Yes, I Was the One...Keyword: Was

"Where Does the Good Go" by Tegan & Sara

...where do you go with your broken heart in tow? / what do you do with the left over you?..

I literally just walked in from working out at the gym with a new friend of mine.

I met her the day after I wrote a blog about my addiction to 7/11's cupcake cappuccino. Of course, the day after I have admitted to my addiction, they didn't have cupcake cappuccino! So I had to settle for French vanilla, which, after I doctored it up, wasn't that bad.

We randomly started chatting about school and how we needed this coffee, the line was too long, I liked her boots, she like my peacoat, xy and z.

I discovered that she is a transfer student and she doesn't really know people. Being the mother I am, I felt I had to help her start a social network. So we exchanged numbers and went to Yoga the next morning (she put me on to the most amazing activity every).

Today, we had dinner together, hung out idly, and then we went to work out! I ran about 3/4 of a mile and walked half a mile. I know, it's negligible, but I'm working up to greatness.

The point is, I feel really accomplished (along with the test I pray I Aced today). I made resolutions and new promises to myself and God and I am keeping them. I am also being realistic and counting on the fact that there will be bad days and I won't be able or won't want to maintain this regimen. I will not beat myself about those days or allow myself to fall off completely after missing a couple of days.

There will be no 3 West this year or ever again.

Bad Education

"Come Close" by Common ft. Mary J. Blige

...come close to me baby / let your love shine through...

I have inadvertently developed a semi-serious addiction to 7/11's cupcake cappuccino. I also add about half a cup of regular coffee to it for an extra kick, two shakes of amaretto flavored cream, and 5 packs of regular sugar.

It is not a game. It tastes really, really good. I hate the taste of coffee and no matter how much regular coffee you add to this cappuccino, it's cupcakery goodness remains intact.

My auntie in Delaware developed a serious addiction to coffee in the last year. When she, her husband, and my cousin visited, she bullied my Dad into going to Wawa to get her some one morning and I reprimanded her, disgusted.

Now, on any given day, you can catch me at the 7/11 on Main Street, scratching my neck, very irritable, standing in some long line (because all the 7/11's all up in through this campus ALWAYS only have one cashier), waiting to pay for my coffee/cappuccino concoction.

And the crash afterwards is not enough to discourage me. I can barely walk back to the apartment from the library after hours of studying and the devastating effects of the coffee crash. But I would rather die than give up the addiction.

Additionally, I feel like an adult now. I do believe it is arbitrary things like drinking coffee, falling asleep sitting totally erect in waiting rooms, joints cracking while doing simple activities, tiring at the idea of going out, etc. that makes you an adult. Not actual responsibilities.

When is the War?

"Come to Me" by Mary J. Blige

...that was love / that was then / that was us / miracles / I changed you / you changed me / this is how these things go...

I had to go buy a journal. I write an enormous amount of something. I don't know if it's literature or crap or idleness. But whatever God would categorize it as, I produce a lot of it. Of late, I have been slipping into peculiar, random, and seemingly unprovoked episodes of melancholy that no catharsis can affect.

The thought occurred to me one day, while watching Grey's Anatomy, that maybe I need to revert to my more private, candid, and crazy form of writing. Meredith (on Grey's Anatomy) gave her best friend Christina her late mother's journal to read for her, I guess to screen it for any unbearable content. I saw the journal and understood the concept of having multiple journals, systematically documenting your person.

So I rushed to Barnes & Nobles one morning when I should have been on the way to the library and bought this beautiful, cobalt, leather bound journal with an intricate design on the front centered by a quote that reads: Like all great travelers, I have seen more than I remember and I remember more than I have seen.

That is some truth for that...this is exactly how my mind works. The thin line, the intersecting gates, the meshed fabric of fantasy and reality make me the fruit basket I am.

I write in this magic cobalt book so as to make my blues cobalt too.

When We

"Easy Conversation" by Jill Scott

...I like that you don't look at me that confused kind of way when / the thoughts are running through my mind / and I can't find the right thing to say...

