3.5. Letter To The Boys (An Online Dating Rant)

If you’ve ever stumbled upon any of my “random guy messages,” you knew this was coming. This is definitely a big middle finger to the typical, those who play the game, those who scheme with false advertising, those who make it damn near impossible for a girl to hold out hope for a good catch to come along.

And before you decide to judge any of the following and manifest some “epic rebuttal that will not this girl off her feet” about how women are no better…I don’t deny that girls play games, enable the ridiculously crude garbage spewed, and are highly capable of being overly sexual in order to get what they want. That being said: I’m a woman who is attracted to men and so I don’t feel the need to address the sex I’m not aiming to attract. That is a rant all its own but this one is for the boys.

Don’t get me wrong…I know for a fact that no guy will read this and be epically changed. It doesn’t work that way. I don’t think this post is going to move anyone. It’s a rant (see the title), which means I’m writing this for me to vent. I’m getting out all of the garbage that’s racing through my head. If one woman reads this and attempts to raise her baby boy to be a better man in the process…hell yeah, I won! That’s about as much hope as I can have for this thing.

I’ve been on a dating website for just about two years. In those two years, I’ve gone on less than a handful of dates and have never had a second date. I’ve had phone conversations, texting, skype conversations, and singular dates. 99% of my online interaction have been me hitting delete or “block user.”

Yes, I’m picky. A girl needs to have standards and though I will no deny I have, in fact, lowered my standards at times out of pure boredom…they always return. I read messages on a daily basis in which a guy shoots straight for the sexual innuendos, carries one conversation before asking me to come over, or wants to talk marriage and babies after a week. There is no middle ground. There is no courtship. There is no actual dating process.

Less than five dates in two years? What’s wrong with me?


I am messy. I have a very chaotic mind. I get bored easily. I have trust issues. I have a temper. I am territorial. I want someone who will give me attention when I want it but go the hell away when I don’t. Mentally, I am sexually driven but physically, I have little desire to actually have sex. I am always attracted to the type of guy that doesn’t want me. I’m loud. I’m far too outspoken for my own damn good. And that’s just what I can think of off the top of my head at 1am.

Well, no wonder I’m single, huh?

You’re right. I’m not going to argue with it. But pause. I asked a guy, the other day, what his flaws were and his answer: nothing. Nothing. NOTHING! That’s a crock of shit and that just made a list of flaws for you boo-boo.

I’m a bitch. I own it. I embrace it. Is it an awesome personality trait? No. But it’s a part of me. I can turn bitchmode on in .05 seconds and slap you so hard with some venomous words…ya damn head will spin, make you cry and curl up in a ball while you internally question why you weren’t aborted. Yes, I can be a viper.

This is probably detrimental to whether a guy will talk to me. Well fellas…so is swearing “I’m a good guy.” “I’m different.” “I’m not like other guys.” Do you know what all of these things say to me? You are a douche bag. You are exactly the same as all the rest. I’ve seen your type before. Call it pessimism. I call it experience. A good guy doesn’t have to say what he is. He just is and it’s undeniable.

Why are you clearly a 3 and you’re messaging someone who is definitely a 7+? I know this sounds superficial (search for that post in which I address the hypocrisy of guys saying what they want physically but girls saying the same things and being considered shallow) but I could care less. You might be a 5 on a good day. A 6 if I’m intoxicated but you seriously posted some pictures of yourself looking like a convict. Not an ex-convict. Current. Present tense, sweetie. No and thank you.

Also, feel free to shave your face, clean your mirror for that selfie, stop shooting all your pics in hats (do you have hair), stop shooting group shots so I can’t tell who you are, no club shots with five girls on you (are your slut days over yet), and stop checking fit/athletic with your keg and four chins. BE HONEST!

If you’re looking for a hookup/friends with benefits – don’t message a girl who clearly states she’s looking for a relationship. It’s a waste of time and though you may be fine as all hell…you want something different. It’s asinine to be upset with the girl when she doesn’t want to talk about her favorite position if she was honest about her intent. I get it. We’re single and we’re shopping. Some people want discount material, some people want BOGO deals, some people are bringing coupons, and some people are holding out for the best quality stuff. If you buy cheap – you will have to return to the store sooner rather than later for a replacement. Some of us want to make one trip and be done with it.

