Podcast: Wailing On These Hoes

Tuesday, December 21, 2010


This here post was actually written on Saturday, December 18th, but at the time I was trapped inside the Devil's Cross-Country Coach to Utter Insanity and was unable to access the Internet... or my peace of mind. Therefore I just typed up a little something to calm my spirits and do some much needed self-inventory. I had not intended to post it but, hey... why the hell not?

Beginning at roughly 1:30AM Pacific Standard Time on Saturday, December 18, 2010, my aunt, my cousin and I embarked upon a near cross-country journey beginning in L.A. with the intent to wind up in Houma, LA. This ill-plotted trek is estimated to last for a duration upwards of 24 hours. So far we are just about 30 minutes past El Paso headed East. The time is now 6:29PM Central Standard Time.  The situation stands as thus: I have a feeling that I am the outcast of this trio and my kin find me generally unfavorable for whatever reason. When my cousin nearly KILLED/SERIOUSLY INJURED us, I was called a "jack ass" and was wrongfully attributed much of the blame with her just because I was in the front seat. Little did my aunt know that her daughter NEGATED me when I said, "This is our exit coming up" and realized at the VERY LAST MINUTE that I was right. When my cousin told her that I did in fact indicate the proper exit long BEFORE it was too late, my aunt continued to berate me for the mishap. When my aunt forced us to go the wrong way because she was CERTAIN that my directions had to be wrong even though she was in a place she had NEVER been before, she refused to apologize when proven wrong OR for calling me out of my name. When I put my music on after being asked to do so I was criticized because for whatever reason it was all wrong. Finally I was chastised AT LENGTH for my driving. I am aware of the fact that, to date, I have not accomplished much in my life but one thing I KNOW I can do is drive. I may not have matured in my driving in big fancy Los Angeles like my cousin nor have I made a many long highway journey like my aunt, but I HAVE well-navigated heavy traffic areas and have even done so impaired... heavily. 

Anyway, back to my tale. When I took the wheel it seemed like all of a sudden everyone was nervous even though none of them had never been in a car that I was driving before. It was smooth sailing for quite a while but once I made what they saw as an outrageous error (that was neither life threatening nor gross) all of a sudden I was scrutinized for my every move. My speed was always wrong. My passing methods were aberrant. My music selections were much lamented. In their opinion I was a 16 year-old in the driver's seat for the very first time having her initial brush with the almighty Highway. My first instinct bade me to fervently weave and wind through the traffic at a much accelerated speed (90 mph). Taking personal note of my reckless behavior, I resigned from the display. Once we hit the metropolitan and traffic laden area of El Paso they're nerves went into overdrive. There were many suggestions that I should pull over soon and I should "Just do" this and "make sure to do" that. I was spoken to as though I were a child by two women who are no more skilled at driving than I am myself. Instead of adhering to their many pleas for me to relinquish control of the steering wheel, I merely reacted with mild demeanor and a calm tone as I effortlessly navigated the tumultuous and fluid freeway.

My performance was nearly flawless. I barely pressed the brake. Hell, half the time I had the gears on cruise control. (Yeah, I was stuntin a lil'.) Their anxiety fueled my excellence. I took pleasure in their fear and paralyzing doubt. (This satisfaction, of course, set in once I soundly quelled my temper, easily flared by ANYONE doubting my gangsta.) Once we neared the outskirts of the city most protests had been silenced. Agile confidence and quiet resolve seem to have a way of showing your critics that which no amount of dissent on your part (the criticized) can do any justice. As soon as all was clear… I then passed my aunt the wheel, neigh I insisted that she take it (very humbly and cheerfully, of course). I was glad to oblige after all.

Before this would-be catastrophe transpired, I hated everything about me. A few hours ago I was really sitting in this car crying (again), typing about how I can’t figure my life out and how I am completely devoid of a path. I was in need of an outlet. Someone to really talk to and hear me out and understand and say it was gonna be OK, but I don't have that. All I have is ME and several hours ago that wasn't enough. For the past year that hasn't been enough. For a long time I've felt like whatever I am, it doesn't amount to much in this world as I have come to know it. It is truly a daily conscious battle for me just to accept myself--LIKE myself. (Wow. Just typing that was exhausting.) Now, after I've been chastised so needlessly, I realize that this feeling of worthlessness I have is exactly what the world wants of me. As long as I compare myself to everything and everyone else I'll never feel like I'm capable of anything at all. Which brings me to my point of catharsis...

Why the hell shouldn't I be cocky as fuck? Hoes who wish they had a drop of what I got talk more shit than a lil bit so why can't I talk mine? Because of fear… of failure?!?! To hell with that bald-headed bullshit. People REALLY expect me to deny myself of all the things that make me unique just so they don't feel so "regular"… and dammit I often do. That is something I should have NEVER begun because since I have not been able to stop. What I should be doing is concentrating on any and everything wonderful that I KNOW I am. So on that note...

I am a GREAT driver. I have EXCELLENT taste in music. In fact, I'm musically talented my damn self. If I make an assertion, 87% of the time it's because I am DAMN certain. (13% is all astute guesswork, naturally.)I know a lot and while there is PLENTY I am ever eager to learn, there is quite a bit I can teach someone else. I am funny as SHIT. Half the comics I see ain't got NO MATERIAL compared to what I ruminate on the daily. I actually CAN write no matter how little positive feedback I'd get on the subject. I am beautiful and confident and intelligent and fiery and witty and a good person to those who have been good to me and striving to be even better.

I'm so tired of people who are so put off by my self-assuredness that they try to quell it in any way they can. I'm too through with feeling like nothing just because I'm not on the same plane with everyone else I know. I'm not that slumped shoulders, down turned eyes kinda bitch so why in the HELL am I acting that way these days? All these other ridiculous hoes out'chea brag on absolutely NOTHING and here I am hiding inside myself because I'm afraid that all I feel I am won't translate as well on the surface. Just because I don't have a degree, or a car, or a job or anything else right now, is that supposed to mean I'm nothing? That's insanity if I ever heard about it in my life. I have EVERYTHING I need to make AAAAAALL that happen if I so desire. So the world can continue to ice me out if they wanna. If my name never gets called again, I'm still here and I'm still someone unlike any other human being. No matter what everybody else thinks my proper place should be I know that in this world there is only one place I have ever truly belonged and that's WHEREVER...THE FUCK… I WANNA BE.

Friday, December 17, 2010

That's Not What That's For!!!!

"Lawd, what ya think wrong wit 'em?!?!" is what my grandmother might outcry upon reading such a story as this. Me? I say, "Hoes be dumb, yeah."


If you skipped the link (which I doubt) this is what you should know by now. Apparently some young lady thought it would be a good idea to take on an unintended and very violent use for a utensil that is possibly the most benign of holiday feast preparation tools. Simply put: a bitch went off with a turkey baster. The assailant, one Quenika Johnson 20 years old, got into a skirmish with a family member and proceeded to attack said kin with the seasoning implement.

Now I wasn't there but from the scant details provided in the article, I have conjured up something of a "dramatization" in my mind. I will share it with you.

(Enter QUENIKA to the kitchen to find her family member there)
QUENIKA: Bitch what you was doin by MY fuckin' nigga mama house?!
TIKA (I made the family member a girl and gave her a name): Bitch he ain't yerns no mo!
QUENIKA: One thing about bitch, this MY nigga if you believe dat shit or not.
TIKA: He ain't told ME dat shit, so until he do, bitch, Juice MY nigga.
QUENIKA: Bitch, I got two'a dis nigga kids. Nah what tha fuck you got fuh'em?
TIKA: One on the way thanks to dis shit right'chea. (Mockingly, TIKA brandishes the baster then QUENIKA snatches it)
QUENIKA: And I'm bot tuh fix dat shit right mutha fuckin nah. (In a fit of passionate rage QUENIKA attacks TIKA with turkey baster)
(They tussle fiercely until TIKA gains her footing and scrambles for the nearest exit.)
TIKA: (Badly beaten and with her eye punctured by the instrument) Bitch, watch how fast them fuckin people be on you! I'ma fix yo fuckin ass. Watch!

(Exit TIKA)
(End scene)

Feel like you were there right? I know I did when my head came up with it all of a sudden. You might say that my dramatization was stereotypical but I say everywhere I go I see the same hoes. And these hoes are ALWAYS fighting over some dude. No matter what may have immediately caused tempers to flare, some little boy is always at the center of the argument fanning the flames, especially at the age of 20. Maybe it wasn't such a scintillating subject as I have depicted it but when a girl goes of like that in New Orleans, there is no doubt that it has SOMETHING to do with "her nigga".

