I feel soooo old.
These days, if I am not tucked into my bed by 10p.m., the following day is going to be a seemingly endless series of naps and irritated bickering. It's funny. My sophomore year of college my buds Rae and Aften decided to stay on Bourbon Street from p.m. to a.m. There, the clubs stay open until people stop buying drinks. By 7 a.m., I was actually falling asleep on the dance stage. If my memory serves me right, by the time we left, the buses had stopped and started running again. Today, when I go out with my girls, I am ready to leave by midnight.
This year, I turn 25, and I fear that my best years are over kiddies. These first 25 passed with the speed of light. If the next are going to go by even half as fast, hot flashes are around the corner. I have friends that have done semesters in Africa and taken impromptu trips to France. I just feel like I have not lived. These days, I spend so much time brushing up on Swine Flu facts and living in fear of catching STDs from toilet seats that I have not been getting out and living life as I should.
Perhaps that will be my New Year's resolution: to live in search of more excitement. Until then, I think I will take a nap.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Trans-Fatuation
Recently, a girlfriend of mine informed me that she is currently dating a tranny.
If you are in anyway as out of the loop as I am, you need a definition. In this case, she is dating a girl who is taking steps to become a man. She goes by He, and He has changed his name and may or may not where a "piece." And whatever your mind told you a "piece" is, you are probably right.
When my friend told me this, I was not surprised. She is this adorable, fun-loving bisexual that just goes where the wind blows. However, her new beau got me to thinking about whether or not I am limiting myself when it comes to finding love.
The other night I called my friendn Sydney and just asked her randomly if she would date someone Transgender or Transsexual. You know, just for the sake of convo, and she said that it depended on the regulars. Is the person nice? Honest? Funny with a good credit score? You know, the essentials.
I have to say that I was surprised. Not that Sydney is not open-minded, but I consider her to be much like myself, and I don't think I would. But in the end, I think it all boils down to hang-ups, of which I am the queen. My dream guy has to be tall and nerdy and dark and slim and witty. Perhaps being a slave to these characteristics is why I am currently single. Maybe if I stepped outside of my box and date a short guy or a White guy, I would be comfy in love right now.
My friend is dating a tranny and she is happy. I am waiting on Mr. TallDarkAndHandsome and I am single. I don't have any intention of dating a girl, or a boy who was once one, but I think that this little tid bit of info about my pal's new beau has got me reflecting on being realistic and receptive. Love does not always come wrapped in red ribbons and in this case, may not even come with its original "piece."
If you are in anyway as out of the loop as I am, you need a definition. In this case, she is dating a girl who is taking steps to become a man. She goes by He, and He has changed his name and may or may not where a "piece." And whatever your mind told you a "piece" is, you are probably right.
When my friend told me this, I was not surprised. She is this adorable, fun-loving bisexual that just goes where the wind blows. However, her new beau got me to thinking about whether or not I am limiting myself when it comes to finding love.
The other night I called my friendn Sydney and just asked her randomly if she would date someone Transgender or Transsexual. You know, just for the sake of convo, and she said that it depended on the regulars. Is the person nice? Honest? Funny with a good credit score? You know, the essentials.
I have to say that I was surprised. Not that Sydney is not open-minded, but I consider her to be much like myself, and I don't think I would. But in the end, I think it all boils down to hang-ups, of which I am the queen. My dream guy has to be tall and nerdy and dark and slim and witty. Perhaps being a slave to these characteristics is why I am currently single. Maybe if I stepped outside of my box and date a short guy or a White guy, I would be comfy in love right now.
My friend is dating a tranny and she is happy. I am waiting on Mr. TallDarkAndHandsome and I am single. I don't have any intention of dating a girl, or a boy who was once one, but I think that this little tid bit of info about my pal's new beau has got me reflecting on being realistic and receptive. Love does not always come wrapped in red ribbons and in this case, may not even come with its original "piece."
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Falling Off the Wagon
I am embarrassed to say this, but again I have strayed off my exercise regimen.