Try consistency. Try chivalry. Try honesty. Try being genuine. I know it sounds simple but it works. There is someone for everyone and though your honesty may not draw in every girl…it will attract the one for you.

Baby boys – stop messaging a woman 10 years your senior bragging about how you could sexually satisfy, provide, blah blah blah…I’ve already stopped listening. That shit might work on the Beverly Hills housewives or the ragged but the smart ones are unimpressed and have no desire to be your sugar momma.

Older men – stay in your lane and don’t assume every woman younger than you wants a sugar daddy. Shop age appropriate and stop looking for arm candy or the next incubator for your seed.

Online dating didn’t work for me. That’s not to say it doesn’t work for other people. It’s 2014 and more people are meeting their future partners online than you think. Maybe the pickings are slim everywhere and I’ve just observed the best of the worst  online. Either way, I’m over the game. I’d rather not play and just say I did.

P.S.  A special note to the guys with kids who immediately act like a complete and utter piece of trash – you should be ashamed of yourself and I hope your child learns what a man should be from SOMEONE ELSE!

Here’s to being single.

I’m out.


2.21. I’ll Take That

“If you can’t accept me at my worst,

you sure as shit don’t deserve me at my best. 

Call me crazy

For every outlandish, brash, bold, blunt verbal vomit I will lay on the land. For every lapse in judgement and weakened moment. For the insecurity that beats in my chest. For the endless array of questions as to what and why and how and when and what-if?

Call me crazy

For wanting love despite the madness. For believing in a pure, true, and deep connection based on something other than violent thrusts and faked endings. For dreaming about love stories even greater than the sun and moon leaving letters of adoration in the stars. For anticipating something so profound, the world just won’t know what to do with us.

Call me crazy

For expressing the happiness, sadness, joy, horror, thrill, worry of what this life has to offer. For being a cryptic read. For wanting effort, loyalty, honesty, integrity, passion, romance, intensity, forgiveness, growth, inspiration, laughter, conversation, sincerity, hope…and more laughter.

Call me crazy 

For feeling frail after the world I called forever crashed down upon me. For not being as strong, as tough, as bold, as brave, as resilient, as optimistic as the next one. For feeling just a tad broken after the glass castle broke. For not healing to your liking.

Call me crazy

Call me what you will. A failure. A disappointment. A mistake. A burden. I’ve heard it all before.

I am a beautiful chaos. Not meant for just anyone. Not meant for those weak of mind and heart. For some, a blessing to never know. To each his own. Souls like mine aren’t meant for the world to love. Being me comes with the risk of loneliness and labels.

Call me crazy. 

From a cowardly lion, that’s a fucking compliment. 

1.130 – This Woman’s Worth

“When I am assertive, I’m a bitch. When a man is assertive, he’s a boss. He bossed up. No negative connotation behind ‘bossed up.’ But lots of negative connotation behind being a bitch. Donald Trump can say, ‘You’re fired.’ Let Martha Stewart run her company the same way and be the same way. [People will say] ‘F—ing old evil bitch!’ 

Love her or hate her, Nicki Minaj makes a good point. A point that rings loudly in my ears after a conversation I had on the phone last night. A man walks into a store and approaches a woman at the counter. She attempts to give him the impeccable customer service she is known for…the service that has put her just thirteen days away from a corporate position with her company. But this man, this sad little man, does not see a hard working mother of two, a law abiding citizen, a strong willed businesswoman. What he sees is a vagina. And he’s not happy about that.

“Is there a man available to help me? Shouldn’t you be at home or cleaning windows or something?”

He asks for a MANager because he assumes this will bring forth a penis. A respectable penis. A trustworthy penis. An intelligent penis.

“I’m sorry sir, but I am the WOMANager. Now, how can I help you?”

This woman, who happens to be my sister, explains to me how she is baffled by the blatant display of sexism. She is appalled by the sheer audacity of the customer. She is shocked that a black man in his mid forties could be so disgustingly hateful…certain that he has fought his own battles in our society. Why would he dish out the same type of hate that he would resent on his own behalf?

Because, sadly, sexism and racism are not viewed the same. This country is battling the race war, despite the progress made in previous decades. This country is battling a sexuality war, ingrained in religious belief and political agendas. This country doesn’t give a flying fuck about sexism because women have been viewed as and always will be considered the lesser of the human species.