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

"R. Kelly's Ghost Haunts the Halls of Harvard"

As preposterous as that sounds, it may as well have been the title of an article in the NY Daily News that I had the pleasure or perusing today but sadly no one was clever or reckless enough to come up with that.


When I came across the headline, ("Harvard books found doused in urine was not hate act; worker accidentally spilled on books") I thought it would be your average run-of-the-mill news article about gay outrage and things of that particular nature. So say a gang of books all on gay and lesbians topics were found drenched in piss. The library employee in question of committing the act (who reported it two weeks after it occurred) contested that he/she actually knocked over a bottle of piss that happened to be on that shelf and did not carry out the act knowingly. I mean who would drink THAT Kool-Aid? No queer I know, that's for damn certain. I couldn't wait to read the snappy quips of some of the disgruntled Ivy League community. I expected some zingers in lieu of the intrinsic hilarity of the situation. Upon further review of the article, I read that gay students were "relieved" to find that the seemingly malicious act was not deliberate or measured. One respondent did express his concern for the lingering bottle of urine and it's purpose for being, however.


1. Who would accidentally knock over a bottle of piss on documents at their job and not report it IMMEDIATELY because I figure a) they wouldn't want to get the blame for it and b) it's a bottle of FUCKING PISS?!?! Let me knock over a container of piss ANYWHERE and see how bad I go off. Everybody I saw for the NEXT two weeks would have to hear the story about how some dumb bitch left a bottle of PISS sittin' 'round for me to knock over on my DAMN JOB that I already CANNOT STAND just to fuck my life even further. I'd want them to run that piss through whatever DNA matching systems they had to find the mutha fucka who would dare be trifling enough to do that nasty shit and leave it for somebody else (i.e. MY BLACK ASS) to deal with. End reason #1 for why I DO NOT believe that ridiculous story.

2. So that bottle of piss just happened to be sitting atop a shelf containing literature about one of the most abhorred, controversial and abused groups in American society today? Right. And all those Klansmen meant to put those burning crosses on the lawns of Catholics not black folk. BIIIIIIG misunderstanding that I'm sure all of us Negroes are "relieved" to have cleared up for us.  Reason #2 why I still don't believe this dumb ass' story. Which leads me to my third point...

3. WHY DOES ANYBODY ELSE BELIEVE THIS BOGUS SHIT?!?! From the tone of the article it looks to me like EVERYBODY at Harvard accepts that this person's account of the disaster it true. Maybe I'm just a cynic and find most things hard to believe but DAMN. Saying a bottle of wayward piss being accidentally knocked over to explain an incident that looks like an OBVIOUS case of vandalism is possibly the lamest excuse I have EVER heard in my life. Even if this library worker DID NOT piss on those books his fool ass knows who did to say some stuff like that. Hell I'd love to even think that they actually tested the leavings to see if they could match it up to a possible perp, but to me it sounds like the case has been closed on that one person's testimony. The authorities probably don't even care to get to the bottom of the situation. It is just piss after all. Now maybe if shit had been involved... that would be something to pursue.

Hell, if all of 'em are that gullible I say just replace the damn books and be satisfied with that shit. If only R. Kelly had thought of it first. He probably would've never gone to trail. They could have dropped the whole thing right there. "Somebody left a bottle in my room that I thought was filled with some Perrier-Jouet. My bad." You are forgiven Robert... so sorry to have troubled you.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

"DeDeT, Why Can't I Find a Good Man?"

Maybe it's because the guidelines you follow to be considered the type of woman a "good man" would want all come from the Book of "Savage Life" As Told by Webbie and Boosie and The Gospel According to Lil' Kim (with all the words spoken by Biggie shown in red, of course).

Okay... I'll be the first to admit that I LOOOOOOOVE Kimberly Jones and "Savage Life" kinda went hard barring those more misogynistic tracks (i.e. "Come Here Bitch" "Give Me That" "Like That" "Gutta Bitch" "Gotta Show Me You Worth It") BUT (and that's a big "but") I can't see myself modeling myself after her or the kinds of women that Boosie and Webbie claim to crave. I know some of you hoes pride yourselves on being "Bad Bitches" who be "cookin and cleanin and cleaning and cookin... constantly douchin and cleanin her pussy" and all that other buck nekked bull shit but COME ON. Clearly the man has no idea how a woman works because a brizzle who is "constantly douchin and cleanin her pussy" will wind up with a nasty fungus/mold up there and that ain't EEEEEEEEEVEN what you want, ma. Hardly something that I think a man would look for in a woman. "Yeah, nigga that bitch moldy but she clean though." *Nigga please*

As evidenced by the vastly ignorant content being promoted through the lyrics of artists such as Boosie and Webbie, there are some men out there who are quite deluded when it comes to what a good woman looks like and how she is to be approached. That being said, ladies we should be the ones to SHOW them what a real good woman is through our actions, not succumb to their pigeonholed designs. Instead of thinking more highly of themselves, hoes out'chea are doing everything possible to prove their worth to these Negroes who are adrift in a sea of materialism and delusion. So now we have all kinds of "Bad Bitches" who keep their hair and nails done but can barely keep their lights on because they have multiple children and much drama for a cat who thinks the ideal woman is one who can manage that lifestyle while adequately stroking his ego for the duration. She sits around with her fellow "bad bitches" longing for the comforts of the club and lament about "these no good niggas" as the multitudes of unattended children scream, holler and run about at 12AM on a Tuesday night while he's out "stackin his paper" and bragging to all his equally jaded "rounds" who tout him for his ability to push product and pull hoes.

As for Lil' Kim... she's my GIRL. (Foxy was always my favorite though.) When "Get Money," "No Time," "I Got a Crush on You" and all those other cuts came out I was ON IT. At one point I know I was rapping "I Got A Crush on You" in my sleep, but I still knew the kind of brizzle that Kim was portraying in her lyrics was not the woman I wanted to become. I have noticed, however, that other women my age and some a little older have taken Kim's lyrics to practice with their varying colors and textures of hair, tawdry style of dress and general attitude about "ridin' fuh ya nigga." (Not as many appear to be bold enough to re-enact Kim's sexual proclivities though... scary hoes.) I understand that Lil' Kim was a "creation" of Biggie's design in many ways. Kim was the "ride or die" side piece that was all too happy in her place as long as she got her props from her nigga.
"I'ma throw shade if I can't be paid/Blow you up to ya girl like a Army grenade"
Her entire aura was one of a ghetto sexual fantasy to make her the quintessential black mistress. She'll roll the blunt, smoke ya, stroke ya and send you back home to your uppity high yella wife smiling from ear to ear. She'll load the clip and buss if she gotta. "Fuck the world. It's me n' you Big Poppa." Sure she'll make a fuss when her nigga looks like he favors wifey a little too much every now and again, but all he has to do is buy her some fancy baubles, break her off and tell her that she gives him something wifey never could--that real. Wifey is too prissy but the ride or die is down for whatever. She'll be the one flushing his stash and putting money on his books if he has to sit down for a dime or two because he knows the "good woman" he has at home thinks to highly of herself to get involved in that sort of depravity. If wifey knew about the uglier details of his lifestyle he would surely lose her and that is something he would never allow to happen. Just as much as these hoes want to hold on to that "good man" no matter what they have to endure, that no good nigga will jump through the same hoops to keep that "good woman" he's been neglecting at home.

So the moral of this profane story is that some cats will not waste an opportunity to mold any woman who seems malleable. If permitted he will shape you into the form of one who will accept just about anything and demand next to nothing. Essentially this will make it easier for him to run over your compromising ass while still being able to keep you in line. I may not know too much about "relationships" but it seems to me that a "good man" wouldn't even want you to stoop that low...

It's cool though if you didn't dig the message. If too many of you hoes changed, I wouldn't be able to enjoy Maury nearly as much as I do now...

Monday, December 13, 2010

Into the Blue...

... yeah, I'm tweetin'. What of it bitch? If you want beef, follow me @DeDeT0401. I'll be waitin' for that ass.

But on a less hoodratish note, I have finally done something I said I would never do and joined the scores of Tweeters. Am I proud of it? Probably. I have decdicated an entire blog post to it after all. Do I plan on using Twitter's innocent functions for evil? Only time will tell. It has been my ill-plotted intent to impose my self on the world one venue at a time so this is but another rung in the ladder. Loyola. New Orelans. Facebook. Vox. Blogger. Now Twitter. Next stop... your face.

Which reminds me... all I want for Christmas is a webcam and a damn fancy one at that.

Friday, December 10, 2010

The Invisible Man

I read that book once. I dug it. Never thought that I would BE that shit though...

