You Called To Ask Me When I Was Coming Home, And When I Reminded You That I Wasn’t Coming Home, You Sounded So Disappointed That I Decided To Come Home

My boss called me into her office the day before yesterday to tell me that my contract would not be extended and that I would be let go.

“Like, fired?” I said.

Amazing how I now have a degree in writing and simple words I am unable to understand.

The boss whose dry silence, wry smiles, and wit I’ve admired and loved since the second I interviewed.  The boss whose simple style, and whose kindness, patience, and intelligence are unmatched. The boss who stared through me coldly and said sorry pinching her eyebrows together as if the word had no meaning. The boss who said it had nothing to do with my performance, but rather due to budget cuts in her department. I’ve been in her seat, I know how this goes.

Your friends and family behave like there’s been a funeral when you say you’ve lost your job:

“OoOoo I’m so sorry.”

“This too shall pass.”

“You have been through so much, I’m sure everything will be fine.”

And someone did die a little. And I won’t be. Fine. And although I have a separate writing and fashion description company that I run on nights and weekends complete with interns and quote requests—I still love my day job. Loved. I had a blissful few weeks. I’ve graduated. I gave a wonderful senior lecture, and had a fantastic final reading. My Manuscript Thesis is 201 pages. I am also very apparently unemployed.

So I am available for hire: I have an updated resume and a full suit. I have over ten years experience, and a Master’s degree in writing. I even have a closet helper, although she looks about as sad about this as I am.

Lalanii R. Grant, M.F.A











Title Quote by: David Levithan

Choose What To Keep

So, my real feelings are:

  • Disappointment and fear.
My face says:
  • 🙂

“If you want something to last forever, you treat it differently. You shield it and protect it. You never abuse it. You don’t expose it to the elements. You don’t make it common or ordinary. If it ever becomes tarnished, you lovingly polish it until it gleams like new. It becomes special because you have made it so, and it grows more beautiful and precious as time goes by.”
― F. Burton Howard

When you believe in something in such a big way that words aren’t enough, can you just feel it?

Can it go without saying?

How do you condition yourself to do that?

Isn’t communication the key, hasn’t it always been?

Sometimes you have to choose what to keep and what to leave.

Picture via Sportsandpastime thank you!


Try as I might, I can’t get any relaxation. This is the spa I’ve been dreaming of. MmmMMmm.

Business is good. School is ending. Life is happily full of ruckus. But what am I dreaming of? Relaxation. Kay Redfield Jamison said in“An Unquiet Mind,”  “We all move uneasily within our own restraints.” Maybe I cried when David died of a heart attack (her love), but only because the foreshadowing was done in such a subtle way. It’s the subtle things that drive me.

Another favorite of lines was when Jamison quoted an anthology about love:

Thank you for a lovely weekend.

They tell me it rained.

Awww, I want that. I need that.

P.s. On the verge of some really big subtle things. Really big. Spoken like the true oxymoronic extremist I am.

I Fell In Love The Way You Fall Asleep: Slowly, and Then All At Once

I was about seven when my Mom got me a hamster. I named her Chrissy. Light brown, sorta fat, cute as a little talking chipmunk. Mind you—this is coming from a person that’s terrified of rats, roaches, spiders, and everything creepy. At first, she used to snip at me. Nip my fingertips wildly. Then I got some hamster treats in psychedelic colors and all was well in the world. I know little animals aren’t smart generally, but this one likely had a high IQ level. Seriously. Chrissy was brilliant and organized. Chrissy had bucky white teeth like she brushed them with Colgate. She didn’t muck up her cage like other hamsters I’d seen, and she even twirled her tiny hands around her face to clean herself! [Later I realized all hamsters do this] When she got her hamster snacks, she separated them by kind. Sunflowers, random nuggets, etc.  This thing was cute—ity bity and she’d curl up into a ball in the palm of my hand and fall asleep regularly. Like she gained trust in me. Sometimes she fell asleep on her back while I was petting her. I held her all the time. I put her in this clear little medicine ball with a small doorway, and let her run around my room while I studied. I’m sure we had many other good times, but that’s what I can remember.

