Mad Passionate Love, I Say, Mad Mad Mad

Trust myself in the process. Through the process. Have faith in another person’s choices. Because if it weren’t possible; if people couldn’t change for the better (or potentially even the worse) all the psychiatrists on this wide universe would be out of business. Side of the road. Luggage in hand. And let me tell you, I’ve known and conversed with quite a many, and none of them have empty pockets.

Because it is maddening. Going against your best judgments to go beyond what you know you’ve been conditioned to be thus far. Because it has to fully unteach you what every other bad experience has taught you. It has to be the feeling with your heart that says ‘go slow’—but the feeling in your mind that says ‘you still have to go.’

Because it has to be the big hugs for the small reasons.

The consistencies. Never wanting to leave.

It’s got to be wide and mad.

I don’t know how to feel it anymore, do you?

 I don’t know I’ve really felt it before.

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This Is The Problem I Want To Have

We’re all seeking that special person who is right for us. But if you’ve been through enough relationships, you begin to suspect there’s no right person, just different flavors of wrong. Why is this? Because you yourself are wrong in some way, and you seek out partners who are wrong in some complementary way. But it takes a lot of living to grow fully into your own wrongness. And it isn’t until you finally run up against your deepest demons, your unsolvable problems—the ones that make you truly who you are—that we’re ready to find a lifelong mate. Only then do you finally know what you’re looking for. You’re looking for the wrong person. But not just any wrong person: the right wrong person—someone you lovingly gaze upon and think, “This is the problem I want to have.”

—Galway Kinnell

What is this? Who am I now? If I like her better does that mean who I was wasn’t real at all? What if I made myself up? Does this make me a fiction writer?  What if I look for the worst to ‘save face,’ but what if it’s steady? Am I going to ruin it now? What if I fall apart? What if it never comes together? What if it comes together as I fall apart?  Does it matter? When it stays the same doesn’t it still change? What if I want nothing to change? How many dishes can I break a year and still stay sane? Anybody know a good body shop, my car needs work? I need a new car. I want books that need a ladder to get to in my house. I wanna share my wishlist. I think he might listen. I really mind the turbulence, I’m ready for the landing. I’m really going to try my damnedest. This is the problem I want to have.

 

She Think I’m Soft ‘Cause I Write Nonfiction

I plan for the worst. Hope for the best. I fret. There’s always a time limit. When the time runs out, I kickbox or I run. When I was a little girl, my Dad used to walk into our family room on  Saturday mornings–maybe seven am-ish, and I’d be playing mystery computer games.

I played this one called “The Legend of Kyrandia.” I actually wouldn’t sleep until I figured out the next puzzle, lest I’d sooner fall out across the keyboard. It was a mesh between trying to figure out what it was that unlocked some secret magical door, and what it was that left you worse off than you were before. The trees would grow oversized spiraling roots and tentacles like octupuses—grabbing like flytraps. It was magical realism, animated. I actually wanted to figure out why so-and-so got stoned and how I might be able to un-stone him.

It was almost as if my imagination took over and became the video-story. To this day, I refuse to watch scary movies. Watching scary movies is a surefire preventative measure for me getting any sleep. I suffer from night terrors, not as bad as incessant snoring, yet still horrific. I do not kid, it’s pretty fantastic.

Early on, I learned to keep myself comfortable, busy. I learned how to juggle laundry between basketball practices for my son, spinach onion tomato omelettes, school work, cleaning, conference calls, grocery shopping, making up bed,  proposals, quotes, fashion shows, writing deadlines, and masterful ad-libs and emergencies via magicianship galore. No blinking.

I’ve gotten to a place where I’ve realized I have to trust in someone else to reach my fullest potential. It’s called delegating. The concept is the same as my hairstylist hiring help to wash and condition my hair while she styles other clients; then later, she’ll finish by pressing, primping, and styling me. This way she reaches everyone. This works in the same way corporate organizations have hierarchy levels. This is the same way problems often take more than one brainchild to compute.

When I initially started this quick write I felt a twinge of sadness that I’d been programmed in this worrisome way. That my loads of responsibilities and experiences were so heavy and that I was in dire need of a vacation from myself. Would I even know how to take one? I’ve gone to to New York a few times. Mostly for business, once for fun and I didn’t have any. I realized one of the places I most admire I’ve been many times and yet never actually seen. Being this way has always been a survival mechanism for me. Being driven is a way of life and those that have it, have it, and those that don’t—you can sooner expect them to never have it.

