Meditation Experiment, Part Deux

I can't remember when I took my first vedic meditation course in the City—I'm sure it's documented on this blog somewhere—but shortly thereafter I gave up on it. I can't even pinpoint what it was that got me off track, but knowing me it probably went something like... I was following the method to a T, then one day I had to skip a session for some random reason, and it made it easier to skip it again the next time, and so on and so forth. Then I probably told myself, "Meh, how do we know it even works?" as a way to justify quitting. Also, I never bothered to regulate my god-awful sleeping habits, and that alone makes it so hard to maintain any type of real time management system or healthy livng practice. 

In fact, I'm typing these very words at 2:08 am knowing full well I promised to make breakfast for my niece and nephew (in about four hours) so now I have to pull an all-nighter or risk breaking a promise to my babies and to their parents (who will potentially get to sleep in for a little bit while I cover morning eats).

But let's make believe that this time I've learned my lesson, that I'm actually taking that Brain Damage warning seriously, and that I'm going to take my brain health more seriously moving forward. 

Let's watch me attempt to take up vedic meditation again for the umpteenth time.

I'm sure the good people at the New York Meditation Center, where I studied, are sick of my, "I want to come back to the fold," emails, because frankly I never follow through. Part of what keeps me away is that I have this narrative in my head that there are more important or pressing things I need to be focused on just to survive my day-to-day, instead of sitting quietly for twenty minutes, twice daily. 

Because, when we really get down to it, Quiet is my enemy. I don't do anything quietly. I play lo-fi beats to do any task that requires concentration. I listen to audiobooks while I do chores around the house, run errands, or make dinner. I keep the TV on as my emotional support white noise in the background, while I'm "falling asleep." I carry on conversations with my shampoo bottles in the shower. Quiet, to me, equals death.

In the Quiet is where my spiral lives, because that's where The Voices let me know about all the dumb shit I continue to do to ruin my own life and the lives of the people in my vicinity. And who wants to hear that day in and day out? I'd much rather listen to Karol G crush on another girl's man, or solve sex crimes with Ice-T. My LITERAL nightmare is having to exist in a QUIET PLACE scenario. Just kill me instead.

However, brain health, right? Right. So let's try again, again, thusly:

My main obstacle to this great plan being me, of course, because I have to be OK if every day doesn't look like this. I'm not in the army; I don't have to be so strict with myself and my time. I can wing it some days, maybe. I hope. Listen, this is an experiment, like this whole existence is an experiment, to see if my next 50-ish years can be better than the first, or if old bitches can actually learn new tricks, or if I can regulate my sleep, or if I can avoid The Brain Damage as I age.

What could possibly go wrong?

Love & Balls,
Jaded
-----
i played the powerless in too many dark scenes,
and I was blessed with a birth and a death,
and I guess I just wanted some say in between.

I Need to Go Outside and Touch Grass

This is definitely something that's been building up, but I'm one more global health crisis away from never ever leaving my apartment again. Ever. Just me cosplaying as Howard Hughes wearing tissue boxes as shoes and hand sanitizer on a chain around my neck.

But bigger than my anxiety about what is happening outside my door, is my fear of losing my mind. It's the one thing I depend on for survival, and I cannot fathom a life worth living if I didn't have my wits about me.

Enter this doctor's YouTube channel, a small video I came across during my two-month stint as a person who is up from 6PM to 6AM. In a nutshell, she says that prolonged social isolation is a form of brain damage. BRAIN DAMAGE. Y'all. I've never been so scared straight in my whole miserable life.

So now I have to figure out how to reset my sleep schedule to follow a more traditional western society cycle. How do you peasant's do it? How do you get into bed at night, close your eyes, turn off The Voices? How do you get comfortable? Fall asleep? Stay asleep? Y'all don't drown in worries, like what if a fire breaks out in the building, or a bunch of military tanks roll down Flatbush Avenue and start killing us indiscriminately? Or if this is the Buffalo wing that will finally trigger that MI you've been trying to avoid your whole life?

Or, I don't know... maybe a sound mind is overrated...

Love & Balls,

Jaded

-----

anxiety, keep on tryin' me

i feel it quietly

tryin' to silence me

Who Is This Plant, Really?

I do not have a green thumb. That's what I tried to explain to my mom years ago when she offered me leaves from her plant to grow in my apartment. A plant, I should mention, she's had since forever. A plant that survived countless moves, moods, environments, and bouts of neglect. Surely, this plant would not live to tell its tale should it come live with me.

But Mami insisted, and I find it hard to say no to her, so I took the plant. Besides, I was up for the challenge.

I placed it in a bowl of water to encourage root growth with the intention of planting it. That 'plant' was in that bowl of water for the better part of three years. I mean, perfectly green and countless roots, but just in a bowl of water; stubborn little thing! I can't remember when exactly I planted it, but I finally got off my ass, bought some soil and put it in a cute little green pot. And then proceeded to barely remember to take care of it ever since.

This plant has been in my care for, I don't know, 10 years, easy! It's still in the cute little green pot, grown a bit, died a bit, but there it sits. Surviving. Sometimes, even thriving.

When I moved during the pandemic, I had the audacity to purchase two additional plants for my new apartment. One, a peace lily, proceeded to peace out thanks to a gnat infestation and lack of care (basically I gave up on it). The other, a snake plant, grew like a beanstalk, and is still here, but is surely dead or dying due to the same infestation and neglect. Last summer, my niece and nephew gifted me a new pothos we call Ariel Mermaid, and she teeters in between life and death DAILY.