It was a slow-growing affection. Then, I fell in love with the little thing.

Then one day I loved her so much I gave her a raisin as a treat. (Hey, it looked just like the trail mix she was already eating.) I saw her stomach boil sideways unnaturally, then I saw her keel over. She still moved around a bit but I ran to get Mom. All I remember next was I started crying, then I took a short nap. When I got up Chrissy was running amuck in her cage and when I went to pick her up to apologize for possibly making her sick—she bit my finger—hard! I was bleeding.

When I went to hold her she squiggled out of my hands so determined. When I put her in her exercise ball she wouldn’t move around and explore. She just sat there.

All of the things that made this hamster adorable to me were gone. She wasn’t cuddly. She wasn’t the same little cute face I could play with. I kept trying to make her behave right again, but she just wouldn’t. Then one day I looked at her teeth. They were yellow and big! Immediately I stomped in to my Mom exclaiming

“Where is Chrissy?! This is not my hamster!!!”

Mom explained to me that it was Chrissy and that all was ok, not to worry.

I didn’t like the New Chrissy, but it didn’t matter because not too soon after New Chrissy escaped and was not ever found.

A couple of years ago I was having wine with my Mother (as an adult) and I asked her what had happened to Chrissy. She looked at me big-eyed and bursty and said

“Gyyyyrl, that hamster had died and I ain’t know what to tell you!”

We laughed about it, but after, I realized how hard it is to tell the truth when you know what you will say will hurt someone you don’t want to hurt. Mom had shot out to the store and grabbed a look-alike of Chrissy and plopped her in Chrissy’s cage to avoid explaining death to me. If a person is prepared, it still hurts, it just hurts a lot less, making it worth it to communicate beforehand. What might have been better? Killing my fairytale. Getting me to accept the reality, the possibility early on of what is to come.  Teaching me that the hamster wasn’t going to last forever anyway, and, perhaps teaching me that she needn’t have raisins. Communication is the key, the lock and the Dropbox.

Photo by JoyHey

Yes, perhaps some casual and comfortable conversation easing me into the reality that hamsters won’t live forever. I was young, but the blatant lie and confusion? It sets me up to fall down.

Slow and concentrated.

This is the way we should talk to the people we care about. This is the way we should communicate with each other. Slowly, and then all at once. This is the way we prepare someone for what is to come. Slowly, and then all at once. This is the way we teach them how to grow with us. Slowly, and then all at once. This is how we avoid confusion and disappointment, “we man up.” We become responsible for ourselves, our actions, and the presentations and perceptions we’re exposing. Slowly, and then all at once. This is the way we learn how to trust, slowly, then all at once. This is the way we discuss things like adults. Slowly, and then all at once.

This is the way I want to fall in love.  Slowly, and then all at once.

The more lessons I’ve learned the hard way, the more lessons I’ve kept. How do I like my information? —Sugar-coated and straightforwardly oxymoronic. Yes. The truth doesn’t set you free, but it helps you sleep—and that’s kindove the same thing.

Think About All The Fucking Possibilities

Think About All The Fucking Possibilities

Ever heard of “Stop talking about it and just do it”  ?!? …Well, this poster is the epitome of what I mean.

I grew up in a household wholesomely committed to cursing. Stump your toe, “fuuuuuuuck!” Left the bath water on… “Goodddddamit~” Walk in and the dishes haven’t been done, “So what the fuck you been doin’ all day when I wasn’t here?” [Southern accent courtesy of my Ma, from Baton Rouge, Louisiana]

So now as I attempt to re-program myself to live the life I’ve always wanted, some of the hardest things have been:

1. Giving up coffee (I am not doing well at this)
2. Finishing the monstrous amount of books I’ve set for myself
3. Curbing my cursing

