cash and hoes" . . . + well-rounded-ness). So while, yes, I wish I would have gone to Africa in college, I wish I would have totes eliminated the stigma associated with sexually transmitted diseases, and facilitated more open discussions in regards to the fact that women have drastically higher HIV+ rates than men, in most cases, through no fault of their own. But the thing is, darlings, that can, and will, still be done. I don't regret those things because I currently am working on them. Not 24/7, like I used to, but, I have a sort-of full time job, motherfuckers. So, until Hope-rah calls me up (or Chels) . . . I have to (wait for it to come full circle) work with what I've got.
To be honest, I don't ever think its too late for anything. Finally paying off my student loans? Okay, I can't pretend, I paid for Texas straight cash. Oh - apologizing to Gymnasty for telling him that he had "a bad mouth, a bad attitude and a baby on the way" in response to his failure to remember Hypnotiq to my apartment one evening in 2004? Sure, I apologized via text just five minutes ago!
One thing, however, that I can't re-do, or do at all anymore, invades the quiet hours I lie awake, mulling over what should've been; and what so could have been. Even though it wasn't out of my control, per se - I have learned the true meaning of "regret" because of this missed opportunity . . . filming and submitting a "Real World" audition tape.
I know, I'm sure you all saw that coming. But, think about it. I mean, if fucking Amaya can get on that shit (not to mention any of the other horrible cast members from the 34820 seasons) - I was a shoo-in. Plus, Amaya was Jewish - and whiny, and not that cute, and she liked that guy with a subtle (not that subtle) lisp and a dopey exterior - Colin. What the fuck. I saw those ho's filming in Austin - boring. But I digress. I don't need to bash others to boost myself - a look in the mirror is more than enough.
So, there you have it. For those of you who were home-schooled (I hope I don't have the displeasure of knowing any of you) or a Jehovah Witness (or Mormon for that matter) - you have to submit your application prior to your 24th birthday.
Damnit. We all know I so would have gotten fame and fortune on that shit - and, in keeping with my track record, not pregnant. While I list a few assets I would've offered to the show - I want you to put on Jennifer Lopez's hit "I'm Real" to play in the background. Adorable? Check. Hilarious? Check. Formerly straddling the line between alcohol dependence and addiction? Check. Able to drink a Long Island Ice Tea in under 3 seconds? Duh. Eagerness to hook-up with multiple boys(in one night)- thereby resolving my "Daddy Issues" and showing the world my "self worth"? Of-fucking-course. Plus, I can cry on cue. In addition, I obvi can totally hold my own, make fucking amazing Eggs Benedict, can be really fucking loud, and, when drinking (which my goal is always to blackout) I can be dared (told) to do anything (Listerine or otherwise). Gah, I've gotta stop listing the reasons I would have been the impetus for the first "Real World" Emmy.
I need to desperately take a Crystal Light & Rum break. Don't get used to this inside look into my heart of stone. They say once you open up your heart to one person, you end up letting everyone in - wasn't that shit in "Beaches" - I mean it is so Bette Middler. Anyway - that statement, in my case, is false. I had a teacher in high school, who, in between sips from her vodka-filled water bottle and Bill Cosby clips would always say: "Worrying is like a rocking chair, it gives you something to do but don't get ya anywhur." (That is dialectical, duh.) Totes true, but, in my case, by "worrying" I mean "possessing emotions."
I think all of this is best said by George Villers, 1st Duke of Buckingham (and also 1st "Duke" of King James I - if you get what I'm saying, which, I hope you do. Its okay - I'm liberal.):
To catch up those of you who have stumbled upon this bit of deliciousness - in my last post, I was detailing my lamentations, etc. before I turn twenty-five. I came up with one true regret. To my best friends and millions of readers - I'd like to start by thanking you for your guesses. I received a wide variety of Facebook messages, e-mails and texts regarding what each of you surmised this so-called regret to be. In reading these comments and thoughts, I laughed and cried - mostly because they were such outlandish suggestions. On Tuesday night, I even received a text from an old (2:00am) boo who lovingly said "I know that regret wasn't me. You're welcome!" . . . Clearly, I've taught him well, and no, you're welcome, darling.
So, to come one step closer to almost-ending your suspense (I totes feel like a straight version of Ryan Seacrest with way better blonde highlights) let's crack open our Merriam Webster just to verify we are all, in terms of meaning, on the same page. At first glance, Merriam defines the word regret to mean "sorrow caused by circumstances beyond one's control." False. IDK about y'all but every time I've felt regret its come up in a situation that causes me to say "Fuck, I regret not studying for this test." Yes, I'm sorrowful I'll probably have to make up some ridiculous excuse to my professor with fake tears and all, but there is an understanding that it was obvi my fault, and even though I don't admit this often (ever) but the only thing "out of my control" in those situations is the fact that sixth street bars close at 2:00 am. So, I'm not quite sure that is the correct phrasing, but, the fact that its regretful that every teacher I've ever had has mislead me to that word's true definition, I'll continue.
