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

Exit Where?

I'm on a reading kick, or maybe it's a frenzy, now that I've found I can tolerate audiobooks. Mostly I devour a thriller or crime because it feels like I'm listening to a podcast, or a fun romance because even this Jaded NYer needs a palate cleanser from all that murder, you know?

But recently I tried a quickie, a piece of literary fiction, to see if I can branch out and up my book count (why are there so many books to read but only this one life with this one brain and this one set of eyeballs?). I chose Exit West by Mohsin Hamid and let me tell you why this book fucked me up.

We are currently living in the middle of the fall of 'democracy' in these so-called United States. When the history books refer to this period, IF we have history books in the future, they'll point out all the obvious shit a lot of voters chose to ignore or overlook in order to keep being the oppressor and not allowing the oppressed to what all are supposedly entitled to according to the Declaration of Independence: Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. 

Side Note: If I were you I'd purchase printed copies of the Declaration and the Constitution while they're still intact, if for no other reason than to remember them fondly.

We can all sit here and think, "No, someone will stop it, this won't be Nazi Germany, we'll all be fine," but every day it gets harder and harder to believe that. So instead, my mind goes to, "where can I go to escape it, and how do I get there?" Which is so unbelievably depressing I can barely sleep. Y'all know I've never wanted to live anywhere, really, other than my hometown of Brooklyn, NY, and the thought of not only leaving BK, but the U.S. altogether, and be a refugee in a new place that might treat me like our government treated them? I want to throw up right now after having typed that. Like, will I be somewhere in Greece, on my deathbed, trying to remember what it felt like to stroll through Prospect Park after work? Or what a real bagel tastes like? Or the thrill of the start of the summer season of the American Ballet Theatre?

This is what ran through my head during and long after the five hours of Exit West played in my ears. It's about a couple who escape their country during a military occupation, and what they had to endure in all of the new places they had to squat in because they could not go back home. It was awful. The fear, the violence, sleeping outside, not having food, not being able to cleanse yourself, having to depend on the kindness of others in a world that's not very kind to brown people at all.

Like, can I honestly hoof it to Canada, when Toronto, as I understand it, is already pretty full? Should I chance it in Mexico? Peru? Antigua? Should I hope for a soft place to land with my family in the Dominican Republic? Maybe take a chance in an African country and leave the West altogether? Where could I go, with my whole family, and be a safe distance from the demise of this world that I know? And when I get there, will I be able to land on my feet, or will I have to pitch a tent in a shanty and pray an angry mob of nationalists don't set us on fire?

And sure, there are more serious things to worry about under the second go-round of this bullshit administration, but what is prevelant in my head is where am I supposed to go? They clearly don't want us here, so where do we go if THIS IS OUR HOME? I mean, I'm watching all this shit go down in Gaza, with the Israeli army bullying their way through Palestinian land, the destruction of life, property, standards of living, BASIC. FUCKING. HUMAN. NECESSITIES. Am I built for all that?

I don't know... where y'all going? Got room for about 15 more?

Love & Balls,
Jaded
----- 
father, father
we don't need to escalate
you see, war is not the answer
only love can conquer hate

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

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

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

Me + Idris + The PA I Almost Had To Kill: A Jaded Dream Post

It's been a long time since I've posted a dream for analyzing, but honestly my vivid dreams have been few and far between. But here's one from this past weekend that should prove quite entertaining. Ready? Ready!

So I'm dating Idris Elba (stop laughing) and he stays over my place one night. In the morning he has to get to work on a set near my apartment, and goes to use the restroom but I'm like "Noooo N's home and I don't want her to know you were here."

But he's all, "I have to meet her eventually."

So fine. They meet and it's awkward as hell. Right then some strangers try cutting through my room to leave this restaurant that is now behind my apartment attached to the buildings and I tell them "no, you gotta go around." I lock the door and Idris leaves.

Ffwd to that night, I see my door is open because people ignored me and have been cutting through my apartment all day. I go out there to talk to them and see everyone dressed in 1970s exploitation film attire and looking high as fuck. They're filming a goddamn movie at the restaurant. I tell one of the production ladies she can't go through my place but she's like, "yeah, we can and we will."

I go OFF. I say "no, you paid for use of the restaurant and alley, not my apartment."

