With the recent death of Soul Train creator and entertainment pioneer, Don Cornelius, I’ve seen a lot of conversations around the “taboo” of suicide. When I first heard that Don died of a self-inflicted gunshot to the head, I made sure to steer clear of the conversation. More often that not, in the wake of a tragedy, social media becomes dangerous ground full of preconceived notions, half-cocked opinions treated as facts, and an utter lack of empathy. On most days, I can navigate the mine fields without incident, but as the survivor of a suicide attempt, I knew that the wrong words about Mr. Cornelius’ death would push my buttons.
I Really Like Your Hat
Lately I’ve been on a giving kick. Being an intensely self-involved introvert lends itself to miserly behavior, and I realize that I’ve been too blessed in my life to not give some of that energy back to the world. Because I’m a firm believer in changing through baby steps, I’ve started with the easiest gift I can give: kind words.
The Ballad of Jax Teller (and other loyal, but not always faithful dudes)
[WARNING: IF YOU'RE GETTING CAUGHT UP ON OLD SEASONS OF SONS OF ANARCHY, THIS POST CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS.]
Monday night, a debate about a faithfulness versus loyalty exploded onto my timeline. I’m sure this debate was inspired by one of the many Real Lives of Silly Ass Women shows that come on VH1, and while I could have done my due diligence as a writer and researched the plotline that ignited the discussion, I decided against it. For one, I have no desire to know what’s going on, on these shows. For two, I have no desire to give an analysis of said shows in my blog space. Just… No.
The comments regarding faithfulness versus loyalty, however, intrigued me. There seem to be two schools of thought on the issue: One school believes that a man, who is unfaithful, is disloyal. Point blank. The other school believes that a man who occasionally dips in some side sauces, can still be considered loyal.
Act Like a Lady, Drink Like a Man?
Like most epiphanies that occur in the life of SBG, this one started with drinks. It was December and I was out having “Thank God the Semester Is Over” drinks with my fiction workshop classmates. We sat around the table at a watering hole near campus and I listened as the older, MFA program vets spilled their thoughts on everything to the validity of the degree to writing styles to which contemporary authors were douchebags and bitches. Somehow the conversation got around to alcohol and I did a quick mental sweep of the drinks on the table. I counted one beer, one glass of wine, one gin and tonic, one vodka with light cranberry, and then there was my drink: a tequila sunrise. Something didn’t belong at this table.