But the plant my mom gave me? Surviving. Sometimes, even thriving.

Now listen, I'm stuck in this house, a victim of my own anxiety and low-balance bank account, and that does things to your mind, right? Like, you start to wonder, what kind of plant is this, that survives me being gone for two weeks and perks the fuck back up after just a little water? What is it made of? Who really sent it here? Is it watching over me, or just watching me.

Or is it just a really low maintenance, resilient, living thing, here to remind me that, if there's a will, there's a way. That there will be periods where you will want to shrivel up and die, but that, unless it's your time, The Universe will send something or someone to water your roots and set you straight. Maybe, that thing or person will even see fit to replant you somewhere new, roomier, where you can stop choking on your own misery day in and day out. That you can stand up after a fall. That you can weather anything. That the thing you think is breaking you, really is giving you a chance to be reborn-

in life, with life.

Maybe if I replant that plant... maybe...

The conspiracy theories abound.

Meanwhile, I saw soil for $5 and planters for $3 at The Dollar Tree; anything is possible.

Love & Balls,

Jaded

-----

but can it be

when we can see so vividly a memory?

and yes, you say so must the day

too fade away, and leave a ray of sun

so gold

Saying the Uncomfortable Thing Out Loud...

...just not to the right person.

The way he tells it, I was aggressive on our first date. He emphasized that first of all I was late, but also that I rebuffed the drink he had pre ordered for me, a mojito. "I don't drink mojitos; I don't like things floating in my drink" or something like that is what I said. He then said I did end up drinking it and liking it (because it was frozen, mind you), but because I was so aggressive out the box I almost didn't get to enjoy this "experience." A stupid mojito.

When I corrected him and said, "I'm not aggressive, I'm assertive, I speak up when I don't want something and I don't see that as negative," he said, "well I do."

That was during a Friday night date back in 2022, and it damn near put me off my Buffalo wings and cold beer.

It's 2025 and the memory of this conversation has basically put me off my relationship.

How can I be with someone who sees my speaking up for myself, what I want and need, what I prefer or what makes me feel good, as a negative?

And if you know me, you know I always have one foot out the door, ready, willing, and able to walk away, dignity intact, and live well. But I'm trying to be a grown up, and I heard a rumor that grown ups talk things out first.

A huge part of me is still The Jaded NYer, though, which means that before I activate my inner grown up, I activate my inner petty blogger.

Because FUCK HIM. Why should I drink a drink I know I don't like, just to impress a date? So now every time we go out I have to endure a drink with fucking leaves in it to keep up appearances? I have to eat your "chicken stew" when I have a physical aversion to BOILED chicken with the bone in? I can't complain about huge chunks of onions and peppers in the mac and cheese? I'm supposed to fuck you even when I'm not in the mood? Where does it end? When do I get to be me?

I'll tell you when: ALWAYS. I'm ALWAYS going to be me. And if you're only going to love me IN SPITE of that fact, instead of BECAUSE OF it, I really have to ask, why are you even with me?

I probably should have posted this in my Letters I'll Never Send blog...

Anywhores... Happy Valentine's Day, losers.

Love & Balls,
Jaded
-----
please stop asking, do you still love me?
don't have much to say, let's speak in the morning
please don't do this, I'm too far away
don't know what to tell you, babe

Coasting Looks Like...

...abandoning previous goals because it got too hard or something minor felt major and got in your way

Häagen-Dazs, Butter Pecan

...not speaking up for yourself because what's the point? they're never going to see your side of it

...doing just enough to keep a roof over your head and food on the table

...eating yourself into oblivion so you have a reason to self-isolate from the world

...answering "How have you been" texts with "Meh, but pushing on anyway" instead of unleashing the full weight of the hell swirling around in your brain, because we're all meh, but pushing on anyway, everyday, and commiserating on being meh isn't going to make you feel better; I've tried it

This all seems quite familiar, like I've written these words before, and felt these feelings before. 

But hey, consistency, amirite?

Love & Balls,

Jaded

-----

hey, there, you, looking for a brighter season

need to lay your burden down

hey, there, you, drowning in a helpless season

buried under deeper ground

When the Party's Over

Art Deco Grandeur

In 2009 or so, I was sent out by a staffing agency to temp at Central Library in Brooklyn, and I was thrilled because, I mean, books. I grew up with the library system as my babysitter (shout out to the DeKalb, Marcy, and Bushwick branches!) and now I'd get to go behind the curtain, so to speak, and work there.

About a year into my assignment, the boss offered me a permanent position on the marketing team and I played it cool ("let me think about it over the weekend") but really, I was living the dream. It was shit money but the hours were good, the people were nice, the benefits were stellar, and the organization as a whole was beyond reproach. I could sleep well at night knowing I worked for/with the good guys.

Then the cracks started to show: the head honcho wasn't a former librarian when historically they were (I think it was a must but they changed the rules for her); said head honcho decided she didn't like my boss NOR the head of the design team, so more often than not, she poo-pooed everything we were trying to do; a new guy came in, from the DoT, and decided to bring along a crony from the DoT, and oust my boss; that crony, who did not have the marketing experience or gravitas that my former boss had, brought in a third crony, so that cronies 1 and 2 were now both being paid crazy amounts to split the job my boss was doing by himself (and then they also brought in a third person to deal with press, which is something my former boss did, too). So are you keeping score? Three mediocre white people doing the job of one talented Black man, all because the Head White Lady didn't like the cut of his jib.