So we argue and this production lady has a whole production team with her but I stand my ground: they CANNOT cut through my apartment to come and go. She says they spoke with my landlord and he gave permission. I say, "I doubt it" and slam the door in her face and lock it. The door has this big window in it, and don't you know this bitch threw a chair through that window? So now it's on. I reach through and slap her in the face through the broken window and when she tries to reach in and hit me I move her arm so a shard of glass slices her. It's a whole ruckus.

They walk away but I know something is up so I scoop up Naomi and leave the apartment, but before I do I see Idris left his shoes in my place, and I'm low key pissed. Who does that? This ain't your house, Idris! But I digress.

Outside, one of the actors on set is wildin' out and a PA has to tell him to chill, so I realize I'm dealing with an amped up cast and crew--what the hell kinda film is this? I'm already nervous because folks have been in my apartment and now the glass is broken so they can get in again, and now I see these ain't normal sober people. So I'm fitna call the cops and shut down production.

But guess what?

It's the movie Idris is working on!

So now I have to choose between being with Idris-fucking-Elba, or standing my ground against this feral cast and crew. I was so troubled by this that I woke up!

Kelly! I know you're reading this; tell me what it all means!

*smooches...vowing to lay off the late-night snacks*
--------------
clearly that was a buffalo wing-induced nightmare!

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



------------
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*
----------
I'd totally ROCK that song at karaoke, and I loathe karaoke!

I Guess That Makes Me Michael Bivins.

Two posts in one week? Shocking! Someone call the tabloids!

But I have something that needed to be written out, because y'all know that's how I solve things best, and I'm trying to depend less on The Facebook (even though engagement is BETTER there than here).

So I've been in a writing group since about October, and there were five of us. For the past few months we've taken turns submitting stories for feedback and giving feedback on others' work, combined with weekly meetings to discuss said feedback. Easy-peasy.

Well last night, sort of out of nowhere (and I'll explain the sort of later), the guy who organized the group, let's call him Ralph (Tresvant), told one of the other members, we'll call him Bobby (Brown), that he had to go. The actual equivalent of "You can't sit with us!" except among a bunch of nerdy, writing grown-ups. Before he handed down his edict, Ralph had started building his case against Bobby, asking him accusatory questions about the revision he had submitted, questioning his commitment and seriousness and work ethic. From what I gathered, Ralph implied that Bobby wasn't pulling his weight, and was mostly half-assing his writing and editing efforts, and Ralph feels it's a waste of the group's time.

You could have cut the tension with a knife last night.

And listen, those are legitimate concerns to have whenever you're in a group like this. If you feel one member is a weak link, address it before the whole group suffers. I get that. Where this went left is that, right before my eyes, Ralph channeled Rafael Leónidas Trujillo Molina, made an executive decision, and told Bobby to step. Another member, we'll call him Ricky (Bell), tried to intercept and asked Ralph, "Are we going to discuss this?" but Ralph was all "Nah. Bobby gotta go. And y'all can stay or go, but Bobby GOT TO GO." And I'm sitting there, locking eyes with the other member, Ronnie (DeVoe), who happens to be Ralph's partner, wondering if suddenly I had to prove I could properly pronounce perejil or risk getting chucked into Massacre River.

Y'all. I don't need this stress. I just want a safe space to share my work and get honest feedback so that I can get my work published. DASSIT. How did my life become fodder for a "Behind the Music Writing" episode?

And regarding the sort of, Ralph and Bobby have been clashing since Day 1, and I could see that their personalities didn't match up. And frankly, a lot of times Bobby needs to be wrangled and reigned in, and yes, if the personalities don't mesh in a group then YES, changes need to be made.

However, the way Ralph pulled rank and refused to discuss his decision, and basically implied that Ricky and I don't have a say--the equivalent of "If you don't like it, you can leave, too!"--did not, DOES NOT, sit well with me. Yes, he organized the group, but we're a group. Why can't we discuss this? Why can't you approach Bobby on your own with your concerns? Why the blow up at the table in front of god and everyone at the coffee shop? Child. I mean, is it me, or does that speak to an issue with Ralph's personality, as well as coping and leadership skills?

I've already discussed this with 2/3 of the Jaded Advisory Board, so now I guess I'll see what y'all think; I'm about 82.7% sure of my next move, which starts with contacting both Ralph and Bobby, and letting them know I won't be participating in a tug-o-war. Le sigh.

And quietly, I'm starting to feel more like Tamar Braxton, in that scene of "Braxton Family Values" when her sister Towanda yelled, "Every group you've ever been in has failed!" Every writing group I've been in fizzled. Is it me? IS IT ME?