God is a man. Eve came from Adam. Eve fucked everything up because her greedy ass was hungry. She was probably a gluttonous whore. I’ve seen paintings. I bet she had chlamydia. You know how them hoes are. Women are to submit and make babies and strap down their breasts in archaic bindings. Woman are meant to beautify their sexualized forms because every woman is simply a deposit box for a mans seed. Women are meant to be cute and quiet, agreeable and pleasant.

Women are supposed to bleed every month for seven days but keep it on the low because their dirtiness is unappealing to the world. Lets make tampon packages small and adorable so we’re not reminded of the the reality of the body. Women are supposed to doll themselves up and attend college to find a husband that will have them. Women are supposed to work womanly jobs and nurture the youth. Women are supposed to go through an agonizing nine months of discomfort, hip spreading, tit swelling, body morphing, emotional roller coaster to give life to the future…all the while smiling about how fucking great it is to not be able to shit. A woman should be a nurse but not a doctor. A woman should be a teacher but not a principle. A woman should be smart but not too smart. A woman should be strong but never demasculinize her counterpart. A woman should be paid less than a man because that bitch is lucky she even got the job. I bet she’s screwing the boss.

Keep quiet and allow sexism to reign? Speak up and get labeled “a typical emotional woman that can’t take the heat?” There is no winning this war. You can’t fight a battle that has not been waged…because it’s so irrelevant to people. My sister could have been spiteful and said, “you belong on the back of a bus,” and all hell would have broke loose. But he can send her back to the kitchen and there is an undertone of “oh-fucking-well.”


Why wasn’t she home baking cookies, bystanders wonder. 

“How would you feel if this country was run by a woman,” the man asked my sister.

“Well, sir, it’s run by a man right now (as it’s always been) and it’s kind of shit so…”

I’m sensitive. I’m emotional. I’m frail. I’m average when it comes to being smart. I make less money than the majority of males I know. Don’t talk to me about survival…I bleed for seven days every month and I’m alive. I carried a human being inside of my small framed body for nine months. I pushed that human being out of my body despite agony. Don’t talk to me about providing…I fed that human being from the milk my body made. Don’t talk to me about strength…I carry that human being plus ten grocery bags, a diaper bag and a stroller. (Have you SEEN my son?) I can live on two hours of sleep after a night of incessant crying. Don’t talk to me about endurance…I can come home from my eight hour, underpaid shift and cook for my child, clean the house, read a book, teach my child the English language, get a work out in and perform all of the daily chores before collapsing into my bed for a quick nap before doing it all again. I can teach my son that women are no more and no less than he. I can teach my son that women are equal. That women, just as men, should be respected for the contributions to this thing called existence. I can teach my son that not a penis nor a vagina constitutes honesty, integrity, intelligence, love, compassion, courage or worth. I can teach my son that blood is red and the heart and soul define a being.

To most…I’m a bitch. To my son…I’m mommy. I’m a woman. A mother. An emotion driven vessel. To me…I’m a boss. Of my journey. If you can’t play the game with mutual respect…ya fuckin’ fired.

1.129 – A Million Petals

“Someone gave you flowers”

When I was in middle school, I had a really grouchy music teacher named Ms. Diaz. This woman scared the ever living piss out of me and everyone else I knew. But she loved what she did. And that was making us sing and dance like friggen smiley puppets. For our first performance, we had to sing some god awful song that I can’t even remember. But that’s irrelevant. What is relevant is that my parents didn’t show up. Yeah, that sucked.

The second performance of the year was the holiday set, which I was unbelievably excited for. My father was a self-proclaimed JewBan (Jewish and Cuban) and I was thrilled to have learned “This is Hanukkah.” The curtain went up and I was ready. We sang several holiday songs and I could see my mother and my father sitting toward the back. We’d just finished a set and the Hanukkah song was next. And that’s when my mother stood up, whacked my father on the shoulder and made her way out of the auditorium. Trying not to cry, I watched my father follow my mother out of the crowded venue. “It’s not really my thing,” she’d explained later. My father apologized when she was out of earshot. Yeah, that sucked too.

My mother and I fought the morning of my senior graduation. She’d called my father some awful names and I came to his defense. She slipped into the typical martyr act and hooped and hollered about how I showed her no love or respect…how I only regarded my father as if he were a saint. We went to my graduation and I left my parents in the car. The music played and I made my way to my seat. I got in line to receive my diploma and noticed that my father sat alone. My mothers seat was empty. When I got onstage, I looked around the gymnasium…only to notice my mother standing by the back entrance for a second. And then she walked away. Right before my name was called. Yeah, that sucked.

