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.

It’s Better To Be Absolutely Ridiculous Than Absolutely Boring

Having a shitterific day. How are you?

Broke my cell this week and only some contacts carried over to the new one. If I had your number and you haven’t spoken to me in a while…

it’s likely I don’t have your number any more which means we aren’t going to be friends much now are we?

Post scriptum:

I am dreaming of…

Wearing these:

Ballet Platform

Then relaxation like such:

And this beautifully designed home (Gwyneth doesn't mind, really we go way back)

And this beautifully designed bedroom (Gwyneth Paltrow doesn’t mind, really we go way back)

Apparently I like things that hang and swing in my house, lmao!!!


Secret: I’ve never had a macaroon and I’m not having one until I get to Paris. I’ve never been to Paris.



He Is Sitting On The Edge Of My Couch And I Am Watching The Way He Talks

He is sitting on the edge of my couch and I am watching the way he talks. Someone else is spraying Windex into my eyes, and ketchup globs around spinning in circles—splush all over the kitchen and I am screaming through my bones that I love, that I love. He is sitting on a comma, I am wishing for an exclamation. Someone else is having a tantrum because I stopped believing in Valentine’s day. He is showing off in front of his friends like he’s thirteen and four months. Someone else is not paying me no mind. He is surprising me. Someone else has let me sink, three days before zero hours, deadpan and a-lonely. He is talking to me—closing into my face, I am treating his words like rhyming sunshine. Someone else is soliciting muddy tears from each place I make up. He is causing an utterly obsessed set of recollections. Look what it has done. Someone else is afraid I’ve gone missing; an unattractive disinterest. He is keeping me up at odd hours of the night, I am eeking of him. Someone else is sleeping with other women, someone else is flyfailing, falling in lust with withdrawal. He has borderline “I’m not sure disorder,” takes unreliables-anonymous classes, and subscribes to ringing phone disease. Someone else is making me put my hand over the bible and promise I haven’t made tacos or had patron shots with strangers. In plain sight of anger. He is likely rotten, I ask please peacefully for the ache if in hindsight, if then it matters. Someone else is losing grips. He is understanding. I must like understanding. Someone else is quiet like a light switch—only I don’t know which.

And now I can’t tell the difference between any of this. So now he‘ll have to whisper loud enough to infiltrate my imagination.

Burrow, actually.

Bystanders May Be Written Into My Stories

Let me tell you what happened to me not too long ago.

I was not officially dating this guy, but we’d met, flirted. We used to party at the same places and it was convenient. He wasn’t my “type” per se, but his demeanor matched a balance between protective and nonchalant the way I’d never seen anyone capture before. Often, I didn’t know if he was talking to me in this low reassuring tone because he was trying to sound sexy, or if he was just trying to sound sexy, good times.

What I found most intriguing about him were the moments when he’d asked me about things I was certain he didn’t give a hot good shit about. He’d ask me about school and I’d explain to him how it was a hybrid program and I could “do the lot of it online”—meeting up with mentors periodically—skype, email, it was all very web savvy. I’d gone into how often I’d meet with mentors and mentees sometimes via phone conversations or coffee shops or places like Writers at Work—but my residencies were twice a year. Then he’d ask a question like “So what time do you have to be at school on Monday?” And I would just shake my head. He was trying. I found myself in his company because he made wide enough attempts. He showed interest in me by being interested in my writing.

We did talk though. His mom was sick from something he hadn’t mentioned so he was looking after her, and he had some random family member staying at his apartment because he simply “had to help him out.” I thought I’d question why he had to, but a similar situation came up between a friend of mine and I before, and when I asked said friend, he’d told me that even if he were married with kids—if this person needed a place to stay, that a place with him (no matter the situation he was in) was what he’d get. I figured this was the case as well.

Once upon a time we went to a tavern that played nineties music and had an overhead projector that displayed a burning fire. Nice enough. After small talk I’d ordered a dietish vodka mix and he’d ordered a long island. I thought I’d ask more personal questions. There’s nothing like spending time with someone where I have to spruce up the level of conversation by asking things I normally wouldn’t ask, but I do so anyway because I’m bored as all good heavens. Like my old best friend and I used to say “If nothing else please just be, interesting.”

So I go, “You believe in abortion?”

He had one leg over the bench and he was slumped over facing me, full attention. We were sitting a few feet apart and his head flopped back and forth in a horizontal motion. He stirred in his seat, and I could see him squeeze his folded hands together. I knew his answer.