What say you, lovelies?

*smooches...wondering if I should just create in a bubble*
----------
I like collaborating, but these hos ain't loyal... and sorry about the mixed analogies, by the way

It's A Choice, Apparently.

If only it were this easy. Don't you hate when self-help wannabes tell you this shit? SMH

*smooches...trying to choose happiness*
----------
misery calls me, though. it's my drug!

Waiting To Excavate: A One-Scene Play

Friend: Do they make meds for "Shiftless Negro Syndrome?"
Me: No. Scientists are too busy trying to control our wombs to worry about that.
Friend: I need them up out my uterus. They can work on that.
Me: All the way out.

Me: *walks into uterus, sees a bunch of scientists, clergy, and politicians* "Umm, hello? Do I know you? How'd you get in here?"
Them: "The door was open..."
Me: BULL. SHIT.
Them: "It's for your own good"

Friend: *smh*

Me: (as Bernadine) "GET YO SHIT... GET YO SHIT, AND GET THE FUCK OUT!"

Friend: O_O!!! You know she set shit on fire after that.
Me: Mhmm. I'm OK with that. I already had babies.

*smooches...ready to bring this show to Congress*
----------
they'll give me the floor, right?

Where My Tuition Payments Went

ME: someone is trying to get me to watch "Fargo" on TV.

K: Isn't that about wolves? And the wilderness?

ME: No... there's a movie called Fargo with Steve Buscemi but it's not about wolves.

K: Yes! That book, it's a classic, about wolves!

ME (thinking really hard): You mean Call of the Wild?

K: YES! Is it written by someone named Fargo?

ME (googles): NO. It's by Jack London.

K: There's something with an "F" about wolves and the wilderness...

ME: You mean White Fang?

K: Possibly.

ME: How is that anywhere close to "Fargo"?

K: There's a book about wolves! I'm going to find it!

Lord Jesus, help this child of mine. Freshman year has clearly stolen her brain.

*smooches...realizing my kids are me all over again*
----------
can you think of anything scarier??

What I Found In My Purse, Pt. 1

Lubricant.

Let me explain.

After my fabulous reading at Pacific Standard on the 17th, I stuck around with some folks and maybe, allegedly had one too many drinks. When it was clear we'd need food to sustain this level of drinking, we decided to leave the bar. And guess what was near the door? A bowl full of condoms and lube. FOR FREE.

So drunk Raquel decided these were MUST-HAVE items, despite the fact that 1) she's not having sex with anyone and B) she already has about 100 condoms at home (a gift from a cousin; a story for another day).

A week ago or so I had a foggy memory about trying to hand out these condoms and lube to some homeless people on the street, only to have my drinking buddies snatch me up and throw me in a cab with a NO MAS, GO HOME. #Rude.

And now fast forward to last night, I'm cleaning out my tote because it weighs about 15lbs and my back can't take it. What do I find at the bottom? Two condoms and two packets of lubricant. It took me a minute to remember how these got in my bag, but there it is. The story of how I found lube in my purse.

Also? JUST SAY NO.

*smooches...remembering why I stopped boozing*
----------
although the stories are pretty blog-worthy...

I Prefer A Far-Away Crush

That unattainable man in a picture somewhere that I don't know and will never meet? The one with the messy beard and long dreads? With the washboard abs and chiseled everything else? The one who loves to paint and dance and cook and travel the world? Who loves sports and the arts equally? Who cares about me and my work and my family?
 

SOURCE: beardedandblack

 We're perfect for each other in my head.

All others need not apply.

*smooches...indulging in some internet eye candy*
----------
and don't even bother telling me if you know this guy. It ruins the fantasy if I actually have access to him!

Food Is My Drug: A Healthy Jaded Update

It's only a matter of time before I overdose. And by overdose I mean get diagnosed with something like diabetes or high blood pressure or death. Then I'll really have something to be all upset and mopey about.

Last time I got on a scale, maybe a month ago, I was 200lbs. TWO HUNDRED. Folks, this is not a drill. This is not a joke. Jaded is 200lbs of jiggly fat. And it's all settled in her stomach (boooo!) and tits (oh for fuck's sake!) and ass (finally!).

Booty-licious BUT that stomach, tho!