When I was in college, I was elated to get the role of Amanda Wingfield in The Glass Menagerie. I invited my mother. Why, I still don’t know. She called with 20 minutes to showtime saying she couldn’t make it because she was in the hospital after suffering a stroke. “Well, you sound fine,” I’d said. “Well, I don’t feel fine.” The show must go on. And it did. After the show, I called my mothers friend…to check in on her progress. “What do you mean hospital? I just got off the phone with her…um…she’s been at her boyfriends.” By the way, opening night was my birthday. Yeah, that blowed.

What the hell does any of this have to do with flowers?


And everything.

Before he passed away, my best friend used to listen to me talk…allowed me the chance to vent and babble on about these types of moments in my life. He listened until there was nothing left to say. And then, he’d say the same thing: “Here’s a flower.” It was an imaginary flower…a figurative flower.

The first time, I asked what the hell was I supposed to do with a pretend flower and I am trying to tell you why I am upset and you are not being a very good friend right now you butthead.

I’m giving you a flower, he said, because you cannot see the beauty in the world. You are too fixated on picking apart everything until all you see if something of uselessness…of ugliness. Even in the bad, there is good. I’m giving you this flower so you can pick at it to your hearts content…and then you can let it go.

He gave me a field of flowers.

But he was right. In every performance, I got to perform…despite seats being empty. In graduating, I reached a goal so many in my family did not. In theater, I got to play a part I respected and worked hard to get. I did not see the beauty and wonder of each moment because I allowed myself to tear it apart and fixate solely on the negative of it all.

Very shortly before he died, my BFF said something that sticks with me even now. “I hope there comes a time when I never have to give you a flower again. Not because I don’t want to but because you will have no reason to pick any petals away.”

A time when I can just admire the beauty and find no reason to dwell on the bad. Sadly, I think I live in that field…continuously dwelling, worrying that something terrible is just around the corner. Because things don’t go well…can’t go well for people like me.

Despite a lifetime of being a Nervous Nelly…I hope there comes a day when I can walk in my field of flowers…and just enjoy the view.

Prompt taken from A Creative Writers Kit by Judy Reeves

1.126 – E-Race Me

With 5 minutes until closing time, a customer walks up to me and says:

“Hi, I know you must be wanting to get out of here, so I’ll be quick. I was just curious…um…what are you?”

What do you mean?

“Are you black?”


“Oh. What are you?”

I’m Puerto Rican.

*laughs* “Oh, cuz I was gonna ask you how I could get hair like yours but I’m not Puerto Rican. I’m Black.”

That’s nice.

“And um..is the Nook Tablet like the IPad..but like…cheaper?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Okay thanks.”

Exit ensues.

Here are a few tidbits that will enlighten you as to why this interaction annoys the ever-living-piss out of me. This customer sat in the cafe area for a good hour, doing nothing. This customer was bald. This customer was a male. How the hell are you inquiring about my hair, boo? How did you assume you could get hair like mine? Maybe you dress up, so you assume I bought it?

I’m a Puerto Rican female. I’m just a female. I don’t ask people what they are, racially…to be quite honest – I don’t ask because I don’t give a shit. I don’t search for a specific race to date because I have some fetish. I don’t hang out with a specific race because I feel “accepted.” I interact with people. Not their race.

Not everything darker than white is black. Not everything that is spanish is mexican. For 11 years, I’ve answered this question a million times. It comes with the territory…or so I assume. It’s even funnier to me when people act shocked…or as if I’m lying. If I was black – I would be proud to be black. If I was mexican – I would be proud to be mexican. But I am none of those things. I am proud to be a woman who does not fixate on race. I am proud to live outside of stereotypes and labels. I am proud of the beauty of my internal being versus the shell you stare at.

On a side note – I’m actually excited about a children’s series concept that I discussed with an artist friend tonight. Don’t know where the idea will go…but I’m grateful I’m still having ideas. Means I’m still alive.