If I hated going to the gym before, I really hate it now. I go to the gym and every person who started off when I did is now ready for their after picture I suck on hot wing bones in the locker room stall.
Man, I am so disappointed in myself. I was so excited when I first started out, you know? Going everyday and cutting back on my snacks. Now I am lucky to go twice a week, and the other day I every so fatty like went through two containers of Keeblers like water. Ug, I was so disgusted in myself. I know that I have gained. I am not sure, because I do not weigh myself, but last year, at the BET Awards, the seats were just a bit uncomfortable. This year, the arm rests were eating at my sides so bad that I was almost in tears by the second performance!
This asshole I went to middle school with, Jamal Harris, he said during summer school one year, "It's not hard to loose weight. Just stop eating." What a prick! If it was only that easy. Sadly, I had guessed it was that easy myself.
Starting out, I thought I was different than the other large people working out around me. I figured it was all mental and I could kick the fat like a bad cold. Please. I have no self control! I give into all my cravings. I want to eat all the time, even when I am not hungry. This whole weight loss journey is starting to look hopeless. Man, this is depressing. I wish I had some ice cream.
If I hated going to the gym before, I really hate it now. I go to the gym and every person who started off when I did is now ready for their after picture I suck on hot wing bones in the locker room stall.
Man, I am so disappointed in myself. I was so excited when I first started out, you know? Going everyday and cutting back on my snacks. Now I am lucky to go twice a week, and the other day I every so fatty like went through two containers of Keeblers like water. Ug, I was so disgusted in myself. I know that I have gained. I am not sure, because I do not weigh myself, but last year, at the BET Awards, the seats were just a bit uncomfortable. This year, the arm rests were eating at my sides so bad that I was almost in tears by the second performance!
This asshole I went to middle school with, Jamal Harris, he said during summer school one year, "It's not hard to loose weight. Just stop eating." What a prick! If it was only that easy. Sadly, I had guessed it was that easy myself.
Starting out, I thought I was different than the other large people working out around me. I figured it was all mental and I could kick the fat like a bad cold. Please. I have no self control! I give into all my cravings. I want to eat all the time, even when I am not hungry. This whole weight loss journey is starting to look hopeless. Man, this is depressing. I wish I had some ice cream.
The Longest Day Ever
Two weekends ago your favorite BG, me not Monique, made her annual pilgrimage. No, not to Mecca sillies. To the Atlanta Civic Center to cover the BET Hip Hop Awards!
I have gone the past two years. The show is always cool, but it's the standing on your feet on the red carpet waiting for the celebs to come whenever the Hell they want to that is killer. Knowing this, I wore flip flops, thinking I was doing myself a favor. However, by the end of the carpet, the sides of my flops had actually become an extension of my foot. My feet were so swollen, I could not even squeeze into these adorable gray suede flats I'd bought just for the show. I know, sadness.
After the show, my boss and I went to Hooters for wings. He was very consumed with the game. Luckily, I had plans for the evening with my girl Tasia and the gang. There was no way I could stay there another minute competing for his attention with the game to have a conversation.
To avoid my feet hurting, I literally walked on my toes to the train station, where I missed my train to meet Tasia. The next one did not come for 20 minutes. You would think that on the weekends they would run more frequently, but no, not in Atlanta.
Tasia was convinced I had died by the time I got to her. There was no reception on my phone in the tunnel, so I could not call her to tell her I was late. We ended up going to a bar to meet up with the gang. Even though we were late, we were the first ones there, and even though it was like midnight, that damn game was still on. By the time we'd had a few drinks, it was someone's bright idea to walk two blocks to another bar. By this point, mind you, my feet were as tight as sausages. The next bar was worth the walk though. It was a Wigga spot; white college kids dancing to heavy-duty Southern rap. I know, funny. I spent my time there talking and sitting, my two fav thing.