Ephemera

It all started to go downhill from there, for me at least, and definitely in the area of morale.

I personally dealt with so many microaggressions, and was passed up for a promotion because I supposedly didn't have the experience and I was, quote, "unapproachable." So they hired someone with no marketing experience which made all the sense, right? And then proceeded to groom her for any and every salary increase and promotion they could think of. Not me, though, because I was unapproachable and didn't hang out with people after the workday or celebrate my birthday in the office or participate in something called Lunch Crew where they expected me to allow and trust white women with cats to make me a tasty and pet-hair-free meal. I didn't care for any of it, I was vocal about all of it, "I haven't seen your kitchen, so no, thank you," and it made me "not a team player.

Celebrating Z outside the office!

Still, I showed up, did my job, got my check, because that's how I came up. I don't go to work to make friends and kiki and party and bullshit, I'm there to do a job. And I will be cordial and might even smile here and there and contribute my fair share to the workload but that's all. Being friends is not in the job description, and frankly none of these people were folks I'd be friends with outside the office (minus one, HEY Z!)

The final straw came in the fall of 2022.

I was making plans to visit my daughter in Italy; she was going to study abroad so I was going to do 10 days in Milan, and then a week in Rome with a weekend in Athens, Greece. To make it work, I figured, I could do a full remote work time (the library had started going hybrid by then) so as not to use up all my time. I only did two days in the office anyway, what could it hurt? Well, request denied, even though I know they'd done similar deals with other non-brown workers, and I was pissed but whatever. THEN I was informed that the worst kept secret in the marketing department was that my direct supervisor was resigning, she wanted the other copywriter to be her successor, and they had all met about it without me. 

Well, listen. I'd signed on as a contractor with a corporate giant during this time as a side gig, making roughly $1K a day, so I thought about it and decided, before they even approach me with a bullshit explanation as to why I wasn't considered (and probably threw a tiny disrespectful raise at me) I was going to finally grant their collective wish and leave. Fuck that whole marketing department full of transplants (EXCEPT Z & Fritzi!) with a bag full of rusty tire irons. The whole lot. I can't think of a more toxic place for this Black Latina to work, except maybe the current White House administration.

A BK Winter Wonderland

Things I miss: working for an institution that focuses on access for all; the steady, non-freelance paycheck, the benefits, Z. THE VIEW OF PROSPECT PARK FROM THE OFFICE. What I don't miss, everything else. 

I don't look back and think, "I wish I still worked there," even as freelance work is beginning to dry up. I look back and think, "The stories I could tell you about this place..." Because you just gotta know when to walk away from shit that no longer serves you. Honestly, I should have left sooner, but I let fear be my guide.

Don't let fear keep you where you're not wanted or appreciated. No matter how green the grass on that side is.

Love & Balls,
Jaded
-----
I hate people that feel entitled
look at me crazy 'cause I ain't invite you
oh, you important?
you the moral to the story, you endorsing?
motherfucker, I don't even like you

On Retirement and Finding My "Why"

courtesy of Simon Sinek

"Why do you do what you do? It’s not an easy question, but the answer could make a big difference in your life."

Sometime around 2018 I started to notice that I had been coasting on autopilot in my life. Maybe it was because my youngest was graduating and leaving for school across the country, and I had more time to think, but it was a sobering realization. I finally had the time and freedom to do whatever the fuck I wanted, but didn't know exactly what that was, or if I did know, wasn't taking the steps to get what I wanted. The one area of my life that took the biggest hit was writing (and all of my literary endeavours). I remember thinking, "who cares?" and "what's the point?" and I began to hate everything I had created and resent the people who were reaching out to me about their writing, wanting to do readings, etc. AND I HATED MY COLLEAGUES AT MY 9-5, which I couldn't do anything about because I was paying tuition for one kid and subsidizing rent for another.

So to summarize, I was very unhappy and had too much time to think about that unhappiness but I was stuck in a situation of my own making because I had dependents, which meant that chasing a dream (even if I had lost sight of that dream) wasn't possible because I had to do practical things.

Then in the summer of 2019, my literary org was turning ten and I planned what I thought was a fun celebration...that no one wanted to attend. I took a step back and thought, "all these people that I've helped, or published, or given a stage to, or collaborated with, and maybe five ride-or-die folks wanted to celebrate that with me. Enough was enough. I decided to retire and disappear from the literary scene in NYC. I refused all invites to talks and readings and workshops, stopped editing manuscripts, and abandoned my own work. I even handed over the reins to La Pluma y La Tinta to someone else.

That fall, a bunch of shit started to happen, like a snowball rolling down a hill, that forced me into therapy. And every session was just me crying because I felt weak and lost and really, what was I even doing with this life anymore?

It's been a lot. And my therapist concluded the obvious: I do for everyone else, and hardly ever for me. 

Where does that leave me now? Slightly un-retired. I'm reading again. I've even started listening to audiobooks. Ideas for stories have popped in my head. A tiny vision of where I want to focus my energies emerged. Now, I'm not saying therapy did all that, but it didn't NOT do all that, either.