From what I recall his invisibility was a figurative one, rather social, as is mine. I tried to fight against it for a while (just like he did) but thus far I have been quite unsuccessful. I have not yet arrived to the point where I live in a basement drenched in artificial light but who knows what 2011 might bring. Anyway, his "invisibility" stemmed from the fact that he was a black man in the white man's America. His identity was stripped from him. He had no name. I have a name... it just doesn't get called that often. He was an "educated" man. I am an "educated" woman... to an extent. I don't have a degree or anything. I just read a lot and know a couple obscure words that I can't help but effortlessly throw around. Kinda like a street magician who has a tendency to want to weird out unassuming passers by with pulling random things out of them that they were certain could not have been there before. It's sick really...

Anyway, what the hell was I talking about? Me. Right. See? Even I forget I'm here. It wasn't always this way though. When I was among the student race, I seemed to be somewhat visible. Now that I am not and wholly unable to pursue that lifestyle any further, I'm in socio-economic purgatory. I don't have a car and even if I did, I'd be pushing that bitch down the street having no money with which to procure the necessary fuel and maintenance commodities. Without said car I am barred from any activity that would include other people and take place somewhere outside of my parents' house since my surrounding communities interest me not and those that do require me to be mobile. Without a job I haven't much reason to venture from beneath this roof anyway. My incessant search for employment has yielded no result, due to my undesirability as an employee without a piece of paper that would let an employer know that I exist. I could go back to school if I had the money to pay what I owe the school I left behind. Because I can't pay the outlandish balance, I can't go back there (or anywhere else for that matter) due to my state of unsatisfactory financial standing. Meanwhile, my credit suffers as I am unable to repay the debt I accrued while attending that institution to which I cannot return. In my inability to proceed any further than where I am simply by acting, I have fallen from anyone's radar who is in motion... which seems to be everyone.

I have been pouring over my invisibility in an effort to correct it, but as for solutions I have acquired none. With no remedy in sight, I feel like I should be taking advantage of this phenomenon instead of loathing my nonexistence. I should be able to accomplish a number of extraordinary things since no one is really looking... things I could not at the time when eyes were fixed on me. Since your backs are so stubbornly turned to me, you are more at my mercy than I am yours. Now that I see its benefits, I believe I have more interest in my inconvenient condition than I had before.

Please, by all means, return to whatever you were doing before I so impudently interrupted. I'm kinda busy now, so... yeah. I'm sure you remember the way out.

Monday, December 6, 2010

"DeDeT, Why Can't I Find a Good Man?"

A few weeks ago, after witnessing the dating frustrations of a person I once considered a friend, I discovered that there might be a few women out there who were seriously deluding themselves about the real reasons why they have such difficulty finding a "good man". With this epiphany I decided that some of my guidance might be necessary. When I offered her my very humble opinion, it was brutally rebuffed. Then I decided that maybe I should be less humble about my advice since delusional hoes tend to be defensive. Since then I have been determined to (one status update at a time) reveal to those who are lost whatever directions in life they have missed, but my status updates aren't nearly enough to correct ALL that wrong. To be truly effective, these aphorisms of mine need to be expounded upon and eloquently at that. So without further delay, I give you my first Blogger installment of "DeDeT, Why Can't I Find a Good Man?"

Maybe it's because you're still wearing clothes from two years (and thirty pounds) ago and NEWS FLASH: They were a wee bit snug and played out back then.

So ladies I know if you're anything like me, you don't claim to be some manner of great fashionista but SOME of us out there have no idea how to dress ourselves whatsoever. People will often throw out the platitude "The woman makes the clothes. The clothes don't make the woman." In the context of this conversation, such a blanketed statement could not be further from the truth. The truth is that it is all to easy for the clothes you wear to make you appear to be the type of nonsense that you don't claim yourself to be (i.e., a hoe of the bargained sort). When you go to Rainbow, Rave and It's Fashion and raid the $5 rack without taking into account that some things (no matter how frugal) aren't always a steal of a deal, you'll pay for it later when you are met with many stares of disapproval. Don't get me wrong, I'm broke as a joke. But I still know what looks good on me and what makes me look like I just crawled off the avenue. In this economy, it is a very good idea to be conscious of one's spending, but when it comes to the way you wish to be perceived by the opposite sex, some corners should not be cut so sharply.

When you are on the hunt for a "good man", what is the VERY first thing he will see? That's right--your outer appearance. So if you look like a skeezer what else is there to lead a man to any other conclusion about your dateability? Do you think he'll really give you the opportunity to open your mouth and prove him right? Why bother? You're probably just as dumb as you look wearing those tight, unflattering clothes that REEK of "2 for 1 Clearance Rack". With that in mind, how do you think a man would naturally approach such an obviously indiscriminate woman? Correct answer: With hard dick and bubble gum. That's all a hoe really needs to survive in this world anyway. Pimpin' takes care of the rest, therefore, you will often be met with "pimp game". Of course there are some indiscriminate men out there who will undoubtedly approach ALL women the same way, no matter how she looks but a "good one" may not approach you at all.

Additionally, ladies, some of us are not being honest with ourselves about our SIZE. I know it's a truly fucked up feeling when you put on those 14s and they feel a little bit more snug than you remember but we mustn't shy away from the reality of the situation. You can't make them thangs fit like they used to no matter how much "give" they have. Just because you can still put it on doesn't mean that you SHOULD. Trust me you'll be more attractive in the right size than you are squeezed uncomfortably into the wrong one. Not only does it tell a man that you're lying to yourself about how you look, it also shows that you've let yourself go. Do yourself a favor and don't EVER let a man see too much of what the future would hold for him in the event that he would consider a long-term arrangement with you. We all know that one day we all will most likely put on some pounds as we age but damn, at least let the man enjoy how you look NOW.

And if it seems as though I'm leaning too much toward the male point of view, consider this ladies: Would you be running into the arms of a man who was dressed like he just rolled out of bed and lazily decided that whatever he had on was sufficient for any occassion? Would you rest your future in the hands of a man who looked like he borrowed his little brother's t-shirt and his sister's jeans? Would you procreate with another human being who was obviously so careless and jaded? Maybe you would... which is why you can't find a good man.

(REAL TALK DISCLAIMER: I ain't sayin' I got it all together my damn self but that doesn't mean I don't know shit. So if this offends you, then I must speaking directly to you. You can either get on your game or get off my damn page. It's up to you ma'am.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Pussy Is Nuts

And I mean that in every way you could possibly interpret such a statement.

Not only is vagina the physiological embodiment of insanity but it also contains the intuition, fortitude and wisdom of the ages. It is no mystery that unfathomable genius is often dogged with paranoid schizophrenic behavior. I know those who are vaginaless would say that there is nothing prodigious about pussy but those mutha fuckas would be dead wrong, yo. How do I know this? Simple. I happen to have in my very own possession... a vagina--a vagina that torments me daily with delusions while simultaneously inspiring a will for greatness within me.

Unfortunately, to date, I have shamefully failed my wondrous vag. This assertion is based on the fact that I am only just now realizing its ferocity. Instead of harnessing the power it has to lay waste to all impediments fool enough to stand in my path, I was seduced by its ability to work evil in the lives of men. And what, you may ask, were the fruits of the wrongdoings I wrought? Not a mutha fuckin thang. This is not to say that I expected to gain anything by doing such. I simply didn't give a damn. I just wanted to get my kicks and piss off a couple niggas in the process. I have done this but at what toll? By giving in to the wild, voracious, egomaniacal impulses of pussy, I gave away years of progress. I devolved before I could even begin to evolve and I'm not the only one, it seems.

When I look out and absorb the world around me, I see so many women who are deep in the throes of pussy dementia. Brizzles having kids to trap a nigga who ain't shit anyway just so nobody else can have him, only to realize that he's still free as a bird while she alone bears the burden of a dual parenthood. Hoes using pussy to climb up on a small pile of someone else's riches while that time could have been better spent building a wealth of self-worth and autonomy. Now to these women the cure more favors the disease. I may not have engaged in any of those particular pursuits, but I am no stranger to the urges that bring these ill-founded reasonings about. Pussy will whisper to you and say "If you have this kid he ain't gone be able to go no where." "If you put me on him real good his pockets will open and his eyes will be forever closed--to your motives and all other women." Or (my personal favorite) "Go ahead and fuck em. The only thing that matters is that you let go first. This will prove your dominance and you win." Crazy, crackheaded designs all and none yield the desired result.