So the bar closes, and we are hungry. I am cold, so I suggest the Waffle House for a cup of cocoa. We end up deciding on Gladys Knight's Chicken and Waffles which was full of women still in tight ass tiny dresses from the awards show. Let me just say that the walk from the bar to the car felt like an eternity. Every little rock and pebble I stepped on felt like a knife. The white couples walking past me, seeing me in my skin tight leggings and drink stained cardigan no doubt thought I was a prostitute on her last leg, walking on my toes with my useless flip flops under my arms.
When we finally got our table at Gladys', it was damn near in the kitchen and the seats were stools. I hate stools. Fat people generally do. On top of this, there were only two stalls in the bathroom were occupied! The woman in the handicap stall was taking a shit, and I stood there, peeing on myself a little waiting on her before I settled for the baby stall. My God! The stool was so loose that when I sat down, I damn near flew out of the stall, thus urinating on the floor instead of the toilet. Being a lady, I stuck around to clean up after myself, only to be greeted by a line of pissed off, pee-dancing women in mini stresses and stilettos when I opened the door.
Once I leave the bathroom, I pull the manager to the side, who looks like a discounted Al Sharpten, and tell him that I simply can not do the stools. Seriously, I'm fat and my feet are barkin' here! He tells me, a paying customer, that he can not help me. He can not get me a low chair. I ask him why and he just shruggs. Asshole right? So I complain to the waitress, we take our food to go, and she gives me a complimentary slice of cheesecake for my trouble.
Considering my pediatric condition, there is no way that I can walk to the car. So I sit on the waiting bench next to a very unattractive amazonian couple in my pee leggings and dirty cardigan with my painful flips on, feet on fire, watching Al Sharpten Jr. kick out a patron because she slid her heels off under the table. As I watched her get escorted out of the restaurant by security, I sat back and rolled my eyes. It had been a long annoying day. But somehow, as I limped out to my friend's car, I found myself strangely exhilarated and excited to be young in the big city.
I have gone the past two years. The show is always cool, but it's the standing on your feet on the red carpet waiting for the celebs to come whenever the Hell they want to that is killer. Knowing this, I wore flip flops, thinking I was doing myself a favor. However, by the end of the carpet, the sides of my flops had actually become an extension of my foot. My feet were so swollen, I could not even squeeze into these adorable gray suede flats I'd bought just for the show. I know, sadness.
After the show, my boss and I went to Hooters for wings. He was very consumed with the game. Luckily, I had plans for the evening with my girl Tasia and the gang. There was no way I could stay there another minute competing for his attention with the game to have a conversation.
To avoid my feet hurting, I literally walked on my toes to the train station, where I missed my train to meet Tasia. The next one did not come for 20 minutes. You would think that on the weekends they would run more frequently, but no, not in Atlanta.
Tasia was convinced I had died by the time I got to her. There was no reception on my phone in the tunnel, so I could not call her to tell her I was late. We ended up going to a bar to meet up with the gang. Even though we were late, we were the first ones there, and even though it was like midnight, that damn game was still on. By the time we'd had a few drinks, it was someone's bright idea to walk two blocks to another bar. By this point, mind you, my feet were as tight as sausages. The next bar was worth the walk though. It was a Wigga spot; white college kids dancing to heavy-duty Southern rap. I know, funny. I spent my time there talking and sitting, my two fav thing.
So the bar closes, and we are hungry. I am cold, so I suggest the Waffle House for a cup of cocoa. We end up deciding on Gladys Knight's Chicken and Waffles which was full of women still in tight ass tiny dresses from the awards show. Let me just say that the walk from the bar to the car felt like an eternity. Every little rock and pebble I stepped on felt like a knife. The white couples walking past me, seeing me in my skin tight leggings and drink stained cardigan no doubt thought I was a prostitute on her last leg, walking on my toes with my useless flip flops under my arms.
When we finally got our table at Gladys', it was damn near in the kitchen and the seats were stools. I hate stools. Fat people generally do. On top of this, there were only two stalls in the bathroom were occupied! The woman in the handicap stall was taking a shit, and I stood there, peeing on myself a little waiting on her before I settled for the baby stall. My God! The stool was so loose that when I sat down, I damn near flew out of the stall, thus urinating on the floor instead of the toilet. Being a lady, I stuck around to clean up after myself, only to be greeted by a line of pissed off, pee-dancing women in mini stresses and stilettos when I opened the door.
