Drunk pool parties save lives, duh.

So you’re at Wendy’s, shoving chicken nuggets or whatever the fuck in your kids’ mouths and you meet a new friend. She turns out to resemble Wild Style from the Lego Movie, so we’ll just call her that. Suuuure, at first she resembles a sweet little woodland creature who you want to take home and make your pet… she has two small kids the same ages as mine, and she seems to parent with the same como se dice “spirit”, but she turns out to be a real badass bitch. And in the course of maybe two weeks, this bitch your friend.

A year goes by and lo and behold, she gets you to join the motherfuckin’ PTA.   The Parent Teacher Association. This bitch…. the PTA. I can’t even.

But I’m on it. I’m on the motherfuckin’ PTA now. Cuz of this bitch.

So here I am, a few weeks ago, at a PTA meeting. She’s talking about the budget, and I’m sexting my strength trainer. Suuuuuure, the budget for the childrens is very important but there are numbers and there was wine, so I’m sexting. It’s all good. It’s natural. It’s SCIENCE. And this is a STEM Magnet school my kid attends, so science is importante, no?

Now what I haven’t told you thus far is that this girl has a pool. And if you have kids and you know the level of murder that almost happens every night in the summer, you may understand just precisely what a pool means. People are HAPPY in the pool. The children are happy. They grown folks is happy. People are HAPPY.  Then you add some wines. You know mama likes the wines.  So you drink the wines and you play in the pool and everyone is HAPPY.

Moral of this story? Drink the muhfuckin wines in the muhfuckin pool with your muchfuckin kiiiiiiids and Jesus help us let’s bring the crime rate down.

Also, I luh dat bitch.

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The Fat Boi Diaries: Why Selfies?

Hello sweet babies. I haven’t written in a long while because I’ve been working on putting some other projects together, but this post was so inspiring and spot on, I had to force its truth down your sexy little throats.

Self-love. “I owe you nothing, but I owe myself everything.”

Preach.

And I’m not gonna lie, wishing I were his type right about now. MmHmmm.

BlaQueer

Last week at an apartment party in Chicago’s Andersonville neighborhood on the North side, I whipped out my iPhone 5, told the folks at the gathering to press together, and clicked away. Simple act, happens at least a hundred times a day, and I completed the ritual by posting the picture to my instagram and linking it to my Facebook account. But, before I could put the camera away I heard a friend joke, read, throw a little shade (?) my way and say:

“Watch, tomorrow there will be like five picture of himself up there.”

Yes, guilty as charged, I am a selfie. One of those annoying people who take tons of self-pictures. Declaring to the world that I look good and you know it. This is so true that the same friend had earlier brought up the topic with me; apparently he and another friend occasionally discussed my…

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Underneath the skin there’s a human.

A beautiful, captivating woman said to me yesterday, “When you make yourself vulnerable, you are actually safer.”

…I would tend to agree.

I am sitting here on my grungy sofa, listening to my little people talk themselves to sleep through the monitor, with a chill YouTube playlist in my ear, and pinot grigio on my tongue. The FINALLY warm air is on my shoulders, and I smell the damp earth carried in through the window behind me.  For the first time in several days, I am letting down my guard, and I am letting my thoughts and ever stormy feelings melt through my fingers.

I have known “guarded”.  As much as I lay myself out there for the world to see, I tag on a little follow-up of “fuck you” to anyone who has a problem with it. I guard myself against those who will potentially hurt me with that threat.  How I decide they fit into this category is a messy, tainted process.  You will find things in there like racism, sexism, religious baggage, affiliations by the thousands that carry a poor vibe in my mind… past memories of hurt and resentment.  These are not your friend when it comes to the playground of my mind.

When you choose to live in a “life-long” partnership with a beautiful person… you damn them—your best friend and lover—into the jail of both predator and prey.  Those are roles they will play in your life. They will hurt you, you will hurt them.  It is no easy task for two broken people to care for each other to the degree that an ideal marriage/partnership demands.

So now what?

What are your options when there is such high risk of hurting and being hurt?  Why do people even do this? It can’t just be because of the babies. There’s more to it. I think we as humans want to feel vulnerable to another person. Protected, cared for, exposed. Naked.

Maybe we have to be exposed and vulnerable in the relationship, the personal connection, to really relate sexually. To be naked physically, and connect in a really authentic and meaningful way, there has to be some sort of meaningful exposure of the human spirit…  BOTH the beautiful and the dark and ugly parts of your humanity.  Otherwise it’s guarded. It’s closed up and wary, self-conscious. It almost feels violating.

“Guarded” has not worked for me in this relationship.  After ten years, I have found that it is only vulnerability that brings good things between us.  It ends up being a safer, happier place.  In the process of achieving that end, we take a risk. And we hurt each other. Pretty badly. We are broken people. We cannot possibly care for another person’s emotional or physical needs perfectly all the time.