I'm working on my why. I think I'm meant to use my storytelling abilities to persuade you mongrels to stop being assholes to the planet and each other. That's what really matters to me. This reboot is a part of that work.

Lake Como, my heart

But if in pursuit of de-mongrelizing you I happen to become a best-selling author who splits her time between a three-bedroom condo in Riverdale, a refurbished farmhouse on the right good side (read: the side that doesn't touch NJ) of the Hudson River Valley, and a vineyard in Italy, too, you know, I wouldn't be mad at that.

Love & Balls,

Jaded

-----

it seems like I'm always against me

seems like this is never ending

and I refuse to let it end me

mentally, spiritually, physically

i need my peace

A Bitch Got Fat.

That "F" word can be really triggering or polarizing but I'm An Old and I use accurate words to describe things that are real, and I. Am. Fat. How do I know? Well, besides having pretty decent vision and a working mirror: my back and joint pains have increased, my belly sticks out and hangs like a trash bag full of pudding, and my snoring has gotten so much worse.

Now, because I'm gifted in height, it took a while for it to really show, but then one day I took a selfie and thought WHO THE FUCK IS THAT FAT BITCH? Clothes that I've owned and comfortably worn for years no longer fit, and then rock bottom: I sat down and my jeans gave up on life. That's when I really knew.

"You can't be fat AND mean, Raquel"

I got on a scale and a number I never thought I'd see associated with me popped up; 252lbs. I'm not sure how you deal with bad news, but my way is to feel defeated, fall into a shame spiral wherein I identify and dwell on every wrong decision I ever made, then escape into a new hyperfixation while completely avoiding the obvious solutions. It's so much fun in my brain, I wish I could sell tickets!

And a lot of things contributed to this; not the actual lockdown but life after, where everyone walks around maskless and not social distancing and coughing into the open air as if Covid never happened. That shit stresses me out. Being in a stagnant relationship that I refuse to make a decision about one way or another, stresses me out. Being underemployed and in a financial crisis stresses me out. Worrying about my daughters' well-being stresses me out. Worried that my mom isn't progressing in her recovery the way we thought she would, and the pressure it adds onto my sister and brother-in-law, stresses me out. THE GOVERNMENT COUP THAT IS CURRENTLY TAKING PLACE WHICH MAKES ME FEEL HELPLESS AND POWERLESS, STRESSES. ME. OUT. And when I stress out, I EAT & SHUT DOWN, a combination well documented for its ability to fatten people up.

If I could just be 100% depressed only, then I could lose some weight, you know? Because that's when I lose interest in food altogether. Ahhh, I miss only being depressed...

(I will share, however, the one major positive of looking like someone's Big Momma... no more catcalls in these streets. PRAISE ALLAH.)

So what do I plan to do about it? *kanyeshrug* Does this blog post not count as something being done?

I think I'm sharing this out loud because if/when you see me in these streets wearing a mumu or complaining about my diabetes acting up (who are we kidding, it's only a matter of time), I don't want you to be surprised and wonder, "what happened to that hot Dominican blogger I used to fantasize about?" I'll tell you what happened, a bitch got fat.

Love & Balls,

Jaded

-----

like the scar of age

written all over my face

the war is still raging inside of me

i still feel the chill

as i reveal my shame to you

i wear it like a tattoo

The Jaded NYer: The Reboot

Hi. Remember when I used to blog regularly, and on the days I'd take a break, I'd come back with a song? I figured that, since I've decided to revive the blog, I'd ease you back in with a little tune.

Wasn't that fun? Great, let's move on.

Why reboot the Jaded Blog? Well. A lot of factors led to this decision.

1. I have been RUDDERLESS since Papi died. Just walking around this world like a chicken without a head. This is a strange world for me- first I lose Grandma and just when I've made peace with it, Papi leaves. The one man in my life who loved me unconditionally. It's a lot for a girl to lose her dad.

2. I lost focus on my WHY. I became so entangled in trying to run La Pluma y La Tinta, trying to host events that would garner likes on the interwebs, bigging up others only to get nothing in return. It depleted me.

3. I quit my library job after it became ABUNDANTLY CLEAR that they didn't value me or my skills, and my whole department, minus one or two people, became overrun with people NOT from NY, telling NYers what types of events/books/art they should like. And finding a new job, one that will pay me what I'm worth but also feels like I'm positively contributing to the good in this world has been... not great.

4. My daughter had a major health crisis, the world shut down, my mom got sick, and my sister had twins, and I realized, fuck everything else, family is what I need to focus on.

5. I'm living in a world that, basically, hates me and everyone who looks like me or is where I'm from, and the anxiety and depression that comes with that has forced me to seek some sort of anchor, and I think I'm realizing that anchor is language, literature, the written word.

So I guess, for now, I'm un-retired. 

Listen, if Stephen King can do it, so can I.

Happy Black History & Dominican Heritage Month.

Love & Balls,
Jaded

-----

does anyone remember
what it felt like to laugh all night
and sleep in late
not worry about anyone or anything?

well, I don't, I don't, I don't

Journey To Di Road: Day 16 | My 3,527TH Excuse

What can I say? I lost interest in this journey a week after I started writing about it out of pure frustration with myself. That led to a spiral, which led to another spiral, which led to...hmmm, what was that? OH YES. ANOTHER SPIRAL.

