Ball & Chain

"Since I Seen't You" by Anthony Hamilton

On the blog Shahedah and I share ownership of, I wrote an entry about a horrible dream I had of the most important and remarkable woman in the world to me. The dream felt like One Cup of Fear in an otherwise slow day.

Since that dream, I have felt a spirit that wants to at least entertain the idea of forgiveness. The dream made my anger and frustration seem so pointless. If I try to hate her, what will it turn into when she dies?

So resentment and anger loosed their grips on my heart and I wrote an email to my mother explaining that our bickering is quite stupid and it means nothing in the grand scheme. I told her I don't know why she isn't talking to me and I don't know what I did, but I don't care. I just wanted her to know that I wasn't mad. I also pointed out some faultiness in some things she thinks I am doing (like drugs). There's no way in hell I'm doing drugs. But I guess she can't see me on campus and how much I have to do and how little time I have for drugs if I were doing them. And remember my GPA last semester. Don't nobody on the pipe pull those kinds of grades.

I digress. I just wanted her to know that I wasn't mad. Sometimes, we retain and nourish our anger in defense of someone else's anger. She may think I am mad at her and think it unfair or dumb that I am mad at her so then she will be mad at me and vice versa. I know. How ridiculous.

She replied in a brief message that she just needed to think things out. I thought I wasn't going to get a response at all so I was elated to see that and gladly began to wait for her to"think things out".

And here I am, 2 and a half weeks later, still waiting for her reply. What I know is, she is not going to reply, which really irritates me. I have written letters to her before. One was incredibly poetic but very genuine and I was desperate to talk to her. She said some things happened and she forgot about it. This has happened a few other times.

She just doesn't want to talk about it. She just wants me to "get my act together" and move on. I don't think she thinks there is anything to discuss. Why do we refuse to get along? Why are we both so stubborn? Why do we have to be right? How are we hurting each other? What can we do to stop?

These are good questions. We should address them, talk about it. But we don't. For her, the problem lies with me. I am not "behaving". I'm almost 23 years old. I'm far past "misbehaving". I hate when they say that. That is what adolescents do, "misbehave". We just don't get along quite plainly and if it were up to the lovely Marie Umarr-Kamara, BSN, MSN, we would just stick in this cycle forever.

Recovering from all the mess that we have endured in the last 3 years will require some honest, serious, maybe hurtful conversation and she doesn't want to do it. The problem has nothing to do with the sometimes mean and manipulative behaviors my parents sometimes employed to "reign me in". The problem is all me. I don't listen. I do this. I do that. I don't do this. I don't do that.

Fine. I messed up. I should have listened in some instances and I'm glad I didn't in others. But the problem can't even be fixed. Me and moms are like 2 highly skilled, stubborn doctors with two very different diagnoses.

She is still ignoring me now, even though I really need her to give me that stethoscope...5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

And we are back to Square 1. Welcome back. FML.

I'm Nothing, but I'm Big

"I'ma Put it On Her" by Day 26

...she got that swagger / the way she move it like a pro...

I know that Day 26 is a manufactured music team put together by the most pompous, sambo idiot ever, but I love this song. Whatever is going on in my life, play that song and see if I don't put a pep in that step.

Dinner is being served rather late today. The Mister and I were out all day, shopping for items for the house. Moving is a complicated business.

I made a hodge podgey soup about a week ago or so that Brittany and I t-t-t-tore up. It was chicken, onions, bacon, potatoes, avocados, mushrooms, and eaten with plain Basmati rice (which Brittany's fatness can't get enough of).

I am going to make a similar hodge podge without the bacon or potatoes and with cous cous instead of Basmati rice. The Mister is making pasta too. And yes, I'm going to eat it all.

Diaper:repaiD

"First Love" by Adele

...forgive me first love / I am too tired...

I am really tired. I am not sleepy. My mind is tired of thinking. My eyes are tired of reading. My right hand is tired of writing. My left is tired of holding my papers as I write, motionless and unattended to.

My wrists are tired of typing. My legs and hips are tired of walking. My back is tired of toting around the textbook makings of a bachelors degree. My mind is tired of thinking.

And I am tired of myself. I am working really hard, diligently, around the clock. I am reading, comprehending, deducing connecting, from no light in the morning to no light at night.