I am a firm believer in using what you've got, and I try to keep that in mind at all times. Knowing what you all know about me, many of you are aware of my high, real-life dreams and aspirations, and are cognizant of their true wide-reaching, well-rounded nature (because, as one of my favorites says, "Life is about money, cash and hoes" . . . + well-rounded-ness). So while, yes, I wish I would have gone to Africa in college, I wish I would have totes eliminated the stigma associated with sexually transmitted diseases, and facilitated more open discussions in regards to the fact that women have drastically higher HIV+ rates than men, in most cases, through no fault of their own. But the thing is, darlings, that can, and will, still be done. I don't regret those things because I currently am working on them. Not 24/7, like I used to, but, I have a sort-of full time job, motherfuckers. So, until Hope-rah calls me up (or Chels) . . . I have to (wait for it to come full circle) work with what I've got.
To be honest, I don't ever think its too late for anything. Finally paying off my student loans? Okay, I can't pretend, I paid for Texas straight cash. Oh - apologizing to Gymnasty for telling him that he had "a bad mouth, a bad attitude and a baby on the way" in response to his failure to remember Hypnotiq to my apartment one evening in 2004? Sure, I apologized via text just five minutes ago!
One thing, however, that I can't re-do, or do at all anymore, invades the quiet hours I lie awake, mulling over what should've been; and what so could have been. Even though it wasn't out of my control, per se - I have learned the true meaning of "regret" because of this missed opportunity . . . filming and submitting a "Real World" audition tape.
I know, I'm sure you all saw that coming. But, think about it. I mean, if fucking Amaya can get on that shit (not to mention any of the other horrible cast members from the 34820 seasons) - I was a shoo-in. Plus, Amaya was Jewish - and whiny, and not that cute, and she liked that guy with a subtle (not that subtle) lisp and a dopey exterior - Colin. What the fuck. I saw those ho's filming in Austin - boring. But I digress. I don't need to bash others to boost myself - a look in the mirror is more than enough.
So, there you have it. For those of you who were home-schooled (I hope I don't have the displeasure of knowing any of you) or a Jehovah Witness (or Mormon for that matter) - you have to submit your application prior to your 24th birthday.
Damnit. We all know I so would have gotten fame and fortune on that shit - and, in keeping with my track record, not pregnant. While I list a few assets I would've offered to the show - I want you to put on Jennifer Lopez's hit "I'm Real" to play in the background. Adorable? Check. Hilarious? Check. Formerly straddling the line between alcohol dependence and addiction? Check. Able to drink a Long Island Ice Tea in under 3 seconds? Duh. Eagerness to hook-up with multiple boys(in one night)- thereby resolving my "Daddy Issues" and showing the world my "self worth"? Of-fucking-course. Plus, I can cry on cue. In addition, I obvi can totally hold my own, make fucking amazing Eggs Benedict, can be really fucking loud, and, when drinking (which my goal is always to blackout) I can be dared (told) to do anything (Listerine or otherwise). Gah, I've gotta stop listing the reasons I would have been the impetus for the first "Real World" Emmy.
I need to desperately take a Crystal Light & Rum break. Don't get used to this inside look into my heart of stone. They say once you open up your heart to one person, you end up letting everyone in - wasn't that shit in "Beaches" - I mean it is so Bette Middler. Anyway - that statement, in my case, is false. I had a teacher in high school, who, in between sips from her vodka-filled water bottle and Bill Cosby clips would always say: "Worrying is like a rocking chair, it gives you something to do but don't get ya anywhur." (That is dialectical, duh.) Totes true, but, in my case, by "worrying" I mean "possessing emotions."
I think all of this is best said by George Villers, 1st Duke of Buckingham (and also 1st "Duke" of King James I - if you get what I'm saying, which, I hope you do. Its okay - I'm liberal.):
"Methinks I see the wanton hours flee,In summation, drats! Thanks for nothing, Chronos! (aka Father Time)
And as they pass, turn back and laugh at me."
June 22, 2009
In honor of a quarter century . . . Part 1.
. . . and a very good morning to you! I trust this past weekend was abso delicious and filled with love, laughter and memorable moments. Anyway, my birthday is quickly approaching - exciting, to say the least. I don't have to fish for compliments or birthday well wishes, so you can save your breath. I'm mentioning the above for a few reasons, but most importantly, as a portal into my soul, if I had one (see, I said it for you!).