1.123 – The Letter

To my beautiful baby girl….. On Feb-16-1984 I gave birth to you in an unconventional manner. First you came into this world too soon and too little, weighing only 6 pounds and 1 ounce. At 6am in the morning, after they made the incision in my stomach, I didn’t care I just wanted to look at you and hold you. But I only had a glimpse and I kissed your head. You stared at me and I felt small. It didn’t matter that you weren’t a boy at all only that you were so small. My love for you knew no height. My guilt was even greater. Why did it happen? How did it happen? When you were inside of me I loved you, I didn’t take good care and that was wrong but no amount of self indignation can ease this pain. The next day I went to see you and I knew fear. And I prayed. God please…don’t punish me this way…its not her fault she’s so tiny, It’s mine. Tears wouldn’t make it better but every time I see you they just come out. It hurts because you’re so special. I dont want to lose you. I’m so afraid I wish that I could take your place and let me go through the agonies that you are going through now.  I need to hold you very very bad. I need to kiss your tiny body, to hug you tight. I want to give you my life, every ounce of breath. Please….fight because if anything happens to you, some part of me will die. Please….understand that I love all of my daughters the same but you U love all the more. And every time I visit you without ….incubator and see you all I have put you through I want to break every damn thing around me. And those needle marks do not help to make mother better. Love, today I visited you and saw that you had gained a tiny portion of weight but you were under that infernal light and I still had no pride because I shouldnt have allowed for you to be brought into this world so easily in time and with so little defenses.  …..you’re my last child. The baby of the lot and I don’t care that you’re my fourth girl only that you’re health improves and you come home but until you are really stable, I will have to be able to leave this pain and need to hold you. 

This is the first page of a four page letter my mother wrote to me after I was born. It is a letter that I have kept for 28 years. It is a letter I can’t force myself to throw away. It is the letter that tortures me. Angers me. Saddens me. For so many years, I couldn’t figure out why my mother had so much guilt. What had she done to be so remorseful for? It took many years and many conversations to figure out. Someone recently said it was hard to believe that I had avoided a drug infested life because of the odds against me. This is true. I was a junkie before I understood what walking was. My mother brought me into this world dependent on her drugs and alcohol. Her addictions forced my out of the womb, into a world that wasn’t ready for me. And a world, based on my many months in the hospital, that I wasn’t ready to be apart of. For so many years, I thought I should have been a boy. I needed to hold on to as many masculine attributes as possible. Because thats what everyone really wanted…what everyone really would have loved. It’s okay you weren’t a boy…doth thou protest too much. This letter saddened me for a really long time…how could this apologetic woman never really love me? Forsake me for any man that looked her way? Ignore the mental/physical/emotional anguish I was battling? Inflict so many scars? But now this letter just angers me. I am not a perfect mother. But I will not knowingly inflict pain upon my light and then say my bad. If my son says someone touched him – I will believe him. If my son needs me – I will be there. I will love my son unconditionally without trying to live his life. I will not inject my son with poison. Period. This letter gets me all fucked up. But I hold onto it as a reminder. Of what not to be. A reminder of why I fight every single day. A reminder of my goals, my duties, my privileges. Some days, I question whether my son was blessed or cursed with having me as his mother. But this letter pushes me to be the best damned mother I can be. That was the best mother she could be. Was it good? No. Was it right? No. Did it hurt? Yes. Does it still hurt? Of course. Am I a fucked up 28 year old because I have mommy issues? Probably. Will my love for my son surpass my hatred for those who abandoned me? Ya damn right it will. I wasn’t planned. I wasn’t wanted. I may not be wanted now. I’m okay with that. Because this life aint about me. Never was. Never will be. This life…this one is for my boy.

1.115 – My Light (PART 2)

The life of pregnancy ensued. Cravings of dumplings, crushed ice (only from Quik Trip), Butter Pecan ice cream, (entire quarts in one sitting), cucumbers with salt, and Mexican food (which I never eat), took over every waking moment of my day. I struggled to gain weight despite my obsession with food.

At the end of my first trimester, I bled enough for the doctor to show a little bit of concern. Lowering my amount of activity was in order – leaving me to stay home a high majority of the time. Cabin fever kicked my ass. But I was pregnant and that was all that mattered. Nothing was going to break my excitement for this little gem.

Finding out the gender of my upcoming angel – I was elated to carry the little man I had so been blessed with. I proudly showed off his sonogram pictures, flaunting his penis to anyone that would look at me for more than five minutes. “Hey, I’m having a boy…wanna see his weenie?” Yes…I said weenie.