The question I’m left with is—Is it worth it? The pain?  So far I’d say yes. But you know what, it’s a real fucking hassle.  And it gets really fucking old sometimes.  It’s fucking exhausting. To be so fucking vulnerable all the goddamn time, especially when that person is struggling through a place of hurt and insecurity, caused by you and a myriad of others from the past.  Who wants to open themselves up to that level of unpredictable volatility? It’s a huge risk.

I think it’s the only way to live.

~

The only thing we know is Work hard, Play hard.

Worky Jerky getting the best of you?

I’d much rather write about a bunch of bullshit on the internet than sit in this cubicle and work. Even if I DO look hot in these tweed slacks.  My mind explodes with the useless shit I plan to shower on you in the coming weeks. I’m recruiting some sexy assholes to help me with this. Let’s face it, I’m a lazy muthafucka. I choose the elevator over the stairs probably 3 out of 4 times. My love handles say to you “You’re welcome.”

I’m feeling inspired this week. What’s making your panties wet, people?

I want my baby where that cake and that icing is.

Get the money, get the money, that’s what I know
I’m hoping that my seeds know a little more than I know
I know, I know, but baby this what I know
If we ever settle down, well baby this what I hope

Please let her be a hustla, baby be a hustla
Hope my baby girl grows up to be a hustla
Let her be a hustla, baby be a hustla
If not, then you’re only a customer

~The Roots, ‘Hustla’, How I Got Over (2009)

Alright all you sexy geeks and gangstas. I’ve got to throw out a little word of gratitude. Every single person who has read this blog or left your amazing and demented ideas in the comments, or even contributed ideas and stories for me to expound upon– you have been part of a very serious event, for which I am quite grateful. Let me ‘splain.

I started writing this blog shortly after leaving my career back in January, in order to stay home and care for a very sick little baby. I had just turned 30, I was fat from being pregnant, complete with saggy stomach skin that was challenging, DARING even, every pair of pants I owned to look normal. I was adjusting to staying at home, which I had never seen myself doing, and I was exhausted and an emotional wreck from my baby’s health scares, extended hospital stays, open heart surgery, and other issues. I was grieving the loss of my career, and my friends who I’d made as colleagues from across the country, because I wasn’t sure I would ever see them again. In short, I basically felt like I’d lost my life, myself, and it had all been replaced with bittersweet heartache.

Recently, Sugardaddy’s cousin had her kid in the hospital for four days with an infection. Seems like a short stay, but to a mother even one night is an eternity. This was also one event in a string of difficult health scares they’d had within the past 6 months. Now, I don’t know how many of you have kids, but if you don’t, I can’t really explain to you what they do to you. They basically take over your heart and soul. There’s no other way for me to explain it. They move in, settle all their shit all up in your soul, permanently occupying every cell in your body.

So I emailed her and just let her know that I was thinking about her, and if she needed to talk or get negative with someone, that’s my specialty. She asked how we’d done it. How had we coped with months and months of what she had recently gotten a small but very heavy and real taste of?

So I began to give that a lot of thought.  I’m not suggesting you do any of these things necessarily, but they worked for me, so farbeit for me to deny you the truth. I touched on a couple of these things a little bit back in February, in my post about how to settle the fuck down.

1) Own it. Get real with the fact that life fucking sucks today (or this week, month, year, etc.). Denial is not going to get you anywhere. Just own that shit.

2) Move your sexy ass. Now, crises in life can be paralyzing. I want to warn you of that if you haven’t experienced that before. It’s depression, really, but if you find yourself paralyzed, for the love of God GET UP AND MOVE! I don’t care if you walk in circles in your living room, just move. Do. Not. Stop. Moving. Which brings me to…

3) MEDICATE. I’m serious people. Get yourself some antidepressants, and please do not stop taking them. Just freakin’ take them. Hustle ’em up off the streets if you have to. Take that shit.

4) Drink. And I mean draaaaaank! Drink** yourself something that, to a degree, numbs the pain and fear in your sweet little soul.  **Please drink responsibly by not driving directly thereafter.

5) Lose yourself. What I mean by this is, do something occasionally that really lets you check out. My personal favorite is to go dancing with friends who make me feel good. But maybe you prefer reading or fishing or running. I’d do a lot of running when the baby was in the hospital. For some reason, it felt cleansing to go out and run so hard that it just hurt. Like I was purging pain from my heart and mind.

6) Fuck. If you don’t know already that sex makes you feel AMAZing, then I’m sorry for you. But it’s fucking science. It releases all kinds of endorphins and shit that make you feel so good that it keeps you coming back for more. Over and over and over… just do it. I don’t care who you fuck– mama ain’t here to judge. Just be safe and try to only fuck people who don’t leave you feeling like shit afterward. Let’s not perpetuate the hard times you are already experiencing.