If a woman gives in to the weakness of scorn, vagina's true baseness will be revealed. This was my ailment. I was weak--downtrodden with bitterness toward a group whose "members" I thought posed some threat to me (thanks to the paranoia that comes standard with any vagina). There was once a time not to long ago when any nigga I left high and dry (and there's plenty of em) would see me in public and cut his eyes HARD at me. They would glare as I went about my evening and I could feel their staring. Without acknowledgement, I absolutely delighted myself in their displays. In no regard do I claim any "diva" type status. I could give a fuck really. I merely mastered the lost art of the bump n run. As soon as I realized how severely it troubled a man to be forgotten I couldn't quite help forgetting. I'm not proud of it (anymore) but that was my habit. Admittedly, a fucked up one, but that was the way I chose to wield my God-given gift. #fail

Had I taken the time to understand exactly what it was that I had in vagina instead of the low, short road to instant gratification, there is no doubt I would be in a different position today. I don't know exactly what that position might have been nor do I care to partake in any ruminations. The point is that the awesome power I possess herein my biology did lay can now be put to better use with the more illogical undertakings of pussy far behind me. It is my hope that all of you humans out there with a vagina attached to you would come to the same realization. Besides... isn't it much easier to breathe freely and think clearly with ones feet soundly on the floor?

Monday, November 8, 2010

Closure: An Experimental Pursuit

I conducted an experiment (at my own expense) in which I explored some of the possibilities of "closure" (whatever the fuck that means). I hear it's a term embittered people use when they want to get that last word in on someone who ran afoul of the most fragile part of their psyche in which they were either invited or simply barged into. I elected to embark upon this fool's errand when fate had me stumble upon some old texts in an obsolete phone from someone who claimed great things for me, but when our relationship vanished suddenly without a trace it was revealed that in truth he had none.

I believe that a briefing is in order to make clearer the goals intended by this experiment so here it is:

We talked for a while and found that we had many things in common. We conversed about where things were going and decided that what we were beginning was something significant, while still indefinite. There was a mutual respect between us and we expressed all thoughts honestly. Along the way I stumbled hard and allowed myself to succumb to his baser urges. When hindsight would not let up on my nerves, I finally had to tell him that our "engagement" was a mistake on my part and never should have transpired. It was too soon and we were still uncertain of what was to come of our new more-than friendship. He agreed that it was premature but we remained on the same path as before. Layman's terms: He was so say all into ya girl and I shucked his corn even though I knew I shouldn't have but shit didn't change afterward so we were still cool... or so I thought. I don't know the time that lapsed between that incident and the day he declared himself a relationship on facebook but I do remember that I was caught completely off guard by the revelation. Also I was a bit dismayed to find (after that status was changed) that the daily unsolicited calls and texts disappeared. I chalked it up to "niggas will be niggas at the end of the day" and quickly put the entire situation behind me. If memory prevails me that was in July. I have not sought the young man out since nor have I considered doing such.

For unknown reasons, today I took out my backup phone just to see if there were any wayward texts that I might have missed from people who were unaware of my number change. There were two and they were read. Then I noticed quite a few old texts addressed from the aforementioned party. I was filled with a sensation that I have not felt in quite some time. It was not rage. It was not pain. It was not abandonment. It was that feeling of "Naw... I gotta let this dude know what I think about his bitch ass." The last time I felt that way I absolutely POURED my heart out to a man who showed me afterward they he could give a fuck but this situation was different. It's not so much that I had an abundance of residual emotion leftover for him but I refused to go on letting him think that it was cool for him to just disappear like that. So with that thought I began tinkering around with ideas on how to approach the situation.

A brief text was my first notion but I decided that would not be adequate to capture my distaste. Then I decided to type up an even LONGER text message, at which point I felt incredibly silly. I had far too many frustrations on my chest to be dispelled by any amount of text messages. Also I find long texts to be a bore and easily ignored. I wanted him to hear everything I had to say. So the obvious choice was to call. It was my hope that he would be indisposed or too bitch made to answer the phone thus I would be able to leave him a voicemail uninterrupted by any of his half-baked excuses. Of course since I had a plan in mind, the powers that be decided that things should go differently. I must have offended life in some perverse way with my quick-wittedness because the bitch answered the phone just when I had a fool-proof voicemail kiss-off to lay on his jive ass. Now that the sound of his voice has thrown my well-guided train of thought off the rails, I had to improvise a bit. The conversation proceeded as thus:

HIM: Hello
ME: Do you know who this is?
HIM: Yeah, this is [indecipherable]
ME: What?
HIM: What...
ME: Ugh... this is Deanna.
HIM: Oh! Hey! How you doin?
ME: Whatever. You do realize that I kinda noticed how you dropped off the radar very abruptly, right?
HIM: Well, yeah... I've been busy with this PhD program and all... I mean... I barely talk to my three best friends...
ME: Do you think I give a fuck who else you're not talking to?
HIM: I'm gonna have to call you back later... I'm kinda on my way to doing somethin...
ME: Don't bother. I just have a couple things to say and you can go on with your silly life.
HIM: Ok...
ME: It is my understanding that you have a girlfriend now--do you not?
HIM: Yeah I do...
ME: How can you have a girlfriend when you have absolutely NO time to contact ANYONE in your life as you claim?
HIM: Well...
ME: Whatever bruh. You know what you did to me was fucked up and all you're doing is making excuses to seem as though you're not as much of a coward as you are.
HIM: I mean... I don't know how that makes me a coward.
ME: We were talking all the time and the day it seems you get yourself somebody closer and more convenient than I was you fall of the face of the earth and you think that doesn't count as being bitch made?
HIM: I'm sorry...
ME: Fuck your sorry. I just called to make sure that just in case you were lying to yourself thinking that the way you handled our situation wasn't fucked up, you knew from me that it was indeed fucked up and you showed just what little character you truly possess. Enjoy your "program" and good day.

And that was that. Do I feel any better? I guess. I didn't really feel "bad" to begin. Mostly I felt cheated out of having my say when he decided on his own to cease all communications with me and offer no explanation for his actions. Did I get that explanation? No. Do I really give a fuck about what he thinks? Not really. My main goal in this was to very selfishly thrust my opinions onto his conscience and leave him little room for rebuttal. I have done that. Has this abstract state of "closure" been attained for this particular "chapter" of my life? I barely know what closure is supposed to be so it's hard to say whether it's there or not. It's hard for me to assert that it even truly exists.

Closure is purported to be something that is necessary for us to move on with our lives once something ends unexpectedly and ambiguously. The truth is that when something is over, it's just fucking over regardless of if we felt we got our just due when it was all said and done; regardless of if we got to say everything we really wanted to say and do all we really wanted to do; regardless of if we were cheated out of an opportunity to express ourselves or we just didn't think it was so important at the time. The truth is... it's over with or without you having any peace on the matter.

Conclusion: Closure is some ol buck nekked bull shit and the pursuit of it will only draw you back into a state of limbo when all you really need to do to move on is just move the fuck on... at least that's what my life has taught me about the subject. It would behoove you to conduct and analyze your own experiments with this phenomenon of human need.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Is Dick Seriously That Hard to Come By?

(No pun intended with the title, by the by.)

According to this article, it can be inferred that as hard as it is out here for a pimp, the outlook is bleaker still for these hoes...


If you decided to skip right over the article link above, I'll just give you the tea myself. Some obviously desperate woman, in the midst of being charged with the task of literally deciding a man's fate, thought it would be a good idea to kick game to an officer of the court. One may reason to say that maybe the paticulars of the trial weren't all that compelling so homegirl was easily distracted. In this instance, however, I doubt that would be so. This trial, in which she's acting as a juror, involves the rape, torture and murder of a mother and her two daughters, ages 17 and 11, and whether or not to "fry" the man convicted of carrying out these acts. Maybe this is due to all the SVU I watch, but something tells me that the details being presented in the courtroom at any given moment would easily command one's attention.

Not only is this lady guilty of being desperate to the point of extreme selfishness, but she's also a damn fool. She thought she would be able to slip the court marshal a note undetected like she's in third fuckin' grade or somethin'. I wish I knew EXACTLY how old this brizzle was to be so hard up for a man. She must have been lonely for a LONG mutha fuckin time to try something this pitiful. Dick is indeed a powerful lure but JEEZ. It hardly trumps life and death... at least for human beings with some GOT-damned sense it doesn't.

The fact that this woman is clearly dumb as hell should automatically make her far too incompetent to be in such a grave position. If I was the defendant, I might wonder what else they have in that damn jurors box determining whether I should live or die. Granted he is guilty of some severely heinous acts so I gather this is merely Karma nipping at his balls right up to the end. (Honestly there's no way homeboy isn't gonna get the needle. A jury of monkeys would hang em... after throwing pile after pile of their own leavings at his face.) I think the judge (who made a public mockery of this woman's display) would have thrown her out of the court if it had not been for the fact that for this trial they have completely expired all six of their back-up jurors (of which she is one).