My Ma is the sweetest curse-a-holic you could ever dream up. She’d curse for no reason—the type of person you want on your reality show. She’d say something like “sit your fine ass down and tell me about it,” or when I tried on make-up for the first time, her exact words were “So you think you fucking cute?” My all-time personal favorite, when something didn’t sound right to her she’d say “You better go sit in a fucking chair about it,” as she urged me to seek the counseling even she never received. The best part was after she said anything with those curse words in it, she’d cock her head back and laughhhhh at herself. This is what I grew up with, every day. My Dad? Well, he is more of a “curse when and only if needed” type. I’m sure he was a cursing sailor behind doors, but that was never for me to know. I’ve heard him say maybe five curse words in my entire life. At one point he was in the military, a professional chef, and an athlete. He’s traveled and owned a graphics company. He was always a profuse reader and he speaks five languages, (he claims they all come back to him when people speak to him in said language). Talk about driven. The only time I’ve ever left my city for longer than a week has been when I’ve had to for work. How many vacations have I taken in my life? 2.

The above poster. I couldn’t refuse.

My favorites are: Learn To Take Some Fucking Criticism and Believe In Your Fucking Self.

Maybe because these have also been the hardest for me.

Here goes I. Back to my attempt at not saying any bad fucking words. Back to reading Kay Redfield Jamison’s “An Unquiet Mind.” Back to refining my last genre submission before I graduate. Holy fuckerninnies. I’m graduating from my masters program in two months. All the nights I’ve been painfully tired and stayed up all fucking night, yes, sometimes the right word really is “fuck.” Appropriately placed, and properly used.

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.

I Like It Wild

I have a few favorite stores and designers and Anthropologie is one of them. They’re advertising this hanging bed, and I mean seriously. I’d likely never make anything of myself if I owned it. No, not anything. Quotes would go unanswered. Time would flyby nights and daylights wouldn’t matter. Not one bit. The percentage of me doing anything but writing/reading for myself and personal acrobatics (she definitely lols) in this bad boy is about 900%.

You’d see me, then you’d see me, under the covers. You’d wake me, then you’d watch my narcoleptic tail take instantaneous doze-off medicine via trapeze bedding environment and things would just worsen each second my head eased into the pillow-top. Why bother with anything much, I have a swinging, err, hanging bed. Nannie nannuh.

The bed I do own is a canopy and is also one of my most favorite things. It works just fine and well and is all shabby chic and wonderlustrous. Yet and still, even after knowing the things we have only graduate and leave us wanting for more—we soon acquire and find thereafter, once again the newness in every new thing dulls.

The fact is that I don’t have that swinging bed. I want it. But I already have a bed, just like tons of other little treasures. Pivotal moment in this realization is I’m like that with mostly any and everything. In conversation “so n so”  (this is what we’ll call the nameless adventurer) said something aligned with “keeping things new.” I envisioned: The crispy-breath of the fresh in the morning. The wet belch of a rainy afternoon. The dreary dankness of the evening drill. See how we’re getting worse here people? Not keeping it new.


The thing that scares me about forever is monotony. All ‘lone me and moi, in a partnership, a creative friendship (hah!), a marriage, etcetera. What I’ve found is what I think is the solution. Be patient:

I am OCDish. No, I know stuff about me. I’m very particular about many many—everythings. Actually diagnosed at one point anal-retentive. I’m recovering. I tend to not like surprises. I prefer control and planned happenstances. Contradiction much? Yes. Controlled environments make me happy, secure, and comfortable. Like cozy feet. I’ve recently re-done the refrigerator in glass Pyrex containers to hold leftovers, clear-bagged pure organic food, and I’m attempting to keep up with the laundry and not let it go beyond 3 loads. Keyword, *attempt.*

And then so n so asked me if I liked surprises. NO, absolutely not, not really, I mean sometimes. Coincidentally no. Well, from you, perhaps, uhmm. And then so he carried along. A few outings later, I’m ok with surprises. And now, voilà—ready at a moments notice to do whatevertheflukeishouldnotbesofreeinglyAuhwellI’mstillaliveIguessit’sok—”I believe I can fly, I believe I can touch the sky, think about it every night and day, spread my wings and flyyyyyy…”

Mary Burrows  from MBart Studios is my gal! I've ordered plenty too much from her and you definitely should too!Surprises done well build trust. I want to be happy with what I have so I had to infiltrate the infrastructure and figure out why I constantly require more.