Once I leave the bathroom, I pull the manager to the side, who looks like a discounted Al Sharpten, and tell him that I simply can not do the stools. Seriously, I'm fat and my feet are barkin' here! He tells me, a paying customer, that he can not help me. He can not get me a low chair. I ask him why and he just shruggs. Asshole right? So I complain to the waitress, we take our food to go, and she gives me a complimentary slice of cheesecake for my trouble.
Considering my pediatric condition, there is no way that I can walk to the car. So I sit on the waiting bench next to a very unattractive amazonian couple in my pee leggings and dirty cardigan with my painful flips on, feet on fire, watching Al Sharpten Jr. kick out a patron because she slid her heels off under the table. As I watched her get escorted out of the restaurant by security, I sat back and rolled my eyes. It had been a long annoying day. But somehow, as I limped out to my friend's car, I found myself strangely exhilarated and excited to be young in the big city.
Holly and the Vag
The other night I was talking to Sorta Beau and yes, he is still in the picture. Please, stop yelling. I'm not even sure how I feel about it. Anywho, he requested that I text him a pic of my vag.
ABSOLUTELY NOT!
I've heard too many bad stories. Girl sends vag pic to boy. Girl and Boy have bad breakup. Girl's vag ends up as a Myspace profile pic or as the joke of an email blast. No thank you. As if I do not have enough that I will have to explain when I get famous.
Sorta's request got me to realizin' that I have not seen my vag, like up close and personal, since I was like eleven. Saw it then, didn't care for it. Seen them in some questionable movies and really didn't care for them. But not seeing her since middle school is unacceptable, so I figured it was past due time to take a peak.
Let me just say that my relationship with my vag is very professional. I have named her Julia, a very old school, 1940s secretarial name. I wash her daily, check and make sure that everything is in order, and keep it moving. I am not one of these new generation girls that have gone vagtastic and takes pics of herself to post online! From what I can tell from my Google research, they all look sad. Then there are those weirdos that pierce their love below which, in my opinion, is about as useful as an ugly girl putting on lip gloss.
So the other night I found myself on a date with my digital camera, taking a few quick pics of Julia and in short, she needs work. She is just...blah. NO ONE will be seeing her if I have anything to do with it. She looked just as...off as the ones in the Google pics. Julia could definitely use a booster. Anyone have any spare lip gloss?
ABSOLUTELY NOT!
I've heard too many bad stories. Girl sends vag pic to boy. Girl and Boy have bad breakup. Girl's vag ends up as a Myspace profile pic or as the joke of an email blast. No thank you. As if I do not have enough that I will have to explain when I get famous.
Sorta's request got me to realizin' that I have not seen my vag, like up close and personal, since I was like eleven. Saw it then, didn't care for it. Seen them in some questionable movies and really didn't care for them. But not seeing her since middle school is unacceptable, so I figured it was past due time to take a peak.
Let me just say that my relationship with my vag is very professional. I have named her Julia, a very old school, 1940s secretarial name. I wash her daily, check and make sure that everything is in order, and keep it moving. I am not one of these new generation girls that have gone vagtastic and takes pics of herself to post online! From what I can tell from my Google research, they all look sad. Then there are those weirdos that pierce their love below which, in my opinion, is about as useful as an ugly girl putting on lip gloss.
So the other night I found myself on a date with my digital camera, taking a few quick pics of Julia and in short, she needs work. She is just...blah. NO ONE will be seeing her if I have anything to do with it. She looked just as...off as the ones in the Google pics. Julia could definitely use a booster. Anyone have any spare lip gloss?