Judge Jon Blue sounds like an asshole of the highest quality and showed little reserve in berating this juror who was looking for love in all the wrong places. If only I could have been there to hear him wail on her. She created the ideal atmosphere for a true asshole to take full form. Because she committed an act of such outrageously simple proportions in a setting which she had no heft and Judge Blue had it all, she essentially gave a man with a semi-automatic a never-ending clip. Needless to say, I don't feel any sympathy whatsoever for her embarrassment.

I do feel for the court official though. All he did was go to his damn job and this broad had to come and make it even more regrettable. Sorry, bruh. I know it wasn't your fault. You walk in to that court room with your head held high and if you think ol' girl is fine, do her and don't call her back. She will have learned her lesson and you will have your recompense...

My Writer's Block at Your Expense

In September of 2008 I (for lack of anything better to do at 2AM) very innocently embarked upon my first stab at a novel. I didn't realize that was what I was doing at the time but quickly it became just that. In November of the same year, employment brought that effort to an unnoticed halt. Unemployment once again reared its ugly head (as it usually does) and in August of the next year I was back at her, harder than ever. At this point I really thought I had it in me. I just knew that I would have a completed manuscript (edited and polished) come February 2010. I have yet to see that dream realized. In fact I have scarcely written a thing since January 2010. To date, this "book" of mine is only half written and entirely unedited. This entry is directly a result of today's failed attempt to move forward with the text.

Many efforts have been made on my part to continue the upward path toward a completed manuscript but all have yielded little to no result. The bullet train of my creativity that took off without impediment in the late summer of 2009 has derailed into a gorge of stagnation. It's writer's block like a mutha fucka and I've been using this poor defenseless blog to exact my own revenge against the written word which has left me to rot. I find profanity to be soothing to the savage cantankerous beast that dwells in the left side of my brain. This beast thirsts for an outlet, the likes of which I cannot now provide with the same literary dexterity I once had.

Before I got to this point of outright counter-productivity, I employed many other devices to aid me in my stupor. I tried developing other written works I'd begun, not knowing what they were or what they would become, with the goal of being swept up in a current of creativity the way I was before. I succeeded only in starting three other books and two graphic novels which I may also never finish. (Who knew writer's block could be so ubiquitous?) I begged the aid of many others who I knew had some sensibility when it came to literature. They all at some point agreed to be of service but none of them actually manifested their claims. I also solicited the advice of other writers who before me had been snared in the jowls of writer's block. I enacted their devices to no avail. With no more bright ideas, I could but only turn to the ever open ear of the indiscriminate blog for it accepts all who come, no matter how crass or talentless in the realm of written language. Sometimes I feel that this medium of mine is more of an aversion than a diversion but fuck it. I gotta get my authorial fix somewhere, regardless of the blatant vanity that may or may not be involved.

I must leave you now as I thirst for yet another daunting endeavor...

Monday, November 1, 2010

I'm No Bitch... I'm an Asshole

EX: You were a bitch when we were together.
ME: Correction: I was a jerk and I obviously didn't do my job well enough.
EX: Why do you say that?
ME: You're still calling me.

If you all haven’t noticed by now, I’m an asshole. I’m pretty much at peace with that so I gather you should be too since we're so cool and all. In fact I don’t mind the appellation one bit. I even prefer it to other labels that may be placed on a woman of my particular demeanor. Those labels like "sassy" and "bitch." Those labels meant to reflect the cattiness that is so say "inherent" of womanhood while completely demeaning all that it is to be a real woman. Real women have no cause for these labels while the weakest of the female sex relish in their stereotypical overtones. Then there are those monikers like "edgy" and "risque" which would reflect a certain intangible rebellious nature but in truth it reflects a desperate need to be widely accepted.

I do not like to be called “sassy” for a number of reasons. Domesticated animals and drag queens are named "Sassy". Clearly I qualify as none of the above since I am a full-on chick and not easily housebroken. I do not like to be called “edgy.” In my life that doesn’t even exist as a real word and if it were I would use it to describe a rock formation. (I.e., The Grand Canyon is edgy.) I, as a soft, supple and curvaceous woman, have no known “edges” to speak of. That whole "risque" thing is just a fancy French word for somebody who takes pleasure in the shock value of their aberrant, hoe-like behavior. Finally (and most important) NEVER call me a bitch. Ever. These other bitches take it as a compliment, not me—at least not in that regard. Bitches do what they do for attention or because they’re socially limited enough to think that they might be more entitled than the next bitch.

“Not I,” said the cat. Women like the two-dimensional caricatures depicted on "The Real Housewives" fit those molds. I know I’m not entitled and it is that knowledge which makes me an asshole to begin. In life I am owed nothing, thus I owe no one. For me there is nothing more gratifying than knowing that I am the most efficiently offensive person in the room without even having to outdo myself, much less anyone else. That’s an asshole. We don’t care if we piss you off or not, that’s just a bonus. Our satisfaction comes from knowing that whatever we say, it is the unabridged honest to God truth and you, as the unassuming bystander, have to just eat that dick if it should happen to slap you in the face. Whatever we said to offend, we only did it because we absolutely meant that shit. No apology is forthcoming so spare yourself the wasted time of anticipation.

A sassy, edgy bitch says what she says to "one-up" someone else who makes her feel insecure. (At least that's how I see 'em.) She does it to superficially assert her dominance over another who appears to be more apt. It's the same phenomenon as a dog pissing on your furniture. "This is my territory and this is the crude and vulgar way I choose to express it because I honestly don't know any better way to do so." We forgive these sassy, edgy bitches in same way we do dogs. We beat them with a rolled up newspaper then feel pity for such a lowly unintelligent creature. Send the bitch a fruit basket and you're her best friend again.

If one should run afoul of an asshole like myself, however, the outcome is much different. A real, true to form jerk doesn't play those catty nonsense games. An asshole like myself doesn't care if you recover from her scorn. In fact I would prefer that you didn't. That way maybe you would think twice before opening your mouth to give foolhardy Icarian wings to the outright bumfuckery that lies in wait in every crevasse of your "mind" ever again. Bitches need to learn that silence is their best defense against those of us who would not hesitate to make (figuratively or literally) a bleeding example of their ignorance.

Jerks also enjoy fine wine, the arts, stimulating company and Bruce Lee movies. It would behoove you to engage us... but only with sincerity.

Friday, October 29, 2010

On Things That Are Better Left Unsaid

So after Flavor of Love first went on the air, I decided officially that I hated television and dubbed it my sole mortal enemy. Even after that Strange Love debacle, I had faith that the visionaries who developed that particular parade of unabridged bull shit or at least the network would express some better judgment in the future. Much to my chagrin, that was not so. I still watch TV of course because I’m unemployed and socially nonexistent. Thus, from being forced to engage in television more often than I’d like, lately I’ve realized that it’s not just Fox News and ignorance mongering reality shows that make me want to vomit. Now even commercials have tread far and beyond what I feel should be navigable territory for a 30 second ad.

I personally thought commercials should be geared toward assuring my dependence as a consumer on certain goods and services that have been deemed satisfactory by our trusted television networks. Maybe that was the case in 1995 but in 2010 commercials contain the things that are best left to ads in Redbook and Penthouse or the dignified discretion of a pamphlet. If the commercial ain’t about getting rid of a "dangling participle", it’s about curing tiny-dick-itis. Then if that doesn’t get it one can procure a novel little device (cleverly referred to as a personal massager so as not to emasculate the impotent men and put off the stuck up bitches) that we women can easily attach to our fingertips and conveniently facilitate a nut at the time and venue of our choosing. And if even that doesn’t get you to the land of milk and honey, us women can just buy a special lube that will make us so damn sensitive that we’ll explode on a baby carrot if you put it within 12 inches of our bodies.

If it’s not about a fancy new condom that they’ve made ever so thin to where it feels almost as good as a raw dog but it nearly dissolves on contact and might not protect you against a damn thing it's a birth control implement which allows for the raw dogging and turns us into delighted freaks of nature by having us bleed only once every three months. It can also clear up your acne but it turns your uterus into an unstable uranium atom just waiting to be split.

If it’s not about a chat line urging men to talk and or text smoking hot, soaking wet, young honeys who are most likely not nearly as smoking hot, soaking wet or as young as the ones who actually appear in the commercials, it’s about barely legal young hot white co-eds “going wild” because obviously the rigorous academic demands at Bar Tab U and their natural bi-curious urges drive them to do chain shots of varying colorful monikers and very sloppily open mouth kiss each other in questionable hotel showers and tour buses. (Oh how my heart aches for those poor sexually repressed yet suddenly liberated middle class angels.)