So fine. I'm not okay. When I think about going to the gym I die a little bit inside. I'm ashamed of the weight I've gained. I don't want anyone to look at me. I DON'T WANT TO BE SEEN and not in my usual introverted "don't look at me" way, either. The only reason I even bother still coming to work is because I have a kid in college, one about to go to college, and I need the money.

Then just get your ass to the gym and change how you do things! That's the VERY UNSOLICITED advice I get from people who don't understand anxiety or depression. My brain don't work like your brain. I literally scream inside my head get up, go outside, don't eat that, do better, but whatever is supposed to communicate with my physical body is all bitch, shut up; we're sitting here frozen and you'll just have to fucking deal with it.

And don't come at me with the "endorphins" myth because LISTEN TO THIS UNMITIGATED HARD ASS TRUTH: Endorphins are a junky science LIE. I've never felt energized or happy after a workout, only sore and tired and sleepy. Maybe my endorphins are broken? WHO KNOWS STOP ASKING SO MANY STUPID FUCKING QUESTIONS.

But this morning I looked in the mirror and absolutely hated what I saw, who I've become. She is disgusting. She eats too much and then lays around letting life pass by. She never finishes what she starts and she often goes back on her word, especially to herself.

Yeah, this might be a problem.

Seriously, the only thing keeping me together most days is the bomb-ass lipsticks I use to hide behind so people will think I'm fine and normal.

Photo of my poppin' ass lipgloss to distract you from my mental illness

This is Day 16.

Breakfast: a chai and a cheddar scone; they were both gross and I regretted everything about it
Snack: nothing; work was on some bullshit all day and I barely left my desk
Lunch: two tacos, homemade chips, with guac, salsa, and a seltzer; why the fuck not? I needed to stress eat.

I regret nothing!

Victories: just took my vitamins, and started incorporating some GREEN FOOD supplements. I mean, I bought 'em, might as well take 'em
WOMP Moments: my whole life is a WOMP moment; shut up.

Currently, I'm dealing with a mom who's hiding from the world and sending my calls to voicemail, a shitty computer that stops working whenever, wherever, and a very real book deadline, on top of some very overdue shit at work. I'm getting some comfort food today. I'M GETTING SOME COMFORT FOOD TODAY.

And then I'm going to sit at my table and have a Come To Jesus Meeting with my To Do List and decide which of those things just aren't gonna get done. Ever. And force myself to be okay with it.

*smooches...not in the mood for the bullshit*
----------
and by "the bullshit" I mean MY bullshit

Journey To Di Road: Day 10 | Ummm...

So, not only did I ditch my whole eating and workout plan ENTIRELY this week, I didn't blog, either. Part of me wanted to write up some stuff and post date it so that there isn't a big hole in this week, but no, I won't do that. I need to look back and remember that I went back on my word, if for no other reason than to shame myself into never doing it again.

Once a Catholic, always a Catholic...

On Tuesday, I didn't blog because Monday pissed me off; just the memory of the day I decided to stop blogging put me in the worst mood. Wednesday, I plum-forgot. I took the day off from work, did laundry, binge-watched GREENLEAF on Netflix (oh my GAWD it's such a good show!), cooked, and chilled. Blogging didn't really fit into my day, especially because I was trying to cheer myself up after realizing that the real reason I took Wednesday off--to finish and submit my NEA grant application--was for naught because I didn't meet the candidate guidelines. Thursday, I remembered, but then fell asleep, and today I was too busy at work and then too happy at home to sit at my desk and give myself 200 verbal lashes for fucking up this week.

I have the highest of hopes for next week, only because I have to or nothing is ever going to happen. Eventually, something will give and I'll take my health seriously, right?

This is Day 10.

Breakfast: slice of egg pie/baked frittata and slice of buttered toast; then I had a few sips of a nasty, bitter cup of coffee at work to wake up.

No amount of sugar + milk could save this bitter cup of trash

Snack: microwave popcorn. I regretted it immediately
Lunch: some bullshit salad (no meat) in a desperate attempt to be "healthy" which I also regretted because it left me feeling empty inside. I followed it up with one of those tiny Snickers from the work snack drawer

I wasn't meant to eat rabbit food, I was meant to eat the rabbit

Dinner: Buffalo wings and cajun fries from Buffalo's Famous, the only AUTHENTIC wing spot that I know of in NYC; it was delicious and I make zero apologies
Victories: I ate breakfast all week, which definitely helped me cut down on my snack cravings at work this week; nothing spoiled in my fridge--everything I cooked got eaten (or will be tomorrow)
WOMP Moments: I ordered takeout when I had perfectly good food in the fridge OR ate two dinners sometimes; forgot to blog; just realized I forgot my supplements today; OH and I never went to the gym this week

Today I did some computer maintenance and replaced my speakers with a much better, bass-heavy set, so I have all of the plans to blast soca tomorrow as I do my Saturday chores. Dancing helps to motivate me; bass helps me want to dance. Perhaps all of that put together will guide me towards the gym?

Or nah.

*smooches...waiting on [my] world [view] to change*
----------
my brain needs to fix itself pronto!

Journey To Di Road: Day 6 | This Is Why I Stopped Blogging

I did not love myself this weekend. I was not good to my body. I broke all the promises I made to myself. I continue feeding this cycle of unhealthy behaviors and somehow think "tomorrow will be different" without any real action on my part.