Close to the end of my second trimester, literally on the verge of my third, I was up late one night at my mother-in-laws house. I couldn’t sleep and my husband was knocked out. Somewhere around 4am, I decided to call it a night. I went into the bathroom to tinkle…which is seriously complicated when you’re pregnant. I had a moment of embarrassment as I sat down on the toilet, feeling the liquid gush down my legs. Way to go ass, I thought, you just pissed yourself inches from the toilet. Damn, I must have really had to pee…that was a lot. And then, I noticed it wasn’t urine on the floor. It was blood. It was a lot of blood. It was the ocean I had swam in just a decade before. I screamed. I was a damned banshee.

Needless to say, I ended up in the emergency room, dripping with every step to my designated room. I waddled with a “don’t fuck with me, I’m too pregnant for this shit” attitude. All I could think was…FIX IT. Whatever it is…FIX IT! The nurses did their thing and the doctor came to me promptly. My husband sat across the room as I soaked the bed with that all too familiar crimson fear. The doctor ordered for a sonogram. And that’s when my world slowly shattered.

The nurse came with the machine and set me up to hear the babies heartbeat. She moved that wand around for what felt like years. She tried to hide the scowl of auditory strain but it was clear to me. “What’s the matter,” I asked. She shook her head and kept moving that stupid wand.

The doctor returned and she tried whispering. I say tried because I’m blind as a fucking bat, which means my hearing is sickly keen. “I can’t find it,” she said. Without skipping a beat, I yelped, “well, you’re machine must be broken or you aren’t looking in the right spot.” I started pointing to a specific spot on my stomach. “His heart is right here. It’s right here, damn it.” The doctor appeased me and asked the nurse to grab another machine. Apparently, I’d come between a shift change so the nice doctor was leaving. Before he made his exit, he asked me if he could pray for me and my son.


Rule of thumb: when someone says they want to pray for you…they think you are fucked. Ain’t no one praying for you when you win the lotto. But I took it. Whats the worst it could do, right? I’m no believer but that man’s eyes said he needed to pray for me. He couldn’t leave until he made peace with this situation. And so he prayed. And then he left.

I was still bleeding all over that white bed in that white room on those white sheets when the new doctor walked in. This man had absolutely, positively NO bedside manner. Zip, zilch, NADA. The nurse returned with a new machine and searched for the heartbeat of my little love all over again.


Deafening, terrifying, endless silence.

The doctor exited and came back just a short while later.

“We are preparing a room for you upstairs in the hospital.”


In no uncertain terms, with just a few pauses for dramatic and quite frankly, traumatic effect…this doctor laid it all out on the line.

“There is no heartbeat. We believe the fetus has terminated. We will be setting you up in a room to induce labor.”


The nurse put her hand on my shoulder. My sons father put his hands to his face. The room was still.

“I don’t understand.”

“Ma’am, the fetus is gone. We will deliver it upstairs in a room that is better suited.”

This man just told me my baby was dead. My baby was gone and they were going to pump me with some shit so this dead baby would come out of me. I was going to deliver a dead baby…why was he dead…how did he die…what did I do…what the hell is happening?

“I’ll leave you alone for a moment to talk.”

To talk about what? You just said my baby was dead and I was going to deliver a “fetus.” You referred to my child as “it.” I didn’t even have to look at my husband. I knew what I had to do. So I grabbed the sheets from around me and made a makeshift diaper. I slid off the bed and stood by the door. “What are you doing,” he asked.

I’m going home.

I opened the door and walked through the lobby. The nurse ran to my side as did the doctor who, just moments ago, was standing at a counter looking at his next paychecks file. The nurse tried to explain that I had to wait for a wheelchair to take me to my room.

“I’m not going to a room. I’m not staying here. I’m going home.”

She tried to interrupt me. But she didn’t know me very well. With tears in my eyes and agony in my throat, I choked out the words, repeating them until I couldn’t anymore.

“My son ain’t dead.”

I checked myself out against doctors’ orders. I returned to the house and plopped my feet up on a pillow and rubbed my swollen belly until I fell asleep. I did not move from that bed until all traces of blood were gone.

Two days later, my OBGYN saw me for an emergency visit. The drum of my sons heartbeat was the affirmation that I had made the right choice. I fought for my little man when everything said he was gone. I could have listened to that doctor and had my son born 3 months premature. I could have ignored something in my soul and let my son die at the hands of a man who referred to my angel as “it.”