As uninterested as I am in seeing ANY of those things in the midst of thoroughly enjoying re-runs of the Golden Girls, good ol commercial break once again reared its awkward head. Generally I expected the showcase of erectile dysfunction and birth control ads since it was on Lifetime but this time I was in for a zinger. This commercial literally made me say afterward, “I really would rather not have that message relayed to me in such an informal fashion.” (It might have come off a little less "weird", however, if I had not been sitting next to my middle aged father at the time.) It was an ad for this item on the market called “RepHresh” whose function is to maintain a healthy pH level for your vag. I’m a little apprehensive but I’m on board with it anyway because I’m hoping they’ll handle this particular matter with a little tact. Of course they’ll have to say the normal TMI type things but they decided to go balls out on this one. So... there are three women in the commercial—two white and of course one black to even it up. One white girl is kinda hot for a woman who used to be a really hot slut but she cleaned up once she escaped undergrad and developed some discernment. The other white chick is not as hot but you can tell it’s from the strain of having to rear two to three unruly white children in suburban middle-America. The black chick was of the marketable sort with some crazy Sideshow Bob curly mop top broccoli crown deal growing out her head and she’s of an acceptable medium brown tone with an average anti-black woman body shape and seems to be of a mild nature. Whatever. I already hate her. The commercial proceeds as thus…

The calm, reserved and reassuring voice over lady starts telling me and pops about all the reasons why stuff like Vagisil and Summer’s Eve do little to nothing for internal type shit that causes that funny off smell in your vag every so often and that it’s actually your pH levels that are all crazy go nuts in there. Alright but I wish ye olde gyno would have decided to throw that in there in the midst of our scolding sessions when she used to yell at me for not always using condoms. (I was lucky enough to be a 21 year-old with a judgemental betch for a OB-GYN.) Continuing on. Now enter used to be hot but still OK mom with one of the situations for which you should employ the use of this particular product. Line: “After your period—repHresh.” Fine. I can deal with that. Periods are something you really can’t avoid on a commercial and us women talk about the shit all the time. Moving on. Enter kinda hot chick with reason number two for putting this shit in your vag. “After intimacy—repHresh.” Hmmmm… I’m a little concerned with the semantics here. It’s a little weird that they would call it “intimacy” because that could refer to a number of activities. That could mean anything from greasing a nigga’s scalp to hardcore makin out to titty fuckin. So now I’m wondering, “Do I really need to change the old oil after that?” Then I simply assume they used the word "intimacy" rather than a full on “intercourse” drop for the sake of prudes and lesbians because neither one of them knows what sex actually is anyway. On top of that, I approve that that her being "intimate" is believable. Once again, sex is always on commercials and women talk about it all the time. No harm done. But the next one is where they COMPLETELY lose me (and also my father). The black chick (and I think they did this shit on purpose) with a smile on her face and a little lilt in her voice and everything, “After douching—repHresh.” That tears it. That was the line, bitch. Why the HELL did you have to bring that shit into this?! Women don’t even mention douching to each other! If a man asks a woman if she douches it turns into a dozens match! “What the hell you tryna say mutha fucka? My pussy may not smell like springtime and cinnamon but I’ll be damn if I shoot vinegar and water up there to make you happy, ya salty dick bastard. If you want me to douche so damn bad how bout you do me a fuckin' favor and febreeze that shag carpet that’s coverin those sweat smothered balls of yours once in a while--you ungrateful, disrespectful, judgmental prick.” The moral of the story… there’s no right way to bring up douching in a serious or critical context. None.

That was the only time I ever saw that commercial. I think they might have pulled it due to content... and outrage.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

On Domestic Violence...

Men don’t hit your women. DON'T do it. It’s just wrong and albeit unnecessary. I'm sayin' bruh... I know you have a sister, a cousin or at least a down ass homegirl like me who is just WAITIN' for your old lady to fuck up enough to deserve a serious dealin' wit. Ladies you know that bitch either ruined your family barbeque with DRAMA or she played on your phone looking for her old man or she fucked up your painfully orchestrated world class Superbowl party because she didn’t understand what was "so damn important about a stupid football game" for her to just sit down and just shut the hell up. Simply put: the bitch has done something out the way at your expense and all ya boy has to do is call…

“My nigga I’ll be there in ten minutes…. Naw I’m already dressed I just got out the gym… And don’t let her know you called me cause she’ll just run again. I OWE this bitch... ”

There is often some hidden clause(s), however, in this agreement between male/female homies so fellas make sure you get all the particulars before you expect your comrade to bust through the door battle-ready. For instance, there are two kinds of bitches that my homeboys KNOW I personally wouldn’t even fight for my own causes, much less for my homey who already saw the writing on the wall and chose to cut off the lights and just smash anyway. Those two kinds of bitches are ugly bitches and crazy bitches.

I won’t fight an ugly bitch just because I’m cute and that advantage will drive her to do anything to take it away from me. I’ve been pretty for far too long to have to adapt to outright ugly in a matter of seconds because my homeboy's frightfully ugly and insecure old lady carries a razor. I’ll take my unattractiveness on gradually as gravity spitefully drags my jugg’ums closer and closer to the ground, thank you. But know that there’s a plan B for doing battle with an ugly bitch if it simply must be had. Draw her into a conversation about her better attributes and she’ll calm down. Ugly girls love when pretty girls compliment them. If that doesn’t work just call an even uglier bitch to fight her and mooooooove out the way. There ain’t nothin’ more dangerous than an ugly bitch throw down, so just quietly leave the room, lay down in the bathtub and cover your head. When you hear a sound like a train whistle don't run and don't panic. Just bear down until it passes. Feel free to hum your favorite tune if it can help you stay calm.

The reason why I will NEVER fight a crazy bitch is simply because you cannot hurt a truly crazy bitch. I’m not talking about the “she just ain’t got no bit’o good sense” crazy. I’m talkin'bot the “you could hit her square in the face wit a cinderblock and she won’t go down” crazy. For those kinds of chicks I’ll just say “My nigga you gone have to shoot that bitch. Call me when you need to dispose of the body.”

So ladies, if you have a homey/brother/cousin/nephew/son/uncle/lecherous grandfather who has a whiny, bitchy, irrational succubus in his life that you absolutely CANNOT STAND, my advice to you is watch, wait and pray. The day of her reckoning could easily be your triumph or your demise. What's important is that most likely afterward you're going to jail. Do you want to go to lockup with an undisputed victory already under your belt or as the wannabe lady G who jumped in to get knocked out?

Dwell on it...

How Do They Be Knowin?

I always wonder what it’s like for gay dudes to attempt to approach another guy in an everyday non-gay setting. That has to be a little awkward sometimes, don’t ya think? Especially if it’s in a place where you can’t be too sure if he is or IS NOT of your particular persuasion. I mean, it’s totally safe at a Broadway production a young republicans’ mixer in San Francisco or in jail but what about the produce section at the Super Target?

Just imagine if you will for a moment that you’re a verile gay man sporting your Express Men's gear and you see this super hot hottie hovering over the organic cumcumbers and checking them rather thoroughly for imperfections. Your gay man penis is going ape shit at the sight of him stroking and ogling so meticulously, but you are forced to ask yourself a few logical questions. Is this man straight and merely trying to avoid food poisoning or do these long, thick, healthy-looking cucumbers remind him of a young Cuban towel boy he had an encounter with in Palm Springs last summer? So to get answers to these questions, what do you do? Do you casually bump into him and gauge his reaction or do you simply follow him around the store and try to see if he does anything overtly gay like buy decorative soaps or air freshener or condoms? There is a possibility that he might be buying all that stuff for a girl, right? I would assume at this point that your gay hormones must be going beserk from the sheer anticipation of it all and to be quite honest, I sympathize.

As a straight woman I can’t count the times I’ve "engaged" a man and had to say afterwards, “Wait, was that nigga gay?" (I actually can count the times and that would be one time too many.) I mean when you find yourself staring across the room at a chair with a pair or tailored Armani slacks folded rather neatly over it and he's in the shower singing "Put a Ring on It", you need to ask yourself some hard questions. Number one being, "Why did he have a shower bag handy anyway?”  So that’s when a smart woman would think to institute something of a sexuality screening process. Just propose something that seems unabashedly hetero and see what his responses are. For instance I might say, “Hey, I got a 360 with a headset and C.O.D. on deck... you down?” Now this can go several ways. If he attemts and makes his first kill with an embarrassing friendly fire, he's gay. If he asks if this is some manner of postal worker sex fantasy that I would like to partake in, there is clearly some question with his preference. He might be bi but it's clear that he's a freak. If he says, “Well, I was hoping that we could cuddle,” then he’s either gay or emotionally needy which is just as bad and even more annoying. If he says, “What’s a 360 and a COD?” then he’s either gay or an overdue Amish boy on his Rumspringa. If he says, “What about World of Warcraft?” then he’s possibly straight but he needs a raid fix before he takes his own sad pitiful life. If he says, “How bout we have sex, eat, get astronaut high and play Guitar Hero” then he is obviously my one true love so who cares if he's gay? I can fix him with my hetero female love...

