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?

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.

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...

http://www.nydailynews.com/news/national/2010/11/02/2010-11-02_flirty_juror_almost_derails_death_penalty_trial_of_steven_hayes_convicted_petit_.html

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...

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.