Monday, October 5, 2009
Nuptial Nonscense
I thought I was through with Kim from the Real Housewives of Atlanta, walking around with a wine glass in one hand and a cig in the other, bragging in front of her children about how she is dating a "legally married" man. I have even been beyond through with Lil' Kim, who, 'til this day, walks around talking about how much she was in love with her abuser, the infamous Biggy, and how he was going to commit to her...as if he was not married with children. I don't care if he did only know Faith for a second before he proposed. A ring outweighs a fling.
So being done 2x over, I did not think it was possible to be any...done-r, that is, until I heard about this drama with Alicia Keys, her not-so-divorced beau Swiss Beatz, and his not-so-ex wife Mashonda. Apparently, Keys has been talkin' to Swiss since before the divorce came into play and Mashonda, wanting to save her marriage ( and most likely a couple of Gs) tried to reach out to Keys and nip it in the bud before her marriage completely went south. Keys did not respond, but recently wrote a Tweet about love, which, coincidently, got Mashonda's attention.
According to my fellow bloggers, the Keys Tweet wrote: "Having a heated debate in the studio. [In] love is it better to [go] for the choice that is 'SMART,' or the choice that has 'SPARK?' "
This no doubt got 'Shonda's (I'm sure her close friends called her that in middle school, Shonda) coals 'a burnin'. She decided to respond to Keys in an open letter in which she stated, "My concern with AK is no longer the fact that she assisted in destroying a family but that she has the audacity to make these selfish comments about love and wanting to be with someone, even after knowing their situation. How is this the same Superwoman that I sang out loud with in my truck?"
Of course, Shonda had a lot more to say, but I have to agree with this particular passage. I, as a Keys fan who has no say in her personal affairs, am saddened by all of this. As asked best by Shonda, how is this the same Keys that writes toe-tappers about female empowerment? She is not like the two Kims mentioned earlier. She has class. This is just baffling.
Now I bet some of you all just want to charge this to the love game, but I must plead that you not even try it. I am not from the school of "The heart wants what the heart wants" because, for lack of a better word, it is bullshit. There is a rhyme and a reason and an order to the world, especially when it comes to sensitive topics such as adultery and dating married men. With this in mind, I am more from the school of "What someone will do with you, they will do to you." I am in no way wishing a broken heart on Keys, but I can tell from 'Diary' alone that she is well aware of this.
It is yet to be seen what will happen with Swiss and Keys, or SwissKeys if you will, because no one is talking from their camps. Probably because it is what it looks like, and there is nothing to say. In that case, keep your lips sealed. All I have to say is that I know love and its allure is strong, but building a respectable name and reputation for yourself takes years and can be diminished in a split second. Because of this and my moral beliefs, there is no way I can get caught up in someone else's nuptial nonsense.
So being done 2x over, I did not think it was possible to be any...done-r, that is, until I heard about this drama with Alicia Keys, her not-so-divorced beau Swiss Beatz, and his not-so-ex wife Mashonda. Apparently, Keys has been talkin' to Swiss since before the divorce came into play and Mashonda, wanting to save her marriage ( and most likely a couple of Gs) tried to reach out to Keys and nip it in the bud before her marriage completely went south. Keys did not respond, but recently wrote a Tweet about love, which, coincidently, got Mashonda's attention.
According to my fellow bloggers, the Keys Tweet wrote: "Having a heated debate in the studio. [In] love is it better to [go] for the choice that is 'SMART,' or the choice that has 'SPARK?' "
This no doubt got 'Shonda's (I'm sure her close friends called her that in middle school, Shonda) coals 'a burnin'. She decided to respond to Keys in an open letter in which she stated, "My concern with AK is no longer the fact that she assisted in destroying a family but that she has the audacity to make these selfish comments about love and wanting to be with someone, even after knowing their situation. How is this the same Superwoman that I sang out loud with in my truck?"
Of course, Shonda had a lot more to say, but I have to agree with this particular passage. I, as a Keys fan who has no say in her personal affairs, am saddened by all of this. As asked best by Shonda, how is this the same Keys that writes toe-tappers about female empowerment? She is not like the two Kims mentioned earlier. She has class. This is just baffling.