It was then time for him to ask me a question back or provide some commentary, this was how rapport building worked. Again, his lack of input eeked.

“What about gay marriage?” I offered. I wished I’d phrased it as same-sex marriage as soon as it came out.

He fiddled about and took his fist into his other hand socking it together and said “Nawww I ‘on’t think two men should be gettin’ married.”

His face had some sort of dejected upturn like he was an ogre and I’d ventured into his swamp. I finished my diet whatever wishing it had more Vodka, and leaned over to him in the closest and quickest whisper I’ve ever given a stranger and asked him,

“Will you leave me here?”

He looked at me blinking rapidly and said “You sure?”

I shook my head yes bigly, slowly, like a confession. That instant he dashed out of the door like I had just professed to him that he was not sexy, and that he should stop attempting to sound that way. I made friends with four guys and three girls in the corner of the lounge as I finished my drink, then I went home and wrote the premise of this story.

“If I lose the light of the sun, I will write by candlelight, moonlight, no light. If I lose paper and ink, I will write in blood on forgotten walls. I will write always. I will capture nights all over the world and bring them to you.” —Henry Rollins


…was just a label. dreams are just that. promises were meant to be tweaked.

you said the flaws were what you loved most.

“It’s only after we’ve lost everything that we’re free to do anything.”
—Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club 

The Way I See It, Isn’t Necessarily The Way You See It, or Perspective is a Bitch


Perspective is having understanding, it’s enchanting and entertaining, it’s what’s twirling the universe.

Perspective is the whole caboodle.

I used to think I wanted empathetic people around me, people who when I got sick—brought me sweet corn soup and “care baskets” like I do for those I love. But what I’ve learned is while empathy is a quality I look for in my friends, more important than an empathetic person is a person that can see multitudes of perspectives. I’ll explain since you know I always do:

A group of my friends and I went out on the town this one night. The four of us piled in  my one friend’s black four-door, blasting reggae music, (which over time I’ve taken a liking to) and small talk. Reggae music trumps my usual “woe is me” over Marié Digby and Colbie Cailliat, (like the  emo I am) and music definitely affects my mood.

I’d never been to this place, but it was nice enough, no better or worse than any others. I had a cool time, on a fun scale maybe a 6.5, 7, he however, didn’t. For his sake I’ll call him John.

My homegirl and I danced, we sipped, we laughed, I mingled, met some guy who played drums, another was a designer. I even had a heart to heart with the bar tender there, his curly long hair—his eyes a light color I can’t recall because it was dark. What can I say I’m a people person. I even spoke to the lady passing out hand towels in the bathroom. Wha? It’s just me.

The aforementioned tender accidentally put a pen in my bestie’s drink. Like, a black pen instead of a black straw. As I flitted about I threw out

“‘You uhm, you put a pen in my friend’s drink, instead of a straw, I mean that’s sorta not a good look”

“Accidents happen, very sorry” we went on talking for a bit, then I let it go. The night progressed. I ordered one sweet red cocktail. The rest of the night I drank cranberry juice on the rocks, it’s my preferred method of drinking. Everyone says I have a natural high.

I was working the floor. I danced a bit more, which was great under the moon—the night air, the little lights decorating the patio. I wore my favorite black boots, a grey skirt, and a flimsy three-tiered black top. Simple. I waved to the girl with me from a few feet away and she waved back as we danced with two guys that might’ve been friends. Off to the side John wasn’t dancing. John I’ve known for over 15 years, nice enough. Funny, obnoxious personality, there isn’t a time I’ve ever been around him when he didn’t make me laugh. Like stomach muscles shaking-aching laughter. But he didn’t seem to be having a good time.

Twenty minutes to closing I’d met some cool girls in the bathroom, one of them I knew from undergrad school—but not well. [Some random details redacted here us making jokes about guys in the bathroom, cool females]  John comes to tell me he’s ready to go. I continue on dancing because, well, it’s almost over, and I would always, always take other people into consideration if I were the driver, there’s no way he wouldn’t do the same. I wave to him a flailing yea yea yea, and he disappears off. The next time he confronts me, demanding that he’s ready to leave. I again, ignore it, and say this.:

“I’m ok, go ‘head, if you can’t wait I’ll catch a taxi—it’s cool.”

He responds back with “I need to go to work, Lalanii”

In my head, I understood his work priorities. I have them as well. He’d invited me out, after all. I didn’t see the urgency in not being able to wait fifteen more minutes, but he demanded yet again, and then he grabbed at my shoulder interrupting my dance and finger snapping with some haughty stranger. He pulls at me and takes my arm as though he were a jealous boyfriend, and starts a scene. And boy does it. Security rushes over.