As the anniversary of my entrance into this world looms upon us - IDK why, but I get very contemplative. Like, I'm more or less 25 - and y'all are so, so, so terribly lucky I'm still "all up in this bitch" to quote a favorite hip-hop artist. I nearly died when I was twelve years old and, on the up and up, IDK how the fuck I'm not hanging in some closet in West Campus/North Campus/Austin/Dallas/Houston/Raleigh/Apex/Chapel Hill/Durham, yikes! Suffice it to say, I am more mindful than normal of my innumerable blessings during birthday month. As such, I also consider the imperfect aspects of this life I live, which, auspiciously, are very few. I know, you're thinking - "Less than perfect? Psh, yeah right!" But, alas, little darlings, I do have a signle, unaccompanied regret. Yesterday evening, pulling a total Raven, my roommate/mother probed, rather poignantly, if I would re-do or change anything looking back on how I've done . . . all of anything and everything.
I shot back an immediate, albeit impetuous, "Fuck no, dudette!" As we sat there, in the cool June evening breeze, the song "I Hope You Dance" started to faintly cycle behind my thoughts. I mulled over all the success, love, laughter, friendship and pure fucking luck I've come across in my 288 months here on earth. After a few seconds, apparently, a scowl spread across my face. At first, I suspected it was the wailing of Lee Ann Womack (accompanied by my roommate, of course), but after I told them both to shut the fuck up, I realized, yes, there is one instance that has become my life's great attrition (I mean, I guess). I told Joan that I did have one lamentation, and she began to list off the things she thought it might be.
She inquired, "The semester of the 0.0 GPA? Not working to your full potential in college? Not working towards anything at all in college? Your cognizance of binge drinking? The boy haircut you got in fifth grade? Not being more respectful to your Mother? Pre-marital sex? Dressing Neville as Santa Claus so you could put him on a roof and sing that horrible Christmas Carol?"
To which my answers were, respectively: "Nah. Nope. Not really. Binge drinking has kept me alive and introduced me to a number of celebrities & interesting characters (JJ Redick, Lance Armstrong, Steadman Graham, Perry [convicted of murder, I later found out, but so hilar], Ginger [my favorite real life hooker] & Tom Green, in order of increasing importance). The haircut was your idea, bitch. Its hard to respect your mother when you look like a Lil' Rascal. Fuck no! and That was my Christmas wish, Neville obliged."
Joan was shocked! She had no idea what it could be. While she went inside to get me a fresh Diet Coke, glass of ice and a straw, I realized I was ready to come out with it, figuratively speaking, and open the smallest piece of this stone heart up to her, and the world.
As the anniversary of my entrance into this world looms upon us - IDK why, but I get very contemplative. Like, I'm more or less 25 - and y'all are so, so, so terribly lucky I'm still "all up in this bitch" to quote a favorite hip-hop artist. I nearly died when I was twelve years old and, on the up and up, IDK how the fuck I'm not hanging in some closet in West Campus/North Campus/Austin/Dallas/Houston/Raleigh/Apex/Chapel Hill/Durham, yikes! Suffice it to say, I am more mindful than normal of my innumerable blessings during birthday month. As such, I also consider the imperfect aspects of this life I live, which, auspiciously, are very few. I know, you're thinking - "Less than perfect? Psh, yeah right!" But, alas, little darlings, I do have a signle, unaccompanied regret. Yesterday evening, pulling a total Raven, my roommate/mother probed, rather poignantly, if I would re-do or change anything looking back on how I've done . . . all of anything and everything.
I shot back an immediate, albeit impetuous, "Fuck no, dudette!" As we sat there, in the cool June evening breeze, the song "I Hope You Dance" started to faintly cycle behind my thoughts. I mulled over all the success, love, laughter, friendship and pure fucking luck I've come across in my 288 months here on earth. After a few seconds, apparently, a scowl spread across my face. At first, I suspected it was the wailing of Lee Ann Womack (accompanied by my roommate, of course), but after I told them both to shut the fuck up, I realized, yes, there is one instance that has become my life's great attrition (I mean, I guess). I told Joan that I did have one lamentation, and she began to list off the things she thought it might be.
She inquired, "The semester of the 0.0 GPA? Not working to your full potential in college? Not working towards anything at all in college? Your cognizance of binge drinking? The boy haircut you got in fifth grade? Not being more respectful to your Mother? Pre-marital sex? Dressing Neville as Santa Claus so you could put him on a roof and sing that horrible Christmas Carol?"
To which my answers were, respectively: "Nah. Nope. Not really. Binge drinking has kept me alive and introduced me to a number of celebrities & interesting characters (JJ Redick, Lance Armstrong, Steadman Graham, Perry [convicted of murder, I later found out, but so hilar], Ginger [my favorite real life hooker] & Tom Green, in order of increasing importance). The haircut was your idea, bitch. Its hard to respect your mother when you look like a Lil' Rascal. Fuck no! and That was my Christmas wish, Neville obliged."
Joan was shocked! She had no idea what it could be. While she went inside to get me a fresh Diet Coke, glass of ice and a straw, I realized I was ready to come out with it, figuratively speaking, and open the smallest piece of this stone heart up to her, and the world.
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