I have to juggle the balance between not letting my happiness depend on the things I may lose, and trusting others to represent me well.

Often, I’m hard-pressed to tell people I write nonfiction. Why? Because my writing experience includes fashion writing and editing work. Because publishing work/seeking representation, and re-writing takes time. Time, I tend to not have much of, because I’m busy writing and working. I was at a gig that had a lot of Press folks not too long ago. I was with a friend of mine and I had to say those fatal words.

“I write nonfiction.” Her eyes hit the floor and went wayward.

Obviously she’s only read fiction, that—or writing wasn’t a profession she respected all that much. She turned away nonchalantly and started talking to some other people behind her.

“O, she think I’m soft ’cause I write nonfiction???” I exclaimed to my friend, puffing out my shoulders and poking out my lips. At this point he’s laughing hysterically.

“Just watch, one o’ these days my nonfiction is gonna blow her whole shit up”

“Let’s go before you make any more threats to the innocent via your yet to be published work” he mumbled at me.

She has no idea but her character would definitely be dead if I ever write magical realism. Death by the herculean keyboard and my irritant craving for a red velvet cupcake.

May the odds be ever never in her flavor.  Happily better after. The End.

A Typewriter Confession

Putting together a few new essays to publish and then this happened, thought I’d share.

Mastering The Art of Nothing

It doesn't matter, you didn't hurt my feelings, I listen to rap music now, lol. I've mastered the art of No. You.

  1. Try not calling for a week or so and then explain it’s because you knew I’ve been busy. Really, all that you knew because you called so much?
  2. Blame it on the al-al-al-al-alcohol.
  3. Fill your glass so overfull you can’t help but notice how empty it is, you know, with so much empty water-nothingness in there.
  4. Work at forgiveness, realize that resentment and forgiveness don’t generally hold hands, they both have “an open field in the rain-shower effect.” Think about it harder.
  5. Sleep well. Wake in Spirographic circles. And look over at the nothing next to you. Now, ahhh, doesn’t that feel… don’t you feel anything at all?

Great then, you’ve mastered it.

“Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. “Pooh?” he whispered.
“Yes, Piglet?”
“Nothing,” said Piglet, taking Pooh’s hand. “I just wanted to be sure of you.”

—Winnie The Pooh

Didn’t you have this art of nothingness at home as a kid? I sure did.

The Only Thing That Makes It A Part Of Your Life Is That You Keep Thinking About It

Well that and the fact that it obviously persists in your subconscious forcing you to better yourself so that you can have more options. More. More. More.

Some more pretty stuffalus, I'm afraid I don't need

I have ordered yet another tea pot, from For Life. Because most of my life has been built on the things I think I need. In my defense, I’ve wanted this color, style, and stainless steel tea infusing mechanism for quite some time, but still, it was not a need.

On my quest to better myself, I’ve found the things I cannot stop thinking of inadvertently always have to do with a quest for something higher. The promise to make me better. I refuse to become this person that isn’t inspired. So much as so when someone asks what I’ve been up to I shrug and say “o just remodeling the inner beings of my kitchen cabinets, re-purposing notations on a new essay about why names matter more than cleverness, accomplishments, and confidence, while fitting in a new transformation of self, feeding my puppy treats and teaching her not to have anxiety attacks while I’m on the phone with a new **like interest** and having a contemplative discussion with my imagination about how I might get eleven loads of laundry folded up before Saturday morning, you know usual stuff.”

"You can borrow my pencil," "But I don't need a pencil"

I’m in my head a little. I’m in my head a lot. See? Quests for more. Must divy up collective thoughts. Piece together new algorithms to have better timing. I get tired of things too easily. I’ve written a few things away. I’m a talk-a-holic, and collectively a good listener if I value what you’re saying if you’re making good sense. I want to hand a few people a Shut The Fuck Up pencil. Tell them to go write it all down. List life.

So, what do I think about you don’t ask? Well…

  1. Time management opportunities/worries and harps on failures and rejections—another essay? Shout out to Yuvi Zalkow, ❤
  2. Chik-fil-A
  3. Finishing the six writing jobs I have in queue
  4. Memoir revisions, err, draft three, might as well be draft 3,245
  5. All these expectations. What happened to my jumbo dreamscape—backdrop the glass windows and book-covered wall décor? Please don’t tell me I’ve subconsciously given up? (cue more worry)

WTF, figure out your life.