I am in dire need of more because of a drug called “wonder.” At this point I’m actually wondering (aka looking forward) to not knowing what’s going to happen. It’s quite the scary dream to trust another human’s judgement. The best part? I’m actually wild about it. Looking forward to something is what keeps a thing new; the possibility of the unknown is what keeps it intense, … lush. What is the main ingredient of inducing such feelings?


Like coming home to a swinging bed. You already know it can only go up from there.

Can I Teach You How To Make Promises?

He doesn’t make promises. I’d like to know a bigger why beyond just any ‘ole response, and yet, I’m stutterstuck.

I’ve heard this “no promises” rule before, actually. From many people.

I think it’s the idea that if you make a person a promise, there’s a chance you’ll break it. You know, the general consensus is “promises were made to be broken.”

The question I pose here is if a person is so put off by the possibility that they might break a promise; wouldn’t one think longer about the weight of a promise fulfilled, and the heaviness in overall comfort that could bring?

In addition, I ponder, are those who don’t cram up at making a promise seemingly “born better” than those who aren’t brave enough to promise anyone anything? Because I speak from the experiences of having been made a promise a person has kept, and having made promises I’ve kept, (run-on sentence) in addition to making a promise I haven’t kept, and having a person break a promise to me and to many others [breathe here] I feel inclined to bring up this matter.

What do I remember more than the broken promise?

—What great lengths the fallen promise-maker went through to cushion the blow and fix the broken-ness.

What stays with me more than that broken promise that was once made to me?

The memory I have of a kept promise. One outweighs the other triumphantly. You know that one thing that “perfect” person promised and did well—way-back—when all I could see was the rights instead of the wrongs? The memory of that promise being carried out and the indulgence and support that single colorful moment was. A kept promise is truly the best spell anyone’s ever put on me.


  • A promise is important because of its temperature. It’s tone. It’s secrecy. It’s closeness. It’s “make-believe-turned real” factor.
  • A promise is important because it builds rapport. It furthermore builds confidence in a person, and we all know that confidence, builds trust.
  • A promise is important to me because it speaks magnitudes beyond one’s character. I don’t mean ity-bity promises. I actually mean the larger ones. But we have to start small, a steady pace.
  • A promise is important to me because it is a telltale sign of the future, and because a promise—especially the wittier it is—is revealing and induces as well as presents vulnerability.
  • A promise is important to me, personally, because I’m a writer and there’s got to be something a person believes in like magic. At least one thing. My thing is words, specifically, your words.

P.s. I don’t believe in magic much; I’m an optimistic-realist. This is otherwise known as an [cough, oxymoron] “hope for the best, plan for the worst type of person.”

What I’m eventually addressing isn’t a promise similar to: “I promise to be your friend forevermore,” as one might say in grade school. In grade school we don’t know the reality of people falling together or apart. But I don’t mean frivolous or wonderful promises at all. No one is without fail, flaw, or falter, and I included, but I’m referring to if a person can:

  1. START SMALL: Because promising another person is ultimately promising oneself. I believe we should all start with goals (otherwise known as promises) for ourselves. Not only because “a person is only as good as his or her word,” but because you get to witness a person’s “try.” You get to see someone put something they’ve said into action, and hopefully it’s something qualifiable (quality wise/something you can see happening) and tangible (something you can touch/again, witness). Promise yourself. Deliver. Rinse, repeat.
  2. BUILD A PROMISE-PLAN. A bullet-pointed list, set a reminder on your phone of a promise you have, a pop-up, write it on your hand, post-it, live-it—start a new life of it to help it infiltrate your reluctance. Remember if it takes 21 days to form a habit, some promises will take at least that much time just to get used to the new idea.
  3. AFFIRMATION. Look stupid for your promise. That’s the point, it’s a commitment. Say it out loud. To the air. Talk it out to yourself, and then… tell someone other than the person you promised about it. It holds you more accountable for what you’ve promised.

Well, what to the person who says “to hell with promising you, they’d rather ‘show’ you?” Well, OoOo diddly. That means, if they come up short it doesn’t matter, they haven’t promised you a damn thing. You don’t mean much. There’s no contract, which intrinsically is what a promise is.

