Where the hell did March go?
Between the media smear campaign against an unjustly murdered teenager, the backlash over The Hunger Games staying true to plot and casting black actors, and the response to Issa Rae’s “Awkward Black Girl” winning the Shorty Award for Best Web Series, I’d say racism showed its ass this week. I don’t mean a nice J. Lo or Beyonce ass, but man in drag dressed like a grandma ass. Just unpleasant and disgusting.
I haven’t had much to say about the controversy coming out of Florida right now, but I find myself pausing whenever I see people with Skittles. Then I think of my 19-year-old nephew and I find myself tearing up. So I think about something else.
I got my first tattoo a good ten years after my friends got theirs. Guess I’m a late bloomer till the end.
It’s pretty cool looking down at my wrist and thinking “Hey. I have a tattoo.” You know what’s not cool? The itching/peeling part of the healing process. That part can kick rocks.
The tat is doing its job, because I’ve had a few moments this week where the reminder to chill out and “breathe” came in handy.
I’m obsessed with dates. I can’t run down every milestone of my life, but I can pull some pretty obscure dates without much thought. For example, I met my first boyfriend, known here as Dave* on February 21, 1997. I can also tell you that I lost my virginity on October 4, 2001. My grandmother died on December 13, 2010, oddly enough an exact ten years after she had her first stroke, December 13, 2000. I never knew my deceased father, but I can easily recall that he was born on April 11, 1934. The blowout argument that led to the end of my relationship with CJ occurred on June 25, 2010. My first day of college was August 11, 2002. I joined Twitter on September 18, 2008. My last penis-assisted orgasm was… Wait. I’m over-sharing, but you get the point. I’m good with dates.
For the last few days, my brain has decided that it doesn’t like me and wants to spend every hour of my life reminding me of why I ain’t shit.
Needless to say, it’s been a rough few days. Not outwardly, but mentally. I need some quiet up there. I keep saying I need a vacation, but my brain would just be along for the ride telling me that I’m weak for needing to rest. I don’t need a break from my life. I need a break from my brain.
Anybody know where I can get a temporary lobotomy? Just for the weekend.
Just a girl with a writing habit, using a blog to share my stories and passions. These are the tales, interests, and observations of the quiet nerd in the corner of the bookstore; the professional woman strutting down the street in slacks clutching her Blackberry; the dork in bed by 9pm on a Saturday night; and the B-girl in the middle of the dance floor getting down in her sensible shoes. Welcome to the world of The Skinny Black Girl.
