I’m working on being less closed-minded about the idea of committed relationships. I promise, I am. But the conversations I read about relationships make me want to build a fucking moat around my apartment and purchase a fire-breathing dragon to chill on my front porch.
This is especially the case when it comes to debates about married women keeping or hyphenating their names and women who don’t want children. Like, there has to be some breed of man somewhere whose manliness doesn’t rely on snatching away my surname and dropping demon spawn in my womb, right? In Europe, maybe? They’re definitely not on Twitter.
If they don’t exist, there’s always that moat.
And friends with benefits.
Beyonce in the February issue of GQ? Yes. Lord, yes.
I’m a feminist who loves Bey. Put that in your intellectual pipe and smoke it.
After a year and three months in my apartment, I’m finally decorating. I screwed up the first time around with adding decor by a) convincing myself I had to decorate and b) thinking there was a right or wrong way to do it. This time, I’m not perusing websites or taking decor advice. I’m choosing things that I can afford and make me feel good. For example, a “bookcase” comprised of black milk crates and having Instagram pics I’ve taken blown up for wall decor. It feels less overwhelming than my first attempt because I’m not trying to achieve a “look.” I’m making it mine.
In a conversation with a friend this week, I said “I think I just have a higher tolerance for aint shit [people] than most folks.” If I feel like you’d scrap for me or I can call you in a 2:00AM emergency and count on you to answer your phone, I can forgive almost all of your sins.
I guess that’s a “hood value.” If you ride for me, you have a friend for life.
Peyton Manning going into the playoffs is a great opportunity for me to practice the Zen principle “Expect nothing.” But sweet Buddha, this shit is gonna be hard.
My greatest accomplishment this week? “Beats, Rhymes, & Amore,” a 60+ song playlist of my favorite love/like/lust-themed rap songs. If you’re on Spotify and like a little thug with your love, check it out.
Saturday is my mother’s birthday. It’s also the 30th anniversary of my conception. But the important thing is that I get to celebrate the wonderful woman who thought enough of me to bring me into the world and take care of me for 18+ years. I pray I age with as much pizazz as she does.