I end up in a match of clashed perspectives. He was ready to leave, I was not. I offered alternatives, he did not agree. Add lack of empathy, and there you have my decision not to answer one of my best friend’s phone calls. In my head, I just knew he’d hang on for a bit and wait until everyone in his party was ready to go. Since it was four in our party, I suppose the guys were ready the girls were not. I ended up dashing out of the gathering and crashing a ride with the gals I’d seen in the bathroom. The one girl lived near me. I told her I felt irritated by my friend and I was having a good night that went awry, and she responded with “I’ve totally been there, get in girl” I hopped in the car, I was home in fifteen.

Again, two things I look for in friends. Empathy and Perspective.


In retrospect, the lack of perspective is what made me so pissed. Sometimes, one might not be able to “be empathetic” to a situation they’ve never experienced. If he’s never been having a cool time at a place, and not been the driver then he wouldn’t understand the words—”It’s cool, I’ll catch a taxi,” but moreover, the idea of him failing to see things from an opposing perspective and consider all factors prevalent was what bothered me most, it was thoughtless and empty. I treat people respectfully; I generally don’t demand things, unless I’m speaking to my 11-year old. I don’t expect to not be treated respectfully, and I don’t stand for it.

When I think back the entire ride home as I stared out of the window of the stranger’s car I thought of the scenario with the bar tender and how he accidentally placed that pen in my friend’s drink. The way I conversed with the tender before everything went to h*ll that night. The way I felt I was speaking up for him (John)–who quickly dismissed that something so unprofessional happened to him. The way when he got ready to leave, all that mattered was that he was ready to go. Never if anyone else was. The way maybe his night hadn’t been going quite so well, but as friends, he lacked consideration, and when presented with the opt out of “leave me here,” he resorted to physically grabbing me. Wow.

Many times I’ve gone to events with friends and confusion has occurred and we’ve worked through it, hysterically laughed everything off. Once a guy drank my drink by accident, I’ve had a woman anger with me because she saw her man talking to me, I’ve even had a guy offer to take me to his castle because he was convinced I was Cinderella. $#%! Crazy, lol. I’ve had my homegirl fall into a crack bumping her head on the hydrant, I’ve taken my pretty heels off to rub my aching toesies plenty-a-many times, and at a marketing event once my co-worker was told that a guy she just met was going to marry her. Nights out are generally pretty fun, and definitely something to talk about the next morning, laugh at the fun we had, even if things don’t go flawlessly. Because what ever goes right all of the time? It’s always how you come through it.

But always and in all ways have my friends been able to consider alternate perspectives.

I thought it was empathy I looked for in friendships, but I’ve found that it’s not just empathy, but also the ability to see where someone else is coming from.

Even today, I’m still not ok with what happened because he let me down.

I’d rather he have eaten my last piece of cheesecake. The cheesecake with the muddled strawberry topping, ahhh, that crust, yea, my last piece    …     really.

Can’t Find The Man of My Dreams ‘Cause I Don’t Sleep


I'm definitely the baby in this picture

I'm definitely the baby in this picture, lol

Every five minutes the thing nearest me changed into a mistake and disappeared. —Tao Lin

I’m in, if, of, and. I miss him like writing with my left hand. Tea cup got up and said “damn, that’s bad.” The what you’ve got til’ it’s gone. Watching me sleep. Zumba drop out. Clothes don’t fold themselves. Walls don’t happen to paint themselves fireplace red. Over my head. Send to journals. Write it. Revise it. Read it. Scratch it out. Insomniacs anonymous. He winked at me! And then I am there. I love it when a man winks. Then I have blacked. Then I am where? He said welcome to my world and held my hand while we were going under. I don’t swim like a fishie. How come they don’t tell you the things you want are gonna hurt this much? I’m poppin’ Motrins on a roller coaster.


*Woman of my dreams, I don’t sleep so I can’t find her* actual lyric by Lil Wayne

I’m not shy, I guess, it’s just the butterflies, they’re eating me alive.

All of a sudden, I’m clingy. I caught myself. Usually intimacy creates it, this time—I blame the butterflies.