My son is a part of my soul, my heart, my everything. And nothing can match that attachment. Not a machine and sure as shit not another human being.

My body had killed off an unborn a decade before. I lost one. I would not lose another without a fight. I am my sons soldier and he is my country. My sons heart is my heart. If he were dead, my heart would cease to beat. I am 1000% certain when I say I did not guess. I knew. And no one will ever convince me otherwise.

1.99 – Do You Have FAFS?

FAFS, also known as Fake Ass Friend Syndrome, is a debilitating condition, which can wreak havoc in every aspect of your life. However, this condition is treatable. In order to solve your problem, you must first identify your symptoms.

You have Fake Ass Friend Syndrome if:

  • You always says “I’m going to call you back,” and never do because you’re watching television, playing online games, filing your nails, watching Youtube videos, updating your Facebook status.
  • You drop off the face of the earth when your friend has a major illness, new birth, death in the family, major accomplishment.
  • You repeatedly schedule times to schedule a time to meet up with your friend but never successfully schedule a scheduled time.
  • You don’t show up to a friends baby shower/birthday/major event but post updates from a bar via Facebook or Twitter.
  • You apologize for your lack of friendship – only to repeat your asshole behavior.
  • You use other friends as an excuse as to why you’re a bad friend.
  • You bring up the length of time you’ve known  a person when confronted with your FAFS symptoms.
  • You only call your friends when you need money.
  • You only call your friends when things are bad.
  • You ask strangers “will you be my friend?”
  • You show new friends your bank statements.
  • You distance yourself from your friend when you’re around a potentially cooler crowd.
  • You continuously degrade one mutual ex-friend so you never look as bad.
  • You consider the friendship over every single time your friend doesn’t agree with you.
  • You refer to your friend as your fat friend, the skinny bitch, the dark one, the pasty chick.
  • You put forth zero effort but expect to be BFF’s.

If you or someone you know is suffering from FAFS, please get help. If it’s you – lock yourself in a room and throw away the key. Don’t ever come out – because you suck balls. Big hairy, saggy balls. This will help everyone you’ve annoyed. You cant be annoying if you’re out of sight – out of mind.  If it’s a friend – run! RUN FOR THE HILLS. You might think this is abandonment. It’s not. Those who suffer from FAFS must hit rock bottom in order to realize just how crappy they are acting. The only way to really do that is to sit in a room and have that moment when they realize…I’m alone.

FAFS sucks. Period.

1.84 – My Job(s)

In the previous post, A Crappy Lie, I mentioned just one of the two things that irritated me on New Years Eve. This post is about the one I did not clarify.

For the first time, in a really long time, I am taking the bull by the horns and persistently working to make progress. Whether that be at work, in my writing, as a mother, friend, sister…I’m putting in the blood, sweat and tears to get where I want to be.

I am proud of that. I am proud of my two bedroom apartment, despite the use of the word “ghetto” by anyone I may know to describe my area. I am proud to provide EXCEPTIONAL customer service. I know what I am capable of. I know my strengths. And I shine in those moments of thinking quickly, multitasking and problem solving.

So what annoyed me?

A conversation in which someone referred to my job as if it were worthless, insignificant, not worthy of respect. A conversation in which I was told I “just work at a bookstore,” I “just serve coffee.”

Let me correct that statement right here and right now. I don’t JUST do ANYTHING. I do what I love with passion, conviction, ambition, integrity and enthusiasm.

Quite frankly, your tax dollars could be paying for my sons food, the apartment we live in, the medication he requires. I don’t make crazy dough. I could be on welfare swiping my WIC card at the grocery store, on your dime.

I could be hustling; selling drugs, selling my body, working under the table, scheming on guys to pay my bills. I could be doing many things I’ve witnessed all too often in my upbringing.

Instead, I work at a bookstore. I pay my taxes. I buy my groceries at discount supermarkets. I pinch my pennies. I haven’t bought myself clothes in well over 8 months. I haven’t bought a new pair of sneakers in well over 3 years. I don’t go to a salon to get pretty. I spend my spare money on my son, coupons in tow.  I work diligently to help others in my workplace and diligently to help my son in my home life.

No, I’m not an accomplished writer. I simply work toward my goal of honing my craft one blog post, one revised page, one reading session at a time. I am slowly, but surely, pursuing my dream as I bust my ass to pay the bills.