Well, why then, when playing pool is it game point to call “8 ball corner pocket” and then make your 8 ball in the corner pocket?

Because you did what you’ve said you would.

I believe in people making promises, but obviously only promises at their level of commitment. If someone is fully embellished by someone romantically, then promise so. If your kid wants something but can’t have it now, promise it and make it happen, if you need something—promise yourself and pull it off.

It’s never about if I would spend an eternity with a person, or if I could I see myself marrying? Yadaya. Although it can be largely assumed one isn’t marriage/long-term-friendly if he can’t make one promise to you. Essentially it comes down to if he can follow the discipline he gives to himself?

The man that can, I’d like to hold his hand and no one else’s.

Cheaters Never Win!

Cheaaaaaaaaaterrrrrrrrr! HAHA. Cheaters Never Win! 0/10

I have an innate fear of being cheated on. Not an insecurity, a fear. Let me be clear: I usually fail to give a person enough time to know when or if he is fully invested, in anything. He realizes too late that he was. Sometime along these lines I find out he’s cheated. There might be only one person I’ve ever dated that I haven’t (at one point) either knew or thought was cheating on me. Only once. Every other time I was likely the object of betrayal or selfish tendency. End of introductory rant.

Cheating is selfish, among other things. And so begins my lore:

One surefire way to tell if a person will cheat on you, is if said person will share with you. If someone is selfish, they’ll likely cheat on dat ass. No seriously. Ask him for his last Skittle. Or more seriously, ask him to share anything worthwhile to him. It’s an indirect indicator that he probably cares more about himself than he does your feelings.

I speak from experience, which might be the most professing truth. Albeit, flimsy, they’re still my truths.

So much about a person’s tendency is dependent on how that person grew up. Environment allots for about  70% of what influences a person’s tendency. I mean environment as far as what a person has witnessed and been through:

A LESSON IN MONOTONY: Bigger than any rubbish love has always been the fear of monotony. Boredom. Same ole’ Same ole’. Actually, I grew up with the understanding that if you didn’t handle your business—you could look out for the next guy who would. My Daddy’s graphics company dissipated because businesses like his could do what he did better and faster. They began to populate Westwood, CA faster than he could draw a perpendicular line. If Dad had changed with the times he’d have been better equipped to keep up with the growing rate of need. He couldn’t trust any of the employees because they would steal from him repeatedly (unfortunately even including family) thus he just couldn’t keep up. His work is stellar at its worst, and his precision—immaculate. But he kept things the same, so his business evaporated for replacement by feistier fiends. And that was just business, imagine a relationship.

The scary thought is: If after time a love becomes monotonous, it could be just waiting to be replaced.

A LESSON IN ‘TOO FAST’: A guy I went out with three times (meaning date one, two, and then three) years and years ago asked my best friend out on a date once he figured out I was a slow-moving fountain and he wasn’t going to appeal to me via alcoholic average (lol). Believe it or not, since he was a B-list celebrity, my best friend then decided to go out with him. I wasn’t offended nor was I impressed, hey he wasn’t for me, but you never know. But steady for the best part:

After he goes out on date with her, he later sent me this text:

Him: One more chance?

Me: Unsubscribe

Was the first indicator not enough? What a riot. 

A LESSON IN, WAITING IT OUT/CHEATING: I didn’t have a real boyfriend until I was 15, and even that wasn’t realistic. I had that boyfriend’s child after giving up my virginity. My memoir (the book that’s standing trial awaiting an agent) elaborates, although I won’t. What I remember vividly about P.E. in elementary school, possibly at 9 or 10, wasn’t my son’s father because that was years before we’d met, but a boy named Travis. Travis was skinny, always ashy, had knocky knees, silky porcupine hair, and a gap in his front teeth. He was the first crush I’ve ever had. Travis picked one of those yellow imitation daisy flowers on the yard for me one day, probably out of boredom—and from that instant I was in full-on love with him. Diddlying his name across my notebook, scooting next to him when he lined up ‘indian style’ on the yard; I even wrote him one of those paper origami fortune-teller thingamajiggies that I was sure would grab his attention once he knew it said we were meant to be together. You know, forever. 