You may find the subject inane but this shit could save your life one day. Mouths closed, minds open and pencils down. Class is dismissed.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

I'll Admit It...

... sometimes I love Kanye West. I mean I really LOVE that man right now. "Why" is the question that some of you (who know of my teetering hatred for Kanye as he has spiraled further and further down into the chasm of utter nonsense) may be asking. Honestly, I love him most for his lack of regard for others. There is nothing more honorable than a black person who will unashamedly tread on the cultural balls of any and every white pop sensation he sees fit. This time, Kanye has decided that Lindsay Lohan was due for a bit his trademark scorn.


If you opted out of reading the article accessed by the link above (because you would rather have me eloquently regurgitate it for you) this is what you should know by now. Kanye decided that Lindsay Lohan (glorified crackhead and career problem child) and fashion are two things that mix about as well as Islamic terrorists and an air show in NYC. That's right... he compared Lindsay Lohan's fashion efforts to that of the September 11th attacks. Of course we know that Lohan is a prize to no one but don't be talkin' crazy bout the white man's 9/11!! Many say such a comparison crosses the line (even if it's about Lindsay) and Kanye will be sure to fall from graces again. (Highly unlikely if his much hyped upcoming album lives up to all its fanfare.) An article on Elle magazine's website  suggests that the Lohan patriarchs won't be far behind with a few stern words for young Master West but who really gives a fuck about what Dina and Mike have to say? Certainly not I. And to be quite honest about my own opinion... the line really did suck. From what I've read about Lohan's Ungaro debacle, the critics didn't have too many good things to say about it either, but please don't just follow the trend of what you're told. Make your own judgements about it:


Like what you saw? I don't claim to be a fashion genius or anything but I really did not see the creative vision of the line. It just looked like clothes to me. Nothing all that singular. Just a bunch of frocks traipsing to and fro on the runway.

Anyway... this isn't a blog about fashion so I'll avoid any further remarks on the subject. The point is people seem to get really touchy when a Negro of note decides to use anything "American" to rail on any Caucasian's actions (even if it is Lohan). It's simply in poor taste for someone to be so insensitive but all these conservative pundits can use whatever nationalist buzz words they like to make their points all the more "patriotic". Call Pres. Obama a "sleeper cell terrorist" but by all means don't compare a failed fashion line to their precious Sept. 11th. It's just plain offensive... and wholly un-American to boot. That means you Kanye and Barack and Oprah and all you other irresponsibly wealthy colored folks out there with an "opinion." Leave the true Americans to those kind of analogies and stick to MLK and the Civil Rights Movement. We'll let you have that.

To close, all I would ask of Kanye is that he would continue to be outlandish and dangerous in his criticisms of all the things he finds to be erroneous cause I'm right behind ya bruh. I got my own stones to lunge...

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Just What I Needed... Another Sex Study

So, if there be any of you who happened to read my last two posts you might be able to say that I was in something of a horrible funk but thanks to my favorite Internet news provider, NY Daily News, I have been re-energized by the one thing that can truly distract me: the science of sex.


I doubt that you would ignore the above link if you paid any attention to the previous text but in case you did just know that for the first time in a long time someone decided that sex needed another in-depth look. (Thank God) Their findings showed some things that were surprising, others that were quite predictable and a few that just ticked the hell out of me.

First, let me say that their "revelation" that men are oblivious to the fact that they ain't puttin' that thang down like they believe is hardly worthy of a headline. I mean, really, 85% of ya'll think the last time you did the do, that you actually delivered the shockingly elusive "O?" Come the fuck on, man! Granted some of the respondents were engaging in a bit of rump wranglin' but not enough to offset the 21% difference in the results of the juxtaposed women's study. Only 64% of them claimed to achieve greatness in their last sexual encounter. Granted also, some of them were bumping cats the last time they got'er done so a similar offset must be applied.

This leads me to my main issue with brizzles in this regard: Why are we doing Broadway in the bedroom... or in the kitchen... or on the roof... or in the alley ways (if you lack all sense of ladyship)? Why do we puff these dudes up? Most of em could really care less, I promise. In fact a few of them just want to beat you the punch! (Am I lyin', bruh? Didn't think so.) They don't necessarily care that you achieve your yearning completion. They just like the idea of it all. I don't think most of them know a nut truly exists for a woman because we sing so many damn show tunes that they don't know what's real and what's just for the glamour (as evidenced by these here study results). So to end that point: If he's whack, tell that nigga he's whack. If he's the truth... don't let him stunt on you. You throw that thang back at em and don't punk out.

Next up: teenage sex. Now I can honestly say I know NOTHING about that and I really didn't care to learn. (I found that young men in Houma were scandalous and came with too heavy an incestuous risk for my discernment.) The study revealed two rather important things:

1. It seems that teenagers are not as sexually active as they are purported to be. Initially, I was a little suspicious of that theory. To me, teenagers seem to be wild with lust. Young girls idolize women like Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian;(I grew up idolizing Pam Grier and Foxy Brown. They were waaaaay better role models. Smh.) they dress in a manner that is hardly viewed as pristine; they cuss like sailors on a weekend pass; and every time a look up one of em is poppin' out another kid. But when I think about it... those are the HITs (Hoes In Training). And when you have half the boys in the neighborhood after those same three HITs, the other girls are left to hold on to their chastity as long as they like or maybe just engage in intercourse with their "steady" (that's such a cute term). Makes sense to me so I'm runnin' wit it.

2. They're wrappin that thang up tight when they do engage. All I can say is "Bravo, boys and girls." If we have learned nothing from athletes, rappers, thugs, and Maury Povich, we have garnered the knowledge that baby mamas and baby daddies are indeed NOT what's up. Personally I believe my generation was more influenced by the whole HIV/AIDS thing by making it the only thing scarier than moms. There were sooooo many specials and pamphlets and educational films about the dreaded STD. Gives me the willies just thinking about all those feathered bands and acid-washed jeans. While still a scary thought, I didn't find that we were all that worried about the threat of offspring when it came to sex way back then.

Also the study showed that Black and Hispanic men these days are sporting jimmy hats more often than White men. I believe that to be very true (because I have always perceived the White man to be reckless) but I do not agree with the suspected reasoning behind this nuance. Study analysts suggested that the growing epidemic of HIV/AIDS in the Black and Hispanic community was the cause but I'm more leaning toward the fertility of Black and Hispanic women coupled with their penchant for high drama and violent acts as the proponent. (Ladies, I can't lie. We be takin' it there... daily.)

Another revelation in the use of condoms as it pertained to this study (which I found no qualm with) was the extremely low instance of condom use in men over 61. Ya think? Old dudes don't need ANYTHING standing in their way when it comes to the squishy. They can barely keep that meat up so don't even ATTEMPT to dull that sensation. And as far as the AIDS thing... I mean they gotta go sometime, right? Old dudes have no choice but to be in the moment. It heightens the excitement of the encounter, ya know. They have to get it while the getting is good and a old playa knows that putting the moment on pause to find a condom is a sure fire way to let it pass you right on by. Yeah they have Viagra, but from what I hear not all health plans cover that soooo... yeah. Some of these old dudes have to rely on Gin and Thunderbird, and we all know that doesn't hold up for too long. I ain't mad at you old man, but... don't be surprised if after the love is gone you're left with a lingering (and less pleasurable) sensation. HITs graduate and move through the ranks to become old pros, do they not?

In short... I seriously dug it but I'm glad I ate already. Old people "activity" is enough to make me lose ANY appetite with which I might have been born. Gross.

The "Mutual Friend" Strikes Again

So... that last post which was dated for today at approximately 9:00 this morning was actually typed up last night but I was too shaken up by a spectre from my past to finalize it. Via facebook (of course) I was slapped in the face by the "mutual friend" paradox. Meaning, someone who I was determined to erase from my life by deleting him from my fb list still found his was into my notifications by way of a mutual facebook friend. He commented on her status and I had the misfortune of seeing his name next to a wedding picture of him and his white baby mama. Perfect.

I'm ashamed to say that all those feelings I claimed to leave behind in 2009 followed me all the way to the latter quarter of 2010. I felt that same tremor of anger and pain and abandonment that I felt when I first saw his relationship status change in August of 2008 only two months after he'd been telling me that he wasn't ready for a relationship. It was the same sickness I felt in November 2008 when I saw his profile picture change to an ultrasound of his child with her. It was the same worthlessness I felt when I first saw his name change to reflect how much he loved her and how much he never gave a damn about me even though it appeared that he knew her about as long as he knew me. It was then that I first deleted my fb account after realizing that I couldn't handle the information it made all too available for me to stumble upon even though I had long removed him from the list of human beings with which I cared to keep in step. The only happiness I could cling to in leaving New Orleans behind in the late summer of 2009 was that I was sure to NEVER have to gaze upon him in Houma.