Perhaps one might make their lists on some WTF post-its. I dunno. Just a thought. I’m still having nightmares. This time, they involve excessive amounts of exercise, this scary lady I used to know when I was a kid—and her murdering her husband in a bathtub (too much SVU, maybe?) and me sans Julia, as her character living the movie “Runaway Bride.”

Must force myself to annotate book, re-wire my thinking, and love how far I’ve come.

Must take my time, delight in the fascinations and intrigues of humanity, the entertainment and multitudes I’ve yet to find of my experiences, and the temporary vagueness of this post for lack of what I call nonfictionary-braveness.

Must compete with spellbinding originals to be myself in all walks and waylays. Must figure out how to have more belief in things again. Think with me.

And now for my usual awful and sentimental ending that makes you feel like you read something that was worth wasting a few minutes of your life… this is what I’m striving for, why I’m bettering myself, why individuals who don’t contribute to the betterment of my own economy-(lol)-need to take a shut the fuck up pencil and a WTF post it, and go think about something.

I sure do.

“It is possible to be honest every day. It is possible to live so that others can trust us-can trust our words, our motives, and our actions. Our examples are vital to those who sit at our feet as well as those who watch from a distance. Our own constant self-improvement will become as a polar star to those within our individual spheres of influence. They will remember longer what they saw in us than what they heard from us. Our attitude, our point of view, can make a tremendous difference.”
—Gordon B. Hinckley, Standing for Something

But You Still Love My Naggin’ Ass

I am the woman who would put this on her man’s dash.

I am also the woman who will cook him lemon chicken with rosemary in red high heels, and might I add that they may not come off throughout the night, if you know what I mean. But I am also a woman who needs things to get done. I like reminders.

These are the top five reasons I am an absolute f*&%$#@* nag.

  1. It’s innate, my Mama did it, sister did it, and my entire childhood was polluted with naggerific tendencies. It’s not an excuse, it’s just why.
  2. I want the best for you baby, for us, don’t you see it?
  3. Perhaps because I’ve only ever had experiences with people in which I have to nag or nothing will ever get done.
  4. I’m a mother and that came as a package deal.
  5. And finally, because it’s one of the few things I can do that will incite an immediate reaction. I like immediate reactions.

I’m going to generalize here, which I don’t like to do—but for the sake of the topic, I don’t mean everyone, but some and possibly even most.

What’s the worst thing a woman can do you ask? I answer. Nag. Yes, we know it is annoying, and I can even venture to say, until we nag (a repeatedly whiny asking over and over of the same thing)— or get louder, you’re generally going to ignore us until it gets… urgent for you. 

It’s like something else large has to be at stake. I like things at stake.

I feel like there’s this misconception, this misconception that a woman’s perfect man needs to be half-naked washing dishes. I’m here to tell you, as desirable as that might be, that isn’t what (and if I can speak for the women that I know) we want.

I, coupled with the few power women spoke on THIS topic all too recently, and it all falls in line with what I’ve always known.

Nagging has more to do with feeling alone with regards to responsibility, while a significant other should  share the heaviness of my load. Teamwork, go teamwork. Nagging has more to do with attention span, or lack thereof, and acknowledging when something has been asked, (even in a sensual way) and still no concerted efforts have been made.

I can remember the feeling of utter helplessness, the hindrance. The resentment and frustration, like I’m gonna “crawl up the wallside,” because I’ve asked and been disregarded for things that are (at the top of my list as) less important—ie: workouts, playing basketball, drinking beer, watching Lakers or Raiders, or my own personal favorite—feet kicked up in the lazy chair.

I want my feet kicked up in the lazy chair? But what am I doing instead? Refilling the puppy bowl, helping revamp his personal statement or CV, sorting laundry yet again, matching up his missing socks, replacing the toilet tissue and the paper towels back on the roll—because none of y’all see that sh*t is empty. All I’d like is for a man who notices things, acknowledges what I’ve said, and is present in the relationship he is in.

Since I’m currently single, I stand to warn a potential that, yes, I nag—with the most tender care and in the most yielding  and loving way possible. I nag.

Don’t worry, I use positive reinforcement, too. Very positive. I like positive.

What about you?

Picture credit: Jumbo post-it note

If I Would Have Known That Inviting You Into My Bedroom Would Make You Turn Down The Invitation To All Of My Other Rooms I Would Have Never Been So Hospitable

I started writing on this site for a few reasons, but mainly to share. Sharing has a way of coming around full circle—but not always in the way one might expect. This is nonfiction so as a preamble I tell my friends and family that they might all be written about, although I never use names unless I’ve made them up. So, now, after having lost two people I cared about due to the content of my blog, I’ve decided to write even more personal shit. Ta-daa.