I look tired too. And I'm getting sad because I'm lost; like I'm not here.

When I went home to the parentals this weekend, everything seemed so real, so normal. We laugh like nothing ever happened but returning to my not home is evidence that a lot happened. But I go, happily, eat heartily, study, and play with Lima only to return to this hell as if there is no heaven to validate its existence. And the keep sending me back. They keep dropping me off.

I don't expect to go home. I don't think I could live there anymore. There are no pictures of me where there used to be, which I think means that there isn't hope that I'll return so they'd just as soon take down the pictures so as not to be reminded of who is absent.

It hurts only because when I'm in the library for hours, alone, reading and taking notes, I have time to pause time and wonder why I am doing this. I don't know what I am doing or why I am doing it, sometimes.

This would be a good time to tell a Mom or a Dad that I feel a little overwhelmed. But I don't think I can ever trust them with my head or my heart again. Even with this light load (just a little academic melancholy), I fear that if I asked them to hold it, they would just drop me off somewhere again. Because Africans believe that there is no child that you can just throw away, except for one: me.

Special shoutout to Starbucks and 5 Hour Energy Drink for slyly stealing $30 of my money every week.

The Truth is Dead...

...murdered by the art of conversation

"She Needs My Love" by The Dream

...she said I'm like the air / and without me she'll die...

I landed in Miami on Thursday afternoon. Shatara and Stevara picked me up and commenced an adventure.

First, let me say that I love those girls. There isn't enough time to explain to you what they have done for me and how much I love them.

So when you have time, take an eternity and think about how much a person could love another and that is about half of what it truly is.

We partied that night, awaiting midnight so I could officially turn 22. I know. 22.

I have no idea what happened but I apparently was a funny obstinate patron of firewater and they took such good care of me.

I even reunited with some old friends for the night and chilled with them at the beach the following day (although the jocular tone of the reunion was hella shortlived and reminded me why we aren't really friends anymore).

For the actual day of my birthday, I was at the beach, lifted and it was hilarious. Patrice and I laughed at each other breathing. It gets no better than that. We were surrounded by the wonderful ladies of 804's prestigious Virginia Commonwealth University including Stevara, Shatara, Stephanie, Shemone, and Melanie.

I just loved my life for those couple of days. I spent time with the best friend of my childhood, Patrice Ward, which is representative of return to normalcy in my life I believe. I love Patrice. I love her in that ethereal, pure way that isn't actual possible of human beings, but I feel like I have it for her. She was there in the beginning of the turmoil of my mother. She was my earliest distraction and getaway when the fan was tossing sh*t around in my life.

This birthday, this 22nd year, is another new year celebration. This is the year of the lover.

Brilliant Nights

"Make Love" by Keri Hilson

...this is my song! it's too amazing to list just a few lines...

I am going to Miami tomorrow. I am quite excited about it too. I'll be misbehaving as I turn 22 on Friday, although I am telling people that I am turning 21. I think this is an appropriate time to start lying about my age. I'll be turning 21 next year as well.

My brother picked me up from my apartment so that he can drop me off at the airport in the morning. He is quite swollen. He used to be such a scrawny boy. Now he is a man. He is not fat, just built and muscular. It's something about the food at Virginia Tech. Every person I have known who goes there comes back as swollen as men do when they return from jail.

Anyway, I want to discuss the cost of the flight. Fee and taxes are a scam, I believe. The ticket should have only been $144, but peep the fees son:

Air Fare	144.00
Federal Segment Tax	7.20
Airport Passenger Facility Charge	9.00
September 11th Security Fee	5.00
Ticket Total	165.20

And, I have to spend $15 to check my bag, which I might not do because I am only going for 5 days and all the little pieces of clothing I am bringing could fit into my one, large tote.

And what is a September 11th fee? I suppose that this money must go to some agency that investigates terrorist activity or develops new technology to screen for weaponry or something. It is just an annoying fee. I think that we are underestimating terrorists, hatred, and anti-American ideology. They are not going to attack the US via a plane, probably ever again. They, whoever they are, will do something far more atrocious and far more sinister and far more unpredictable.

Not to be morbid or anything.

But, forget all that. Pray that I have a really, really, really good time in Miami, wish me happy birthday, and look up "A Date with a Crackhead". Propecia is my best friend!!