If I could do anything in the world, I’d sit right here where I am.
It’s 7:16 on a Sunday evening and my mother and I are lounging in the living watching One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
. (We watch AMC because “story matters here” as their advertising tagline points out.) I’ve just started this blog but I want to have enough material for you, the reader, to be entertained when I decide to let people know I’m writing again.
I love to write. I love to watch movies and read books and buy clothes. I want to be Carrie Bradshaw –the Black, Latina, young Carrie Bradshaw. Someone just needs to pay me enough for my to buy my first pair of Louboutins. (My demographics lead me to prefer Christian Louboutin over Manolo Blahnik, any day.) My fav shoe has been dubbed the “Lady Claude
.” The shoe, with its Kill Bill
sexiness, can make me the “new Black Mamba,” says the company website. Fashion à la
Quentin Tarantino? Need I say more?
Still, I don’t doubt that plenty women out there want to be Carrie, and then there’s the rest of us of different ethnicities, races and complexions that have to add an adjective before the name to make us feel like we have a running chance. I mean, the “black Carrie” in this article is a man. Do I have a chance?
If I did, Ladies & Gents, I’d spill all my dirtiest secrets to you if only you would read along. All I need is a closet like Carrie’s and red on the bottoms of my shoes. My life is a movie, I promise.
SOMEONE HIRE ME!!!! (I’m all for shameless self-promotion.)