Topic of discussion today is sleeping with a man/woman too soon, which has been written and re-written, but probably not as ridiculously. I feel like the Salesperson that indubitably gets sold, but here go I:

The courting process is built on assumptions. ASSumptions that change with conversation and habits. I’m a woman, and generally, we are creatures of habit, but that can be said for some men as well. If I go out on a date with a person, I’m immediately wrestling with ASSumptions, because we use them to make good decisions about strangers. So, if the man I’m on a date with keeps darting his eyes across the room and not making good eye contact, he either has a girlfriend that’s a high profile detective, or he’s trying to see who will witness him killing me. I’m going to assume my ass to the bathroom and never return.

The same applies to the habits that form if you were to make it out of that date alive, deeming him an ok guy. Next you have the text messages. Now, I’m all for text messages, but a lot can be said about text tone, and so much more about a person that picks up the phone and uhh, calls me. It’s damn near like receiving snail mail, now-a-days. Score! But secondly, and more seriously what we are learning about in between this time, is if we can build trust in a person or not. This is synched with the building of memories. We are finding out what a future (if there is any) will be like with this person, and we are building rapport. This is why sharing about one’s past or talking about childhood at any point is important to friendships. Building on those foundations—just as important to relationships. Or standby to get separated into a box marked, “for now.”

Jozen Cummings of Until I Get Married wrote about this very topic a few weeks back and said “If you sleep with a woman too soon, and you suck, she will leave you. Wait for her to fall for you emotionally first, then deliver the sub-par performance you’re capable of.” So real.

But from a woman’s perspective, and only because my besties and I were speaking on this very situation… if we like you and you suck in bed, we’ll try again, and sometimes even again, just to make sure it wasn’t something we could’ve worked with. All of whom shall remain nameless (yes first hand my friends and I have vouched for these shenanigans) men have sex for thrill, for the happy end, for the fact of doing it. Sometimes they’re really into you, sometimes not so much. Women? We have sex, mostly (not always, but definitely mostly) for love. We want it to go somewhere. Maybe not to the moonlight and back, but we want it to go somewhere. 

“Men, they jump for money. Women, for love.”

Man On A Ledge, Movie 2012

What I said it! Women are emotional beings. I mean occasionally you get the girl who has conditioned herself to separate the two—lust, love. But even in doing so, a woman is a liar if she says to herself that she wasn’t hoping for that good guy afterwards. We ALL are. Get that fellas? All of us are still counting on you, so no this is not a male bashing party.

So when is the right time, you ask?

Ah, we can go into vibe, conversation, I’d usually measure for commonality. Discussing value can go on and on… every situation was different. A guy friend of mine said he’d slept with a girl after a drunken night, a stranger, and said that afterwards—that awkwardnesss, he felt her embarrassment, for her. He said when he woke all he could think of when he looked at her was, and in his exact words:

“I don’t think I would like to do that ever again with you.”

Another of my friends has trouble with caring at all emotionally thereafter. She said her proof is in the days to come. My sister married her high school sweet tart, also the father of her children—and still to this day will claim she wasn’t pregnant with her first child when she rushed to the altar. I slept with a guy for a year and a half and kept telling my friends he was “a one night stand.” Eventually, my bestie said to me, “it’s been a very loooooooong night then, dontcha think?” I didn’t leave him because he didn’t commit to me, I stopped calling him because he wasn’t honest with himself or his feelings.

I’m saying all of that to say this: The theory is you have to kiss a few frogs. Or, err &*%#. Which is personally frightening for me since my emotions aren’t controlled by anything physically (only), but rather uncontrolled when taken into oblong loops and upside down dances. I find that when taking chances, my best judgments elude me. Especially in moments like these:

“I respect you,” he murmured. “and your views. I think of you as an equal. I respect your brains, and all those big words you like to use. But I also want to rip your clothes off and have sex with you until you scream and cry and see God.”
—Lisa Kleypas, Smooth Talking Stranger

The point I want to make is that it isn’t the sex on the first, second, or thirty-ninth date that matters. It’s the intimacy in the moments that develop far before that. The part that keeps your thoughts twirling, even after whatever excuse isn’t given. Even after it’s all lost and over and you know you knew better, but you didn’t do any better because you knew too much better. The part you maybe should’ve fought for, but pride—she got in the way, and then when she didn’t it was too late. The part that’s shy when approached now, fumbles, foibles. The part that doesn’t understand why it crumbles so quickly, wait a year—no bueno. Wait weeks, months, days, hours, give each other raunchy looks across karaoke bars. Doesn’t matter, much, the outcome has all been the same when measured against others’ experiences. I’ve asked men, women—randomly—strangers, friends. When is it a good time to invite a man into your bedroom, with the hopes that he doesn’t turn down the invitation to all of your other rooms? A bust. It’s all subjective.