Yes, I work at a book store. I serve coffee. And I am proud, no matter how much anyone wants to look down on me for my work choice, that I am making it. And at the heart of it – I like what I do.

For the first time, IN A REALLY LONG TIME, I don’t need the validation of others to tell me I’m the best at something. I may never be the best. I’m not trying to fill those shoes. I work at a bookstore. I serve coffee. I write with conviction in my words. I give every ounce I can spare to show my son that you can work to beat the odds. I work to show him that for for mommy – it’s not about being THE best but being MY best.

I work at a bookstore. I serve coffee. I am a writer. I am a mother. And I’m damn good at what I do. Period.

1.83 – A Crappy Lie?

Here’s a story. It’s a true story.

It’s New Years Eve. I’m working. I go on my lunch break, because that’s just how I roll. I check my phone and see that there are five text messages from my sons father. It goes pretty much like this:


My son has been blessed with a moody stomach since he was born. In short, sometimes – he has trouble taking a crap. He just can’t. The boy claws at his face and screams, it hurts that bad. It’s no joke. There is nothing more painful to a parent’s ears than the cry of pain from a child.

So I call my sons father and we have an exchange in which he explains that my son hasn’t dropped a log in two days. Yes, I just referred to poop as a log. Again, because that’s how I roll. I can hear my little man screaming in the background, grunting and whimpering. His ass hurts. Period.

My sons father cant take him to the store, my child is that agonized. So he says he thinks he’s going to take him to the ER. This will entail random people messing with my sons rectum, a large bill and a very annoyed father. My head already hurts. He then informs me that he is considering performing an enema on my son with…and I quote, “I have a turkey baster and water…that should work.” You want to stick what in my son? OH HELL NO.

The pressure is on and it’s up to me to do something. “I don’t know what to do,” he says, which means I have to be the one to fix this. And there goes that mothers dilemma. Working and Family. Family and Work. I’ve helped with inventory but there is still much to be done. But my son can’t go on like this. That turkey baster is not going near my sons ass! So, I make the call. I’m going to have to go.

I tell one person and he is fine with my decision. He gives the best advice he can. All I can think about it my son screaming. But I have to inform the right channels so I’m not considered MIA. So, I find the next in command.

I get attitude. A wave of the hand and a “well what about…” comment. But I don’t have time for that. I’ve got to do for my child. I am on the road in no time. I head to Walgreens. “Um…hi…my son can’t shit. What would fix that.” Why beat around the bush, right?

The clerk gives me the generic suppository. But this is my sons ass we’re talking about. Now is not the time to try and cut corners to save money. So I pay the 8 dollars for the legit medicine versus 1.99 for the store brand. Yeah, I know, I’m all about dropping the big bucks. I get some Pedialyte so my son doesn’t dehydrate. I’m with my son just minutes after the purchase.

I attempt to ignore my sons screams while I administer the medication. And then I hold him. Try to soothe him and myself. I’m in full fledged mommy mode, cradling my son until he falls asleep in my arms. I set him down and head to the door. “He’s going to crap within the hour. I’m going back to work.”

I’m back in 1 hour 5 minutes time. Pretty damn good for the distance, purchase and enema I just performed.

Shitty day, right?

That’s not the annoying part for me. My son can puke, pee, shit all over me. I deal. It’s just apart of the makeup of mommyhood. You know what did get to me. You know what really made me break down? Two things. I’m only going to address one of those things in this post. The second thing will be in the following post, which I will pen shortly. The thing I can share with you is this:

I am annoyed that anyone would imply or insinuate by asking someone else if they think I am telling the truth about why I had to leave work. Lets analyze this. If I was going to lie – Don’t you think I could think up something better than “my son can’t shit?” SERIOUSLY! Secondly, what is asking this person going to do? You’re placing whether you believe me on someone else?

My feelings are not hurt. I’m pissed off about it. It is questioning my moral character, my integrity, my choices as a mother. I will not have anyone, EVER, make me feel like I have to worry that I will be believed when it comes to my son. It is insulting, demeaning, and offensive. PERIOD. What am I going to do with this situation? As of right now, I don’t know.

My son is doing much better. THAT is what matters. I will deal with my son’s bowel issues to the best of my ability. I WILL NOT take random adults bullshit. You couldn’t pay me enough.

Here’s a lie for you. I like you. I respect you. I think you’re good at your job. I look up to you.

The End.