7) Dump. And this is where all you mutherfuckers come in. This blog has been a really nice place for me to just dump all the shit in my head so I don’t have to carry it around inside all the time. And I think this has been a really important part of the processing that must be done when coping with crisis. It’s okay to get cynical, negative, sarcastic, etc. But find a place to deposit all that shit, and move on. You’re going to need to emerge from the place of pain you are in eventually.  I think that process gets stunted if you hold on to the negativity.

So I want to thank you all for basically being my garbage recepticals. Kisses!

Mama just got a job, so I don’t know how often I’ll be throwing shit up on this blog, but I always love good material to get stupid about, so feel free to send stuff my way at thiswaygeeks@gmail.com.

I love you assholes. Get in here, let’s hug it out!!!!

Y’all know I keep it funky motherfucker better get it right.

“Y’all know I keep it funky motherfucker better get it right

Get it right, better get it right, get it right

And I’ll be rockin along, zonin, yeah

Movin along, zoninnnnnnnn.” ~ Kid Cudi, ‘Ashin Kusher’

Sometimes you meet a person who has felt what you have felt, who has seen the depths that you have traversed. And they’ve come out alive.

This is important.

Because their mere existence tells you that you, too, will come out alive. That’s a little more than inspiration, my sweet crackas. That’s straight up truth, spoken to the deepest part of your soul that is the decision-maker for whether or not you are going to survive any given moment.

It is my privilege to wish the happiest of birthdays to such a person in my life. Happy birthday, B-Randy! You know who you are, you sexy ‘rican!  I gift you with this open-to-the-public weblog, in lieu of Cuba Gooding, Jr. naked, eating fried chicken coated in chocolate, singing “I’m a little teapot” karaoke style in your bedroom. With as many favors as that asshole owes me, apparently he resents the fact that I’d treat him like a whore and offer to buy such a performance from him, in honor of your birthday. What is with people being all uppity these days??!!

I would also like to gift you with this fucking weird Ken doll.  I really don’t know what to say about this offense to humanity besides “I love you.” And if you don’t know, now you know.

So now that you have exited your twenties and joined the cool kids’ club in 30s-ville, what do you plan on doing? Because I believe I spent the evening of my 30th birthday obsessively lotioning my stomach as the skin continued to slowly shrink back after giving birth to a naughty little baby that I couldn’t nurse due to hospitalizations. I do not wish that on you, my friend. I hope you feel sexier than that tonight.  Do what makes you come ALIVE this weekend. And every day. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.

In addition to all the above-referenced priceless gifts, I would also like to bequeath to you the list of search terms that have brought people to this blog. This is no ordinary list. It is a list filled with the seeds of questions to the mysteries of the universe. Like, “What the fuck?”  And “Who the fuuuuuuuck?”  B-Randy, you are now the caretaker of these search terms. Treat them well. Love them. Hold them. They need you.

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Just ’cause I walk with a limp like an old-school pimp don’t mean I’ll slap ya.

But If you wanna talk tough and you wanna puff up then I might just have ta.

But I didn’t come here to clock your mouth, I came here to rock the house.  – LMFAO, “We came here to party”

It’s a damn good thing Sugardaddy’s auntie made us a chocolate sheet cake that we put in the freezer when baby was in the hospital and I just found it. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I ate that whole motherfucking sheet cake over the course of three days, assholes. That’s right. AND maintained my weight from a week ago. Eat it.  Sure, I feel like shit. But I felt like shit BEFORE I ate the sheet cake, so it doesn’t matter, right? Thank you.

Moving on… So what’s with people eating each others faces? Any takers? Dan Mitchell? Doodoomamajuju? I’m sure you have insight. I mean, I’m sure it’s been happening for thousands of years, but it’s just now getting publicity on the news and causing thousands of ignorant little crackas to freak out about zombies.

Another question I have for you is– how the fuck do I get hooked up with a bartending job??? That’s really what I want to do right now. And I’m pretty sure I could make some BANK doing that happiness. I LOVE getting people drunk and happy. To get PAID to do it? Genius.

Here is a list of skills and/or talents I have that I think might warrant someone paying me a full-time salary:

  • Touching my baby’s chubby leg-rolls.
  • Listening to 90’s rock.
  • Hair-flips with my luscious long black hair.
  • Putting on mascara. I’m really good at that.
  • Writing random phone numbers on parked car windows with lipstick.
  • Eating raw cookie dough.
  • Saying “Let’s get crunk!” to 15-year olds.
  • Picking out shoes I like.
  • Parking directly next to the cars parked way out in the weeds at the drive in.
  • Suggesting to douchey men that their fathers are probably really disappointed them. And then patting them on the back when they start crying in public.
  • Explaining awkward things to my 4-year-old in ways that might bring shame on my family.
  • Doing the robot.
  • Going up to Black people and touching their hair in that special creepy white-person sorta way.
  • Going to high-end boutiques in my mom-sweatpants and making the people there wait on me.
  • Speaking in a fake British accent.
  • Making fun of people who drive the BMW 300 series.
  • Eating nachos.

If you or someone you know is looking to hire someone with one or more of the above qualifications, by all means, let a hooker know.