I’ve heard the typical, ‘a person looses interest, when it wanes, and if they do it wasn’t meant anyway.’ I’ve heard as long as you know their parents’ last names, I’ve heard that if you hope enough, fairy tales come true. I’m waiting on the latter. Well, first the tiff, then the kiss:

“I was just thinking if the sex with you is one-tenth as fun as arguing with you. I’ll be one happy bastard.”
“You’ll never find out. You——–”
He kissed me.
—Lisa Kleypas, Smooth Talking Stranger

What classifies the Good Girls from the Bad Girls, really? The ones whose partners can be counted on one hand? Love might have me mistaken, but I can rest assured I’ve never slept with anyone I couldn’t see myself with permanently—not planning showers or picking out kitchen tiles, but I’ll admit, I am a force of romanticized nature. Is it ruining me? Us all?

“For women especially, virginity has become the easy answer—the morality quick fix. You can be vapid, stupid, and unethical, but so long as you’ve never had sex, you’re a “good” (i.e. “moral”) girl and therefore worthy of praise.”

—Jessica Valenti, The purity Myth: How America’s Obsession with Virginity is Hurting Young Women

Yes, there’s the treasure idea. The “kept” woman, but at what point does it start to matter less about how fast a person jumps in the sack with another person, and more about the two people individually and how they work together? More about the way they trust each other, and understand each other. What about the married people I asked that both said “you never really know your husband/wife anyway, but we just keep trying?” What about the couple I asked that’s been married eight years and they both (without consulting each other) said “we make each other the best versions of ourselves” Or the homeboy who said he would never still be with his girl if the sex wasn’t sOoO good? Or the girl I went to undergrad school with, who said she always sleeps with a man the first night and it’s never not become a relationship.

Or sometimes I wonder if I can’t always do better than what’s in front of me? Is it all just a ploy? Drake said “all those other men were practice.” y’know?  My best girl and I fought over the double standard: that a womanizer is whatever, but if a female has three partners she’s a, what’s that called now, “ratchet?” I keep hearing it.

I’ll put it this way, for me:

“Sex isn’t good unless it means something. It doesn’t necessarily need to mean “love” and it doesn’t necessarily need to happen in a relationship, but it does need to mean intimacy and connection…There exists a very fine line between being sexually liberated and being sexually used.”
—Laura Sessions Stepp, Unhooked

There’s tons more to dating than sex, but sex is the part that makes the difference in loopy or comatose. A little turned around, or head across arm on the steering wheel. A little flutterbye in the tummylovely, or I swallowed a sick whale flapping in there.

Ah, lesson learned.

illustrator weheartit, quote from yours truly.

But Then, When We Talk, Nothing Changes So She Chooses Silence

Silence says so much, sometimes too much.

So many times have I walked into places and said hello in my “spunky-chipper-I-just-raged-up-all-my energy-for-this-very-moment—and I’m not sure why they haven’t said a damn thing back to me—voice, and then in return I’ve gotten, silence.

At that point I can tell this is gonna be fun. You see, I was raised by an introvert, and an extrovert.

My mother—a wildly popular extrovert from Baton Rouge, Louisiana threw big parties and in the midst of them raised me on common southern and sometimes just plain ole “old folks” rules. What were they:

  1. Speak when spoken to
  2. Stay outta “grown folks business” (“grown folks business” being any words the people taller than you were saying)
  3. No talkin’ back

The rules were so real to me, that just last year (I’m now almost 29 years old-mind you) when she visited me, I snappily responded to something she said and she flashed an eye at me, and my reply was,

“Ouh, sorry, I forgot who I was talking to,” yes, like that. Respect your elders. Respect people, period.