Every day I took stupid leaps of ridiculousness trying to get closer to him, to the point of utter foolishness. We had these hard plastic jump ropes that snapped as they hit the ground, a strew of various colors. Lalanii took it upon herself to jump rope sassily to the point of exhaustion in front of Travis one afternoon and ended up snapping the shit out of his top lip. It was a total accident. Really. Travis thought I’d purposely embarrassed him so there went that.

The next day, as I was gearing up another mountainous scheme to get him to hold my hand, I snuck behind the tetherball court and witnessed him giving some taller skinny chic the same damn ugly imitation daisy he’d given me, just the week prior.

“Cheatttttttter!!!” I screamed at him wacky legs and glasses falling all off.

Drama princesses all in tote behind me as Travis blinks incessantly and backs up like I was creating a new movement and he wasn’t for it. Travis was like many of the men I’ve experienced nearly what—almost twenty years later. While he didn’t mean to misconstrue his feelings, he did. He was vague. He made a friendly gesture and probably had no intentions to like me, but I took the ball and ran, no, better, I took what little he gave me—blew it up tenfold—and lost control of my “conscience carriage,” which is what I like to call my self-control.

Travis didn’t speak to me for weeks. It was close to the last day of PE class when he pushed me hard against the metal gate, took a hefty breath, squeezed his eyes together like before a needle goes into your skin—and pecked my lips. After that, I never saw or spoke to him again because I think (I can’t be sure) he moved abruptly. He didn’t even stay until the end of the school year. I remember that I wasn’t immediately able to gather myself, but when I finally came to–I realized he may have had the most innocent and purely infectious intentions, but he still kissed another girl… even if our relationship, err friendship was a bit floatish. The girl he kissed saw this and later kneed me in the crotch one fine afternoon. Another surprise.

If I had only waited it out. If I had only weighed out my crazy and waited. You know: “WAIT. FOR. IT.” Blurting to the school yard that he was a cheater must have been something I’d seen on T.V. or showtime in my very interesting living room.

My kick-friendly enemy and I became the best of friends and as it would turn out we lived across the street from each other. She still remembers this and tells the story every time we get together.

What I’m explaining isn’t the normal, “if he cheats on you he wasn’t yours in the first place”—byword, but better a “wait until his actions match his actions,” until your aura festers in him, and most of all: make sure he isn’t nine years old or that he doesn’t act like he is.

I think the saying is “cheaters cheat because they feel that they have nothing to look forward to,” and to a certain more ethos viewpoint, I believe in that adage. A ‘new’ person gives a relationship drowning in monotony and complacency—a fresh outlook. Like a vacation. I wonder if wandering eyes might be replaced with a vacation and adding some spice to what one’s got? But either way, my take on cheating is this:

“The grass is only greener on the other side if you don’t water the side you’re on.”

Although, some may view life “YOLO” (You Only Live Once, as re-purposed by Drake) whilst eventual emptiness ensues. Try getting everything you want and still wanting. It leads to an overabundantly-insatiable experience. A frightening and scary feat is the concept of long-term relationships and marriage, I know. A scarcity these days is a person who respects old-fashioned “die together shaky-wrinkled love”… for its beauty, consistency, sincerity, and that rareness inside of a person who wants to get tangled in a dreamlike place that’s lasting. A person that wants to be appreciated from that place and recognizes it enough to reciprocate that respect.

Cheating is saying: “I don’t respect you enough to be honest to you about what I need and what makes me happiest.”

I’ve read a million self-help books, sat through an incalculable amount of hours in counseling, and experienced the ache on both ends to know it’s so.

Maybe at nine years old a child can’t understand the difference, but as I gain experience I’ve realized that knowledge and self-containment is the most highly sought after quality. Two of the most necessary qualities I could ever need in another person. That person is  likely so well-put together and happy that he not only wouldn’t cheat and isn’t in need of another partner, but he’s so busy with his own self-accomplishments that he has to clear time out of his schedule to give undivided attention to his special someone, me.

This is the sort of love we must want, I know I do.

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
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