Now I bet some of you all just want to charge this to the love game, but I must plead that you not even try it. I am not from the school of "The heart wants what the heart wants" because, for lack of a better word, it is bullshit. There is a rhyme and a reason and an order to the world, especially when it comes to sensitive topics such as adultery and dating married men. With this in mind, I am more from the school of "What someone will do with you, they will do to you." I am in no way wishing a broken heart on Keys, but I can tell from 'Diary' alone that she is well aware of this.
It is yet to be seen what will happen with Swiss and Keys, or SwissKeys if you will, because no one is talking from their camps. Probably because it is what it looks like, and there is nothing to say. In that case, keep your lips sealed. All I have to say is that I know love and its allure is strong, but building a respectable name and reputation for yourself takes years and can be diminished in a split second. Because of this and my moral beliefs, there is no way I can get caught up in someone else's nuptial nonsense.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Lost in Atlanta
I just wanted to ask a question: what I am doing with my life?
I wanted to ask you all, because I clearly don't know.
What I do know is that at one point I had goals for myself; strong, serious goals for myself. But these goals were too high. You know, the TV-created, pretty goals that are created in the safety and security of collegiate settings? So once I graduated and my bubble was ever so politely busted, I created more suitable, doable goals that would eventually get me where I want to be, but they have slowly but surely become plaque in my memory banks. The real world has bitch slapped me folks, and left me standing in the middle of downtown in an easy fitting yet stylish ensemble, with my hands in the air!
Blame it on the economy. Blame it on the confidence I have within myself. Hell, you can even blame it on the alcohol. But at three months shy of my 25th birthday, I feel totally and utterly defeated. De-feat-ed!
Man, just writing that took a lot out of me. I'm going to bed.
I wanted to ask you all, because I clearly don't know.
What I do know is that at one point I had goals for myself; strong, serious goals for myself. But these goals were too high. You know, the TV-created, pretty goals that are created in the safety and security of collegiate settings? So once I graduated and my bubble was ever so politely busted, I created more suitable, doable goals that would eventually get me where I want to be, but they have slowly but surely become plaque in my memory banks. The real world has bitch slapped me folks, and left me standing in the middle of downtown in an easy fitting yet stylish ensemble, with my hands in the air!
Blame it on the economy. Blame it on the confidence I have within myself. Hell, you can even blame it on the alcohol. But at three months shy of my 25th birthday, I feel totally and utterly defeated. De-feat-ed!
Man, just writing that took a lot out of me. I'm going to bed.
The High School Rule
Lately, I have been getting a lot of friend requests from people on Facebook who I went to high school with. I almost always accept these requests even though high school is a time that I have tried my hardest to forget. To put it nicely, I was a social recluse with little to no friends that spent her spare time writing and playing the bass in the orchestra.
Yet even though I try to forget this time, I find myself going back there mentally, especially to the bad places, the more successful I get. And I find that those four years have played a bigger part into who I am than I would care to admit.
So recently I was telling my friend Chloe that I am trying to get over the stresses of high school because I find that just reminiscing about those dark days makes me angry. I shared with her that a way that I planned on doing is this is by forgiving some of the people who made this time particularly miserable, and she goes, "What does it matter? It's not like anything you do in high school matters."
This was shocking for me to hear, seeing that every insult, every rude remark, every joke cracked, and every finger pointed mattered to me.
I don't know. Just thought that was interesting.
Yet even though I try to forget this time, I find myself going back there mentally, especially to the bad places, the more successful I get. And I find that those four years have played a bigger part into who I am than I would care to admit.
So recently I was telling my friend Chloe that I am trying to get over the stresses of high school because I find that just reminiscing about those dark days makes me angry. I shared with her that a way that I planned on doing is this is by forgiving some of the people who made this time particularly miserable, and she goes, "What does it matter? It's not like anything you do in high school matters."
This was shocking for me to hear, seeing that every insult, every rude remark, every joke cracked, and every finger pointed mattered to me.
I don't know. Just thought that was interesting.
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