I returned to facebook in the latter part of 2009 feeling safer and more resigned to the assertion that I no longer cared for him the way I did before. I was wiser than I had been. I understood that what we "shared" was a fleeting thing and it was an infatuation of my own design. What I thought I felt was a figment of my girlish imagination and nothing that should be so far-reaching. That was before last night when I saw that tiny little wedding picture... so small and so consummate. I gather there was a faint part of me that kept saying "Maybe he'll tire of her quickly and realize that I'm the one who was made for him." That seemingly insignificant .jpg was the nail and with it I was buried. I shook tearfully and tried to tell myself to be cool but he was still too much. All I could picture was her in his arms wearing all white. In the millisecond that I focused on the image I could see them both laughing. He was so happy with her. Just like before all I could think was, "What was so wrong with me?" Is it it because I'm fat or plain looking? Is it because I'm lacking in achievements? Is it my nappy hair? Is it my dark skin? Is it my voice? Whatever it was I would have it changed in an instant if I could have him because there's nothing for me to cling to anymore. Pride. Dignity. Confidence. Damn em all. I don't need it where I'm going anyway. Then the other sorrows began rolling in...

"You're twenty five and you've never heard a man say, 'I love you.' In fact you've never been close. Every man you ever wanted could care less about you. Not a one of em would begin to think about you today. It's like you were never even there to begin. You'll never know what it feels like. Settle in to it. Don't expect it to come because it was never made for you. You don't deserve it. You're ugly. You're broke. You're fat. You're unaccomplished. You have absolutely no appeal. Nothing to offer to anyone. Your market value is nil and it will only sink even further when you're forced to get a job a Waffle House. Nobody even looks at you now. All three of those men who you let break you will be happy and you'll always suffer the chill of their apathy toward your affections..."

And they haven't stopped since. All those feelings came back with full force to the front of my consciousness. They were always there. I could hear them whisper every now and then from the background but easily quieted by a happy song. Not now though. They're loud and grasping for my throat. If I had something, anything to look forward to in a day I might be able to rest on the notion that I have too many important things to do than be lonely but I don't. Everyday I look around, I'm the only one here. The phone doesn't ring and it's just as well. I wouldn't be able to keep up a conversation anyway. I have no events or developments to discuss. After hello I wouldn't even know what to say to anyone. I could do without the awkward silences. My various inboxes would remain empty if it were not for the junk and promotional offers and campaign efforts. The island just keeps getting bigger... or am I just getting smaller?

Can't stand another single day/Gotta get away

"Got a feelin' that I don't belong...

...got a feelin' that I shouldn't be here.

Miss Li - Bourgeois Shangri-La

In case you don't recognize the words or did not care to address the above link, the title leading to the lyrics and the ensuing link are all from the the song featured in last year's iPod Nano commercial. Coincidentally, the lyrics above chronicle the story of my short, hapless, semi-charmed life in a quaint, catchy little nutshell. Needless to say I effing LOVE this song either way but the poppy poignancy of it all is what draws me to it. Enough about the damn song though. For the first time in a long time this blog entry is about ME. Deanna. The real one. Not De De T. Not the crass social commentator. Not your baby daddy's worst nightmare. Not the proud drunk. Just average, plain-ole, degreeless, unemployed, incidentally celibate, horribly in debt, socially bereft, unaccomplished Deanna. No, no children--the pleasure's all mine.

I'm not posting this nonsense to get you people to give me the attention that I severely lack or inspire any of you to soothe me with kind words and gentle wisdoms. Keep that gay shit to yourselves. The reason I'm writing this (I think) is because there are things about myself that I cannot perceive until I type it all out in black and white or, in this case, black and tan. I simply need to be read so I shall...

Getting back to the basis of the title... I mean it's pretty self explanatory, is it not? If I appear to be isolated on the surface, that's because I am. I don't live the way that ANY of you live. I don't go to the club. I don't pop bottles. I'm about as far from "independent" as any one woman can be at the ripe old age of 25. I'm not "fancy" by any definition--contemporary or otherwise. I don't have a slew of trade calling constantly and stalking my fb profile. I have little to do with facebook outside of purporting my own literary efforts and providing a bit of cajolery to my some 250 fb "friends" (Shameless, I know.) I don't "tweet" and status update my every last move. I don't troll mediatakeout, ybf, necole bitchie, wshh or any other gossip site clinging to every tidbit of useless celebrity info. To top it all off, I whole-heartedly could NOT give a fuck about any one of the aforementioned activities. Nope, I'm hardly the gal that niggas write the same song about over and over again. I'm simply a hanging woman, trying desperately to shake out of my noose.

Don't know why but I've always been on the outskirts of familiarity. The things that seem so important to the populace have always seemed so hollow to me. What do any of those things offer to the better of man? How do they edify one's life an any way? Even in my recent stupor I have tried to involve myself in the diversions of the day and I'm left only with disgust--disgust that the only social interaction I'm allotted is found on facebook while the things I would love to do are limited to those who lead fruitful, complete lives. I would give just about anything to just be able to leave. To go somewhere and do something worth while. Something that is much bigger than fuckin facbook and twitter and blogger. Something that isn't pretentious or over exaggerated.

But that isn't my life right now. Right now I'm stuck and it seems like I'll never see the world again. My "world" right now is a very small and limited one. It is one that is albeit devoid of human contact, intellectual intercourse and any enjoyments. Yeah, I know I'm supposed to enjoy the little things but there are only so many of those that one can cling to before the paralyzing realization of complete failure sets in. I'm 25. I'm broke. I live with my moms. I have no car. No job. I'm not in school and can't go. I have no romantic endeavors to set forth and no prospects thereof. I'm a quarter-life spinster. I read alone. I watch entirely too much TV alone. I eat alone. I drink alone. I sleep alone. I would get a puppy that I could dote on and smother with all my unrequited affections but mother doesn't allow them. (Ha. "Mother doesn't allow them." How sad is that, huh?)

To some of you this may sound like ye olde pity party and you can say that if you like. I would love nothing more than to inflict my life upon any one of you and have you live it better for me. I'm sure you all would fill each and every day with optimism and hope. I'm almost certain that you could turn everything around in an instant with little to no options available to you and put shame to my destitution. I'm sure none of you would tire of hearing your own voice just so the silence wouldn't be so despicably persistent. I'm just bitter that's all. Just another self-tortured pessimist...

Can't stand another single day/Gotta get away...

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Broke Like a Mug...

Remember the Bolshevik Revolution? Of course you don't. You slept through that part of history class because WWI and all surrounding incidents were boring as all hell. But just so you know, this is the same kind of socio-political/economic distress that lead up to it.


I'm no economist but one thing I know for sure is that wealth in this country is looked upon more favorably than any other attribute one can attain. So much so, that people with little financial leeway to spare will throw money away on trifles to appear as though their market value is higher than what is true.They accrue unfathomable amounts of debt on credit cards, overdrawn checking accounts and payday loans just so they can live the way popular culture would dictate is sufficient. People today brag on their luxury vehicles, designer clothes and accessories, expensive food and beverage consumption, top-of-the-line electronics, their living arrangements, or any and everything else they think the next mutha fucka wishes he had. "You niggas could neva be up on this. Get ya weight straight then come see me lil nigga." Anything to outdo, huh?

Meanwhile, REAL rich folk are reaping all the benefits of such conspicuous consumption. In the article link above, the writer mentioned a warning made by former Federal Reserve Chairman, Alan Greenspan that cited the dangers of soaring executive pay. Those executives heading the major corporations who produce and drive consumerism are the only ones who accrue any true means of wealth. Their economic resources are ever growing yet we needlessly spend money that we may very well never see again for a fleeting sense of instant gratification. If that sounds backwards to you, that's because it is, yet there is little talk of revolution...

The struggle between the classes is ageless but social revolution has degenerated to the form a toothless, senile old man who rants and raves of his glory days; and in these modern times wars are fought more with money than with mere weaponry alone. Money controls and organizes the masses... the masses become armies... money provides the armies with weapons... with leverage. Makes me wonder what level of action the underclass really has at its disposal. While larger in number, their resources are still fewer. Also, I find that the underclass has grown complacent, resigned. A social/political/economic revolution of the magnitude necessary for this situation would require a fervor and vigor unlike this nation has ever experienced, but is it there to be had? If not the hungry throng will remain underfoot while the minority, heavy with avarice, stands on its back.

Still... one day the tide is bound to break the wall.