This isn't just about my health, this applies to my career, finances, relationships--you name it. One day, I was reading over my blog and realized, I hadn't grown as a person at all. I hadn't learned from my mistakes and I hadn't taken any real steps to change my situation. I was still coasting through life, and all I had to show for it was nearly 2,000 blog posts of First World Whining. So I quit. And now I'm sitting here wondering why I ever started back again--just to remind myself how dumb I am?

I mean, I could sit here and explain how the heat is sparse in my apartment and that makes me not want to do anything, but the not doing anything is why I'm still stuck in this drafty apartment 11 years later. But that's just another excuse. I did attempt to make better choices: I made oatmeal for breakfast on Saturday, and at the movies on Sunday (we saw HIDDEN FIGURES and it was wonderful). I didn't have my usual popcorn and slushie. However, that's only because we went to Bareburger first and made pigs of ourselves.

Saturday Breakfast | Sunday Lunch

Then there was a whole spaghetti and rice and garlic bread and ice cream and pound cake situation that I really don't want to get into.

I did go food shopping, though, and I made a beef stew for dinner tonight (which I ate too late but still, it wasn't the pizza and wings I really truly wanted). Slow cookers are a godsend.

This is Day 6.

Breakfast: eight ounces of lobster butternut squash bisque from The Soup Bowl in Park Slope. I really wanted a bacon, egg, and cheese on a roll, but I opted for soup. I don't know which one was worse for me.
Snack: one of those Plantar's salted peanuts packets from the snack drawer.
Lunch: beef and broccoli + seltzer water
Victories: I didn't get that bacon, egg, and cheese on a roll, NOR did I get the pizza and wings I craved for dinner.
WOMP Moments: didn't go to the gym; didn't get enough sleep; didn't drink enough water; ate TWO bags of chips from the snack drawer at work. And I'm about to have some ice cream. I WON'T BE STOPPED.

Right now, besides the ice cream, I'm going to take my vitamins/supplements. Then I'm going to pack my lunch for tomorrow, right after I make an "egg pie" for tomorrow's breakfast. Then I'm going to shower, then I'm going to read, while the cast of MOANA accompanies me. Good night.

Journey To Di Road: Day 3 | McDonald's...

Yesterday did not go as planned, again.

At the movies (PS- MOANA is freakin' awesome and if you haven't seen it, whether or not you have a lil one, please get your life!), I told myself "order the ginger ale; it's gotta be better than the slushie." But then I promptly reminded myself to shut the fuck up because blue raspberry slushies were sent from the gods for us to enjoy here on earth. This was my actual thought process. I'm trying to help y'all understand how I ended up 55lbs overweight.

So I got the slushie. Plus a popcorn (to share!) and, well, a hot dog. As I was buying it, I told myself that this was my dinner. It was a crappy one, but I wasn't going to go home and cook so late at night and then eat and then go to sleep with that full belly, no way. Might as well just eat a crappy frank and call it a night.

But after the movie, and after traipsing through the Disney Store buying some MOANA merch, N and I made a fatal decision: we hopped on the D train instead of waiting for the F. Why is this important? Because the walk home from the D puts us in the line of fire of the Golden Arches. And we SURE DID GO IN THERE AND ORDER FOOD. She, a Big Mac meal; me, three-piece chicken strips and a medium fry (no drink, like it mattered at that point, but I just wasn't in the mood for a soda, and I can drink water at home for free).

And after I got home and shoved my face with all that salty goodness (LISTEN. McDonald's fries will NOT be defeated!), I half-heartedly worked on my monthly newsletter (due out this morning; Spoiler Alert: it was late!), then proceeded to play Panda Pop on my phone until I passed out from a sodium-induced coma. I'm failing at life so desperately, it's not even funny.

This is Day 3.

Breakfast: some trash-ass oatmeal from the cafe at work in an attempt to be healthy; I didn't even finish it
Snack: nothing today; I ate breakfast rather late
Lunch: something called a "Wild Chicken Bowl" from one of those fancy-schmancy health food/juice bars near work (of which I only managed to eat half because I swear they put a whole forest of kale in the bowl); it had CASHEW NUT CHEESE, which I consider my punishment for last night's debacle

The Wild Chichen Salad from Fuel Juice Bar, BK

Victories: took my supplements/vitamins; did not have candy from the work snack drawer; actually wrote this blog
WOMP Moments: didn't go to the gym; didn't get enough sleep; didn't drink enough water; don't have solid plans for dinner.

Are you seeing the pattern? Yeah, me, too, also, as well.

Tonight I will likely hang out with a friend, but it's the kind of friend that, if I say DO NOT LET ME EAT THAT SHIT, they, you know, won't let me eat that shit. I have high hopes. I might also get some food shopping done. I might also cook. I might also write.

I might also say FUCK IT ALL and lay around watching IT'S ALWAYS SUNNY IN PHILADELPHIA all night. Who. Knows.

But let's all say a collective prayer that I love myself enough to be kind to my body, mind, and soul, instead.

*smooches...with a headache creeping, threatening the night*
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look at that; I'm already thinking up an excuse to be a sloth tonight

Journey To Di Road: Day 2 | Ain't A Damn Thing Changed

I've decided that this week is a wash. I put too much pressure on myself and that led to an anxiety spiral. [This shit is out of control; I need to learn how to chill!].

So if I end up doing anything in the gym tomorrow or over the weekend, I'll consider it a huge deal.

In the meantime...

This is Day 2.

B12, Vitamin D, Biotin, Probiotic.