I like to call it smothersome. And boy have I had some of this medicine before. I don’t mean the gentlemenly “You look beautiful tonight,” I mean the “I’m going to attempt to kiss you four times in five minutes, come back to check on you, peek-a-boo around the corner-honey is that you, hi, I’m still here… just looking at you, watching you go about your business, studying your eyebrows and then guess what I’m going to do, honey-honey! honey! I’m going to kiss you. Yes, again. Mmmmuah” Seriously, I want to give up on people. [Shake-my-head.]

So what happened you ask? O, besides subtleties? O besides someone that knows how to play the push me once on the swing and let me flap my legs for a bit on my own, then come back and push me slightly—then run when I say “again!” He slips off, then pops up behind me when I’m least expecting it-game. See, it’s the same but quite different. Did I know about it until it hit me? Maybe once or twice before, but it’s very very different. Butterflies are more like dragonflies when you’re an adult. Like the bigger the elephant the harder it falls, maybe?


Case in point: The other day I was conveniently gossiping about the new cutie patoot. The conversation was getting so interesting, but I had somewhere to go, and I’d already started out too late. I decided it’d be a bright idea to bring my bestie (on the phone) into the shower with me via the cordless phone. I sat the cordless phone alongside the tub and decided to shower with her on speakerphone blasting and bursting with laughter— it went something like:

“Grrrrrrrrl, I know, I know! I know right?! Right!” I continued on explaining to her that I know it’s early, we just met, I know like only a few weeks but I feel (giggles) clingy. Like. I’m human. My emotions are carbonated lava and he likes to kiss five different places on my forehead and then doze off across the bed and pretend I’m not there.

Subtlety, S-O-L-D. Like rose gold. Like a garage sale, everything must go.

I’m smack dab in the middle of confession 101 when my son runs full speed into the bathroom and vehemently bangs and shakes the shower sliding door. I freak the hell out, slip the soap, slop the towel and the cordless phone slides jollily down into the shower water as I fancy a jump-hop-scream AaAAah of terror I’d be electrocuted back into my good sense anyway. I did all of this magicianship stark naked, mind you.

Today I spent $20 replacing the cordless phone battery after having dried it out inside of a plastic bag with a hair dryer like my good ole google-friends told me to.

And yes, and yet, I’m still fighting this, example #2: The other night, I swore North, South, East, West, and upside down that I didn’t like holding hands. It’s funny as soon as you draw a line how much you yearn to blur it. Now all I want is for him to grab for my hand. I want him to take off work and play in the sandbox, pink sand of course. I want him to hold my hand and hold it while he tells me the biggest storybook story with the most enormous imagination. Queue artful silence I like.

And yet, I would very much like him to keep holding my hand. And I guess that makes me clingy. Or irksome. Or what I’d coin as smothersome from some folks in my past in which I shall not name. Ah, the other foot is so hard to wear. I suppose I’d rather be slightly ornamental—sniffing him in like the tip of a permanent marker. Because what does it say about someone who doesn’t have an ounce of overdose in their blood? Someone without that race in their genetic make-up? That she sticks to no one? Or that she sticks to everyone? Or that she’s unemployable? I sorta dig long-term. Sigh SMH again.


He got really quiet the other night, and I pouted, well, because, well, you see actually … I just wanted his undivided attention.

How absolutely OUT of character of me.

I guess it’s just the butterflies, they’re eating me alive.

I Regret You and Your Mama Too!

I regret “spooning,” I regret his over-excitedness about daily regurgitating tasks, I regret the handholding—the squeezing, I regret all the big dreams about French doors and ponytails. I regret going along with it all by thinking I’d grow into it.

I’m 28 years old and I’ve never been in love. I’ve only been in regret.

I can explain. You meet someone and you fall impeccably, dancing around lampposts “in love” with them, their smell, the habits they have that you initially think are cute. Wait for it…

You meet their Mom and you’re sold. She’s nice, which is the best word to use about any man’s mother you just met. You meet his kid(s). I once fell in regret with a man who had two little girls. Prettiest peaches ever. No, I mean impossibly, selflessly, itching under my skin to be around him and his kids. It wasn’t as hard as some claim to get children to “like” you, but again, this was only one experience, and only my experience. I was pushing the four year old on the swing and the seven year old was coloring with me at the park in no time. Cake. The issue is, the moments you remember most—like a movie, those moments that incessantly replay, aren’t the moments of fancy dinners or dotes, but are the moments you had to catch your breath with overwhelm, the moments you’ve said to yourself “I want this.”