And my Dad, o my Daddie (the introvert) he spoiled me rotten with conversation and attention (when he could manage to escape work) and because as a young girl, I craved it, I find it odd when people don’t say shit. Because when we had our quiet time, it was very quiet. He’d go hours not speaking sitting next to me. He taught me to value my time to myself. If I tried to interrupt him, he didn’t shoot off at the mouth like my Mom, he just simply ignored me until he got good n’ ready. From that point forward I’ve always taken silence when you’ve spoken to someone, or non-responsive behavior, very seriously. Like, no response, seriously? That is very intentional. For me, at least.

I don’t see a person’s non-response as accidental. I mean sure, there’s a head space a person can be zoned into, but when they come up for air, (I’m an artist I know) they remember those they need to reach out to, and they do so. Those that do not, well it’s a blatant ignore.

Words are like sugar for me—just a bit sweetens, too much causes cavities, but right in the middle… it’s like mixing warm sunshine with a bubble bath… It’s like speaking magic “Let’s stay up all night discussing Didion? Rap music’s influence on society? Care Bears or Smurfs? Legos or Transformers?” MmMm yummy sweet conversation.

My Dad read books and newspapers every morning when I was a child, by his lonesome, before the birds woke, at the round kitchen island table—and still to this very day, clips out things he thinks I have time to read, and I do, at least I try. But what I find most respectable about him is his careful attention to the words he uses when he speaks to me. I attribute this to him having lived in different countries and that he speaks different languages, but still. He’s careful what he says, and also, what he does not say.

It’s often that because I’m a communicator (and usually an over-[shameful downward head]-communicator) that silence blares violently loud to me. Because so many times it’s been that small effort to explain, or the few seconds it takes to say “this is why this happened”— that has changed not just perspectives for me, but changed my mind entirely and caused me to take action.

I thought an old boss of mine hated me for four years simply because she didn’t speak to me in the mornings. She spoke to everyone else that passed, but me, despite my “heys!” or “good mornings!” she stared off disregarding my presence. There is a difference between someone who ignores someone, but this girl, would altogether NOT see me. The afternoons she was fine, seemingly unphased by me, and strongly and rather completely indifferent toward me. Finally, she gave me a very high review at the end of a quarter once and I commented, (I was young)

“All this time I’d thought you didn’t “like” me, you never speak in the mornings when I say hello.” Her response was simple:

“Liking you is not my job, you do good work, and I don’t speak to anyone I don’t have to speak to before I have my second cup of coffee.”

That bitch got me two (very tiny) raises and I learned a lot from her. I was just apparently not on her priority list of people she had to speak to on any morning.

A simple “hello,” navigates differently reaching the more ridiculous synapses in my brain and it says to me a whole lot more than silence does. Just like a look can say more than hello, an ity gesture can shout crescendos.

Few people have reduced me to silence. Being a writer I’ve always found more luck in sharing my stance, than the abysmal whist. The huff n puff never got me anywhere, but a professional letter—I turn into Wonder Woman! If I am ever quiet there are a few things going on, please allow me:

  1. Emotions
  2. Emotions
  3. Emotions

Because I’ve probably realized that When We Talk, Nothing Changes, So I Have Chosen Silence. Which is again, very intentional.

My old friend used to have a problem shopping in places where when you walked into their store, the workers didn’t speak to you. A while back I was in Visuals (I did lights, aesthetics, and dressed mannequins) at Abercrombie & Fitch and know first hand how that store wasn’t always peppy, at least not my location. Basically the models stood there and didn’t speak. I don’t think I’d fully realized the affect silence had until I was standing around with them—not speaking, it’s like the environment follows suit.

Today, I second my friend. If I walk into a store and the employees don’t speak—or worse, I speak and get no response, they will get extra negative zero dollars from my pocketbook, I promise. Matter fact, I’m turning around and shopping somewhere around friendly people who will acknowledge me. I’m a human, I deserve human interactions.

If words are rock candy for me, good conversation is an excuse to get a stomach ache. It’s the subtleties that matter. I don’t need any grandiose gallivanting or enormous bouquets, but a nod or a text hello every now and now (!) … is the sweetest thing a person can do.

Picture of Rock Candy from my favorite gal XOXO Jessica XOXO over at SuchPrettyThings

People I Have Met, and How They Have Proceeded To Disappoint Me

Now that the epilogue of my memoir is complete, I’m going to continue the re-re-re-vising process and attempt to pitch to agents. Experience is the most  poignant yet clear-cut teacher. I’ve been inspired for a new book… well,  I’m keeping notes to form the premise. How’s this? Hahahahahahah!

Have a happy Wednesday and thanks for the requests, the emails, and the lurking!

Picture origination unknown
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