Wretched Ramblings.

Last night I did a thing. I popped an edible, smoked the bong, and grabbed inspiration (or rage?) by the balls. I don't really know for sure which bug bit me first. I had been listening to Laurence Fishburne talk shit about white people as the voice of Malcolm X for the last three days--so much so that I probably have the first three chapters memorized by now because there are gems starting on day one. I mean, I thought I was gonna die. The last two weeks I have had the worst cramps, and a list of symptoms that had me thinking it could be anything from kidney stones, to my IUD growing into my spleen, perimenopause, endometriosis, or an ectopic pregnancy (very highly unlikely given my current sexual history). 

La Rona has done nothing good for my sex drive. I don't want to meet anyone new because trusting these mofos is like asking for a bullet to your brain. Every time I swipe right on an app I find more people who are going to "socially distanced" slumber parties, strip clubs, and bat mitzvahs. Extra satire on the socially distanced part. 

After waiting the entire weekend to die, when that didn't happen I was sincerely relieved. Mortality be damned, though, it was lingering in the back of my mind. So when I chomped that edible begging for the pain in my side to subside, and I heard Laurence and Malcolm and Malcolm's praises of Aunt Ellie--they swirled around my head in a sense of reverie and nostalgia that just wouldn't quit. I sat down in front of my computer and my fingers got to work. Something wanted out--but what it was I didn't quite have a finger on. 

I usually just let my fingers do the talking; I listen and comprehend as the words fill up the page. But the force with which this story unrooted itself was hell-bent fury. At first I was a little girl of four, remembering my nanny's daughter performing at a gymnastics competition in Germany, then I was a little girl, only two to three years older than before, watching my parents host barbecues and kickbacks on their days off in our living room and backyard. And Hell hath no fury, honey. The story just ripped itself from my fingertips.

I'm clutching my pearls just thinking about it, and I'm not really one for pearls or those who clutch them. The childlike experience of innocence was stolen from me at a very young age. It was something I wasn't allowed to play with because my world got really real, really fast. Naivete was stripped by trauma. Before I knew what hit me I was smacked in the face with inappropriateness, which is why it's such a wonder why I have no filter now--I've never known a world where filters existed. 

Needless to say, my inner Poe was starving. Homegirl was ripping off band-aids and scabs from wounds I never knew might still need healing. When I started this blog in 2009, I just knew I was going to be some household name with a following of praises, but I understand now that this shit isn't for the feint of heart. It takes guts to face yourself. It takes guts to face the imprints and scars other people leave on you. It's been a long time since I was able to sit at the computer and just let the words flow from my mind. One day I hope to get back to having a map, a plan, and a path again, but I like the sincerity that comes from writing in the moment. Right now I'm just grateful to be writing again, at my own pace, and hoping to see what becomes of it. 

People get pensive around known writers. There's always those that request, "Don't write (blog, vlog, YouTube) about me." They're usually the ones you have to write about because they do the most irreparable damage. Yeah, yeah, sure. Of course they're just private. What's understood doesn't have to be explained, well excuse the fuck out of me if my slow ass didn't catch on the first time around so I had to make sure it was you who had me fucked up and not me giving you the rope to hang me with. Trust? Never knew that. Never had that. Never felt that emotion. In the wise words of Miss Joanne Prada, "That's over. It's cancelled." Expeditiously. Maybe I am a younger version of my father, drunk and rambling to anyone who will listen so I can feel like I matter in the world, but I don't think so. First of all, those who read my ramblings have a choice in whether they stumble across my page or if they decide to stay or go. Consent is and always will be king. 

Tonight I'm just a girl whose trauma led her to see there are still a lot of unanswered questions and self-explorations to be unearthed ahead. The one time my overanalytical anxiety pays off cuz I can throw together some words like a motherfucker. I even thought about writing a critical analysis of The Autobiography of Malcolm X because his words have moved me so much. I guess we will just have to see.