Breakfast: eggs and queso frito, water to drink
Snack: one of those awful Nature Valley oats & honey bars (that is more crumb than it is bar), and a mint tea (plain)
Lunch: turkey burger (on a regular bun), sweet potato fries, pickles, water
Victories: took my supplements/vitamins; did not have candy from the work snack drawer; actually wrote this blog
WOMP Moments: didn't go to the gym; didn't get enough sleep; didn't drink enough water; don't have solid plans for dinner.

I'm headed to the movies tonight, so listen, I won't even lie: there will be popcorn and quite possibly a slushie in my future. I will try and resist, but... slushie...

However, I do have three things on my agenda for after: wash dishes, cook tomorrow's lunch and dinner, work on my novel. DASSIT. I can't promise anything beyond that, and I truly hope nothing goes down tonight to fuck up these meager plans.

It takes very little for me to give up and log on to Netflix.

*smooches...off to a ROCKY start*
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a ROCKY start, get it? ROCKY? Because my name is ROCKY? Eh? Eh?

Journey To Di Road: Day 1 | A Healthy Jaded Series

My fellow blog-ericans...it's been a minute. With apps like Instagram and Snapchat, I just felt this communication platform outliving its usefulness. Until now.

But first, we dance.



So remember a couple years back how excited I was to play mas on the parkway, only to have my dreams snatched by the Sesame Flyers Mas Camp who never made my costume, even though I paid in full with 650 American dollars? No? Well, that was a thing. And it broke my heart. I worked out. I ate as well as I could. I was beyond excited at the thought of being IN a parade. And when it didn't happen, I cried bitter tears in my room before just going to the beach and trying to put it out of my mind. I haven't been to a socacize class since then, partly because my spirits were dampened and partly because I needed distance from that whole world.

This year, the West Indian Day Parade is turning 50. It's a huge thing. With two years separating me from my major humiliation, which I shall call COSTUME-GATE, I'm ready to try again (with a different camp, of course. Sesame Flyers is DEAD TO ME FOR LIFE, YO!). But one thing stands between me and the skimpiest of bedazzled, be-feathered bikinis: I currently weigh in at a whopping 225lbs.

Not even I'm ready for this jelly...

Yes, my dears, your girl has given in to anxiety and eaten herself unhealthy. A flight of stairs finds me desperately out of breath. Any attempt at previous levels of cardio exertion causes weird irregular heartbeats. Bending over to tie my shoes is incredibly difficult and painful. Even yoga has become a chore for me, as any flexibility and strength I ever had has disappeared under 55lbs of fat. FIFTY-FIVE-MOTHER-FUCKING-POUNDS. I should be taken out back and horsewhipped.

Because I know this is not me, this is not my comfortable, happy size, I've decided to use the Labor Day festivities as a catalyst to get me back in the gym and back under a better eating plan. I have to keep my focus on NOT becoming a diabetic and NOT having a weight-induced heart attack and NOT developing high blood pressure, all things prevalent in my family. I don't want my last days to be peppered with doctor appointments and a trough of medications. And if vanity is the way to get me motivated, then dammit, let's do this!

SO THIS IS DAY ONE.

• Breakfast: mangu, salami, queso frito, scrambled eggs
• Lunch: 2 tacos (one fish, one grilled chicken), chips, guac, seltzer
• Victories: took my supplements/vitamins; did not have candy from the work snack drawer (had an apple instead); actually wrote this blog
• WOMP Moments: didn't go to the gym; drank coffee to wake up; didn't drink enough water; don't have solid plans for dinner.

My meals have been...not the best and I didn't go to the gym this morning after a low-grade anxiety attack prevented me from leaving the house. My plans for after-work gym time is not looking likely, either, because I can feel that anxiety attack creeping up on me as I type this; I've opted, instead, to walk home, briskly, as my physical activity for the day. I will meal prep tonight for tomorrow. I will get to bed- not my sofa, but my actual bed- by midnight. That's all I can muster right now.

But check back daily as I document this experience, YET AGAIN, through September.

Also, welcome back.




*smooches...to old friends and new*
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Did you miss me? Don't answer that because comments are closed lol

Lyrics To Love: I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues

Don't wish it away
Don't look at it like it's forever
Between you and me I could honestly say
That things can only get better

And while I'm away
Dust out the demons inside
And it won't be long before you and me run
To the place in our hearts where we hide

And I guess that's why they call it the blues
Time on my hands could be time spent with you
Laughing like children, living like lovers
Rolling like thunder under the covers
And I guess that's why they call it the blues

Just stare into space
Picture my face in your hands
Live for each second without hesitation
And never forget I'm your man

Wait on me girl
Cry in the night if it helps
But more than ever I simply love you
More than I love life itself



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I remember listening to this song on Lite FM in the late night, letting it put me to sleep, tears streaming down my face for whatever teen-angst I was feeling that day. Elton will never know how much he helped me stay on this side of sanity.


*smooches...just for Elton and our bluesy-blues*
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I'd totally ROCK that song at karaoke, and I loathe karaoke!

Love Is So Short, Forgetting Is So Long

Papi is dying.

And that is perhaps the hardest sentence I've ever had to write. But my Papi is dying and I'm here, again, in this place where nothing seems right and everything is unfair.