I cannot stop eating. It's like a vicious cycle: I eat these bad foods with additives that make me crave more bad foods with more additives and when I stop all I can think of is I NEED MORE BAD FOODS WITH ADDITIVES. I'm thinking about it right now. Right now. I'm imagining crispy fried chicken. Or homemade tortilla chips and guac. A trough of guac. And fries. I want all of it. I NEED all of it.

"When's the baby due, Raquel?"

And I know it's the food that has me too sluggish to go work out, keeping me from focusing on my work, writing or relationships. My finances are struggling. I'm finding it hard to "give a fuck." That's what additives do. They're the drug that makes you not care about anything. And I want to care because look at me. LOOK AT ME! I'M HIDEOUS!! I'M A FUCKING WHALE!!!

I look like a block of cheese. Gov't cheese.

I have a plan in place. In my head. Someone come over here and drag me to the gym to execute it, and while you're add it, delete my Seamless account?

This is an official cry for help. Thanks!

*smooches...wondering how long before heart attack*
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it runs in my family. I swore I wouldn't be next. but now, who knows?

Somehow We Got This Bad Rep...

ME: But now I also have to get cute for your wedding O_o

FRIEND: Lol it might be in DR. Can we stay at your family's house?

ME: What the...? Is she Dominican?

FRIEND: No. Destination wedding! After knowing you I can't date Dominican women.

ME: LOL wait, what?? What did I do?

FRIEND: You're a special kind of crazy.

I'm not sure if I should be insulted, or proud.

*smooches...with plans to crash the wedding anyway*
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who gon' check me? if they try to stop me, I'll have my uncles shut that whole shit DOWN! lol

Alien Abductions Are Real

WHO BELONGS TO THESE SHOES? 

WHERE DID THEY TAKE HIM???

The Lonely Shoes (c) 2014 The Jaded NYer

*smooches...getting my aluminum foil hat ready*
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this is not a drill, ladies and gentlemen!

Who Gives A F*ck?

YO! Why did my coworker introduce me to this song? It's a wrap, now, dawg. Come at me with any mamsy-pamsy problem, and I will start singing this in yo' face!



"I don't use the car anymore so I have to use public trans to take N around all weekend..." ::points to video::

"We're out of snack foods." ::points to video::

"I never get to see you anymore." ::points to video::

"Can we send this email out today?" ::points to video::

"Is it too late to sign up for the reading you're hosting tomorrow?" ::points to video::

You get the picture. MAN OH MAN it's gonna be a great spring at Casa Penzo...

*smooches...with no f*cks left to give*
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I feel so ALIVE, y'all!

I Saw My Ex's Wedding Video On YouTube

No, not my ex-husband--don't nobody give a rat's ass about that marriage (which, by the way, is already over!). But rather the ex that launched me into the blogosphere in the first place. The one I dated the minute after I ended my marriage. The one responsible for The Breakup Heard Around the World.

I won't sit here and lie and say I was devastated or anything, but there was a sense of melancholy. I wasn't sure why at first. As I watched it I smiled and laughed and was genuinely moved by the video, but then I got in my feelings.

I don't miss him. I don't want him. And when he contacted me a couple of years ago to "get coffee" I gave my phone a side-eye and brushed him off. I made a conscious choice not to engage in whatever that cup of coffee was going to entail. Not because I was still mad or bitter but because what would have been the point? We weren't great friends or anything. Nothing was lost after we split.

Now, I will always remember that he was the best lay EVER. As in EVER. As in NO ONE I've slept with before or since him has measured up. He has the game on lock. The rest of y'all should take lessons from him. Seriously. But that wasn't enough then and now, when I really couldn't care less about carnal activities, it's definitely not enough. So it's not about him. I wish him well and hope he'll be happy with his wife (and new baby boy...yes, my stalker skills are top level).

It's more about me being in the same place where he left me--literally. Same apartment. Same financial status. Same health issues and fatness. Same attitude problems and same issues with men and sex. Watching his wedding video and knowing who he was and how much he's (seemingly) grown makes me feel stunted and unaccomplished. Like I didn't deserve the pedestal he had initially put me on. Like I don't deserve the praise and accolades a lot of you bestow upon me today. I HAVEN'T REALLY DONE ANYTHING BUT SURVIVED. And maybe that's enough for some, but it makes me feel like a failure at life.

Everything around me changes and me? I'm still here, googling shit I know I shouldn't be googling, and then getting in my feelings when I find it.

*smooches...deciding not to look up any more exes*
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child if I find out that Mr. Baseball has a wife and baby you may have to come over and sedate me...