I wrote a very good paper for my English class earlier this month about what literature is. The question was posed to our class and we were asked to define it and argue whether or not the definition, as collectively accepted, should be expanded to include the likes of rappers and singers, who are recent additions to the ancient life that is artistic expression.

I might post that bad boy up here although it is lengthy. It is good though. My Daddy said it was wonderful and you know I think he is a genius, therefore, the essay is that fire.

I emailed it to him yesterday following a discussion of the aforementioned topic. He said he wanted to read it. I rarely allow my Daddy opportunities to read my writing because his command of language and artistic writing ability dwarf a person's entire existence with its grandiosity. But he thought it was splendid and even read it to the graduate literature class he teaches to introduce the topic. Not excited about that though.

And then Daddy called me again this morning to tell me about the conversation in his class that was sparked by my paper. Daddy has been calling me a lot. It is exciting because I love my Daddy. I think he is the coolest, funniest, kindest person alive, despite concurrent feelings of resentment and frustration.

It just seems odd though. For months, I tried to talk to my Daddy and Mommy and for months, they weren't checking for me. The hot anger of the past and the cold indifference of the future have met to make a lukewarm existence of now. I don't worry about how the relationship turns out anymore.

I guess because I am older, I'm not crazy anymore, and education continues to sophisticate me, I realize that the whole family debacle isn't really that big of a deal. I am learning that time really will heal the wounds because time allows us all to grow. That growth is what heals the old wounds and makes us stronger to sustain future damage with less energy used to heal. I just wish I hadn't been such a dumb ass the past 3 or 4 years. I wish I hadn't been so sensitive, so demanding, so dramatic, so impatient, and so angry. There is plenty I wish of my parents' attitude and behaviors, but I had and have no control over them.

The thing is, love is bold. You scream and fight and reconcile and hate and blame and recuperate because you love one another. The love is permanently bonding so the recklessness is performed under the security of forever, no matter how unsatisfying the love may be. I know I am bold as love and because of love.

Sometimes Love Takes a Long Time

"I Cry" by Anthony Hamilton

...oh girl I cry / these tears that I shed are the trails to bring you home...

I have taken to calling the House. I check on Lima Bean, mostly, and have interesting conversation with my Pops. My Daddy and I have always had the most interesting, stimulating, informative conversations for as long as I can remember.

The man is remarkably genius. Can't nobody tell me nothin' about my Daddy. He instilled in my this love of learning; this understanding that all the subjects (math, science, liberal arts) are all connected. They are not as rigidly compartmentalized as we would like to think.

Knowledge comes full circle. He also taught me that literally, the more you learn, the more you realize you know very little. Knowledge just doesn't make you knowledgeable, but sophisticates you enough to see how much there is in the world and how short your time is to learn it. That is what supposed to make you excited about life. Scurry, mice, for the nourishing cheese that is knowledge.

Never Wanna Give It Up

"If This is Love" by Jazmine Sullivan

...if this is real / it's funny how it makes you feel...I can't see a life without love...

If I haven't mentioned this song already, this song is the meaning of life. Straight like that.

After this, I will leave it alone. I promise.

It is just that to dismiss a person as "crazy" is...is to dismiss a person. It is to categorize them in such a fashion that ignores the struggles, the pesonal vulnerabilities, the biological susceptibilities, etc. that brings a person to "crazy". No one is just born "crazy". There are environmental factors, personal coping mechanism (or lack thereof), and genetic variances that all contribute to what you see as crazy.

It is akin to the days when people with anxiety were categorized as cowards and those with mental retardation as "possessed". There are fundamental and explanatory concepts missing from both categorizations.

And that is what upsets me, I think. That he knew/knows all that has contributed the condition I was/am in (am I out of that condition?). There were things that happened, decisions I made, a disastrous social infrastructure, an innate vulnerability and some more things that I am probably not aware of but I am simply dismissed as crazy.

I don't think that's accurate and I don't think it's fair, but it's okay. Yesterday, I smoked a black and I missed him. Never felt that before.

It ain't easy and it gets hard, but I can't see a life without love...But, this song, "If This is Love," is the meaning of life, because Love, In Fact, Exists (LIFE).