I have not become anything yet. He is leaving me before I can show him what I can become. He is leaving me before I can pay him back for giving me life. Before I can learn to be brave. Before I can learn responsibility. Before I can make it up to him and to Grandma, and I can't stop it. I have no power here.

I am still selfish. I want him here. I do not want to let him go. After him, there will be no other man that truly loves me, unconditionally. I am not ready to live in a world without him. Who am I, without him?

What happens to me on the day there is no one to respond to my pleas for bendiciones with, "Dios te bendiga, mi reina"? Do my blessings end?

I don't want him to hurt, to suffer, but I want him here. With me. So I can say, "I am here. I am yours. Don't leave me. Don't leave me."

Papi is dying and nothing seems right and everything is unfair.

I wish I'd known the last time was going to be the last time. I would have never let go.

...I would have never let go.

The Heartbreak Of A World Series Loss

Still devoted after
all these years & losses

Every year you tell yourself, "If they suck after July 25 then hang it up for the year and wait until April," but then July 25 comes and they're still kicking ass and taking names.

So you get a little hopeful. Then they clinch a spot after sweeping a hated rival and you think, WHOA, are we... will we...? Then you face and defeat a traitorous West Coast team (DEM BUMS!) and think, HOLY SHIT WE WON and it feels great.

And it keeps going on an amazing high you can't even believe exists. You haven't felt this in 15 goddamn years. It's going to be the most amazing climax of your life, you just know it. Your team sweeps the next opponent and you lose your shit. YOU'RE GOING TO THE BIG SHOW! THE TIDE IS TURNING!

You think, we must have gotten here, to this point, for a reason. WE'RE GONNA WIN! And then game after game, it all comes tumbling down when you realize the reason you made it was just so that the other team could win, and it hurts.

The hope, the devotion; you bleed blue and orange your entire life and to see it roll by Murphy's glove, soar over Familia head, slip away from Wright, it hurts. It's a physical pain that settles into the pit of your stomach. You know how hard it was to get here, how long it took to get here, and to leave without that trophy physically hurts. There's nothing left to do but accept defeat and let the tears come.

I wanted this for our Captain. I wanted to rub it in the faces of those who abandoned us (JOSE REYES). I wanted our rookies to have an Amazin' first year. I wanted to quit being the butt of NY Sports jokes. I wanted to wear my jersey to the parade. It was so close I could taste it. I saved a vacation day for it. And then... and then...

How to heal? I wish I knew. Up until the World Series, the Mets played really well. Our pitchers had killer arms and our outfielders kept going the extra (vertical) mile to block scores. Our bats could have done a better job, it's something to work on, but it was decent. So I can take some solace in the talent that exists and the power that can be developed (Conforto can be great if nurtured).

In the meantime, my jersey is in the laundry. I'll wash it and store it away with my out-of-season gear. I'll tuck my team drinking tumblers in the back of the cabinet. My cap will go back to being a decorative fixture on my bookshelf.

And then come April I'll dust it all off and get back on this ride and see where it takes me. Next week, when my tears have dried, I'll purchase my opening day tickets.

LET'S GO METS.

*smooches...trying hard not to break down at work*
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this seriously feels like a death in the family

What Else Is There To Say?

I'm sure you're just as inundated with news items coming out of Missouri as I am. Therefore I won't reiterate it here. All this news coverage and updates on social media is making me physically ill. It's 9-11 all over again, and that familiar knot has landed on my chest and won't leave. I suppose the fact that I've decided to stay and fight the good fight, in whatever form that means for me here in Brooklyn, will ease me a bit. Only time will tell. I dropped the ball after that asshole Zimmerman was set free. I won't ever forgive myself if I do it again.

In the meantime, if you, too, are looking for ways to do something- donate to those at ground zero in Ferguson, join local groups to enact change in the laws or in how police are allowed to treat citizens- let me know either in the comments or via email.

(Just a bit of comic relief because LORD KNOWS we need it!)


This isn't a Black thing, it's a human thing, and I'm not going to tell you what to do, but don't wait until the "police" bang down your door and harm your loved ones unjustly before you decide to do something. This affects all of us.

*smooches...trying to find peace*
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...first in my heart, then in the world, I guess.

"Why It Happen?"

Mari pointed out that I, yet again, have let this blog fall to the wayside. But first...ratchetness...


(Did you ever think you'd live to see the day when a song about oral sex would be allowed in your life?)

Anywhores...

I don't keep a regular blogging schedule anymore. I know. I'm sorry if you were still looking forward to reading this on a regular basis, but, well, life got in the way.

First- there are family things I'm dealing with that are weighing on me, but I was asked not to share one of them publicly, and the other is a rather sensitive topic, so there go those blog posts. Look at me being all appropriate n shit!

I'm also dealing with yet ANOTHER huge financial burden and struggle, but listen--y'all are tired of hearing me complain about my lack of funds, so I won't bore you with it. It's boring. I'M bored with it. Let's move on.

Finally, my weight & health continue to be a huge struggle for me, and that's another topic I'm sure y'all are tired of reading about. I understand now how someone can't quit drinking or shooting up: food is a helluva drug, and I've not found a good enough treatment for my addiction.

So please excuse me if my fat ass chooses to steer clear of your inbox on the regular. I'm not especially proud of my personal life right now.

Professionally, though? I was just published again, so, you know, #WINNING.

*smooches...with a few things to say for now*
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will I make it to the end of summer, posting regularly? keep checking to find out :)