Thing is, when you fall, you fall hard for their families too. I recently watched “How to Lose Your Lover” on Netflix. A funny chic fling movie about a writer convinced he’s over LA life, so he does everything he can to rid himself of excess LA baggage, including women. He goes off about pissing everyone in his corner off. He shoves his love interest into uncomfortable positions such as meeting her parents and his friends on the first and second dates. An interesting concept indeed. I think this way now. I’ve realized that so many people wait the three months, six months or years before they meet the friends and family of their significant others only to find it plops. People don’t realize that when you date a person (for the most part) you date their loud ass mom, their overprotective dad, their sneaky sister, their ignorant ass friends, and their horribly annoying children.

If you think you can handle it, you should know sooner rather than later about the people you might love regret.

Case in point: when you love, you love the bad about a person sometimes even more than the good. This wanes and regrets once it’s over, often while it still is. Gretchen Rubin says in “The Happiness project” a book I’m currently reading “I knew that my combativeness and pedantry in this conversation came not from petty irritation but from a desire to protect myself against false hopes.” I completely agree with her. False hopes.

I regret not learning how to “fight right,” as in, pick my battles. I regret not loving myself enough to love anyone else. I regret having to admit that I went crazy before I got this half-right. Only half. I regret the growing up process and all the short sticks I give and get. I regret the shit out of not getting to know a person enough not to regret the whole damn thing.

I’ve never been in love, only regret. Funny what you regret is what could be what you’ve loved the most. Funny what you regret is what you’ve learned the most from.

How Can We Be On The Same Page If You Ain’t Reading Out Loud?

If you’ve been following, Red said that to me the other night. In agreement of understanding as I carried on in “know-all” about the ones I love, conveniently, not listening.


I tend to read out loud. Now, whether or not you’ve heard me or not is a different story.


I’ll say a “subconscious-unconsciousness of” — too damn much. For instance if the person in front of me says he doesn’t like women who shop… all of a sudden I’m a thriftily shopping mo-fo. He doesn’t like tea? O, I only dabble in tea sipping, pinky finger flailing, honey sticks, and lattés, just dabble, lol.  Similar to Julia Roberts in Runaway Bride when it was all she could do to match her counterparts, she forgot herself.


I read, a lot. I read people. I speed read. I read attachments. I read magazines, marketing material, interviews, the internet, but mostly, I read out loud. I tell a person what’s wrong, generally, like most of us do — before telling them what’s right. I’m proud to recognize this, and acknowledge myself as a work in progress.


I write my toot off. I stay up wee hours of the night reading. Studying. I put it first when at times it should come second to some things like taking a few minutes to make the people I love happy.  Ma calls me up the other day, exhibit #1:


“Where da hell you beeennnnnnnn?” Her southern accent, a cheerily bit ghetto. She asks of why I haven’t called her.


I go on explaining and rambling off about deadlines, genre workshops, reading group, and submissions and halfway through my summary of absence, this broad is not listening. At all. I’m talking about not only not listening, but in full conversation with my niece in the background.


“Maaaaam, did you hear me????  You not listening! You never listen, how you gon’ ask me a question then go all off talkin’ to someone else?!” I shriek.


“Awhl, shiiiiiiiit, leme call ya later honey, these children are on my nerves.” She hangs up. I laugh and shake my head. Like I said, I read out loud, no one listens.


Example 2: an ex of mine came over about nine maybe ten one night o clock a few weeks back to listen as I read a few pages to him for proofing. After all, I can credit him for catching a lot of my run-on sentences, verb tense issues, and grammar ridiculousness. He also fully believes in my work and I love that. This particular time no sooner than shortly after his arrival did I read into about the fourth page, and I found that he had apparently took the drug opposite of No-Doze. He was full-on asleep, light snore and all. Naturally, I’m human, I was hurt.


He exclaimed that he was tired, which I believe he was, and that if he’d only had the pages in front of him (like his own copy) he would have stayed up. The issue is, when someone gives an über quick reason for falling short, the explanation loses its weight. A simple “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again” would have sufficed. Practice with me: “I’m sorry it, won’t happen again,“ the most important words in language, since “I love you” is overrated and everyone loves everybody.  I’m really sorry, I won’t read a damn thing to you, ever again. HAhahaha!


Him actually using those words might have gotten us on the same page. Simple acknowledgement and reassurance that it (hopefully) won’t happen again. Although Ma still hasn’t said a word about her tangents of rudeness, and my ex and I no longer talk, I still feel I’m learning how to better express myself, and I continue reading out loud. I just wish the right people would listen.


Picture taken by moi from “be happy: a little book to help you live a happy life” by Monica Sheehan.
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