When people ask me how long I’ve been writing, I’m always called to say, “since I was 5.” I’ve been writing –complete correspondences– since I was 6. Maybe earlier. Certainly no later. I got my first diary when I was in the first grade and was such a nerd, I would write in it as I walked to school – I still have it & I recall the crossing guard looking out for me, because with my head always in a book, I sure wasn’t. Since that time, I’ve been alone in my thoughts. Writing them down. Re-reading them. Trying to understand myself. I was six years old and investigating my feelings. So please excuse me if I can’t have basic conversations anymore. I been there. Done that. Additionally, I take every one of my actions and weigh it on my life’s scale. Not to say all my actions weighed in as godly, but they were calculated and balanced at the very least. Yes, all of them. Since I was 5. Because, since I woke, I’ve been the same fuckin person. I’ve had time to understand who I really  am and what I really think for me… have you?


               While my siblings lived in NY, I watched the throne in CF. I’ve lived in the same house my whole life. I’m proudly, originally from Central Falls, Rhode Island (and if that doesn’t mean anything to you, I can 99% guarantee you don’t mean much to me). I continued living in our home (a converted 1 family, meaning, it’s been restructured so the upstairs can be rented, but if you ever saw my house, it’s clearly a home). A friend of my mother’s took care of me for the next two years while my mother was on (what I was trained to call) vacation –during which time, she asked me to write her letters. It was hard for me because I had no feelings for her. *shrugs* That’s typically a tough fact for strangers to swallow, but I had only realized my mother’s existence when she ceased to. I hadn’t learned who she was and the mere fact that she wasn’t there made her quite unnecessary, in my eyes. To say I didn’t love her would have been an understatement. I didn’t even know her. When I would sit to write her letters, it was homework. I had to figure out what to say. I had to fill the space appropriately. I’d write about anything. What was on TV. New songs. Anything to fill space. To get it done. To be finished. I believe there was a period of trying to write every week, but I’ve admittedly never been good with schedules. Never ever. My letters to her slowed down when she responded once and told me that “really” is spelled two L’s, not one. The first thought that came to mind what “Who are you?” I was unsure of what right she had  –a woman who I barely remembered and I hadn’t seen fin forever — to tell me anything.   I didn’t understand how I was supposed to feel for her. I hadn’t yet formed emotions when she’d left –or perhaps I had inherited the manner of my family members.

         I was 5 the day I woke up. I had awoken as I did any other morning, but this is the first morning I remember because it was different. Mami was gone.  With a big f*ck-you to embarrassment, I’ll tell you all now that I slept in the same bed as my mother for a while –I didn’t technically get my own bedroom until I was 10 and then I painted the walls lilac. I even began stenciling sunflowers across the walls, but realized after a strip that a lot sh*t (like manual labor) is #ForTheBirds. That same year, I had my first birthday party because I had a room in which to host my friends. That might have been the first time I ever had people [I wasn’t related to] over. Before then, I managed way into my brother’s or sister’s rooms when they were off at college. It never really bothered me. As the youngest of three, any reason for me to be all in my older siblings’ sh*t was valid reason for life itself. I say I was 5 (maybe 6 since my birthday is in April & I’m trying to get my seasons to align) because that’s when my brother and sister moved to New York to live with family. Later that summer, I visited my sister in Newburgh. I remember thinking it was going to be the absolute best trip of my life because, for the first time at school, we had been given homework. I loved homework.  Playtime on Pine Street consisted of my sister educating the world. She was the teacher & I always had homework. The toughest part was trying to get my mother to sign the papers, which my already stern, 13-year-old sister/teacher said were “important”. I had to get them signed but it was tough since Mami was always either cooking or cleaning. I realize now that my mother was a woman. Here I would come, pulling on her shirt during her break between jobs to sign a crayon-decorated piece of loose leaf. But, there was no telling how much trouble I’d get in when I returned to the basement and face Ms. Lisa. Thankfully enough, my moms never let me down. 
         I guarded that homework packet with my life. I had finished kindergarten and was going to first grade. It was a big f*ckin deal. I needed the teacher to see how good a job I had done. It consumed me. I admit, I was a nerd at an early age. The summer I was 6, all I cared about was that manilla folder. It was proof of my greatness. I would read billboards out loud in the car to practice my letters. The billboard by our exit read, Monet. It tripped me out when I found out that T didn’t do anything. With little else said, I was annoying. I thought about it the whole way to New York. The pleasure I’d get from my sister’s assistance (and showing her what I had already completed) where all I needed to combat the tight-ass, hick conditions of the Dominican vans that brought you from Providence to New York for $25. As much as I loved homework. I hated those vans.

Where’s mami?” I remember asking the morning I woke up (or sometimes I think I dreamed it).
“She’s not coming back for a while,” Enver or Lisa answered. 
               There was barely any talking in my house. No explanations because children don’t ask questions. So if you get a chance, you ask one and take what you can. The answer to the next question is “Mind your business.” There was barely any visible emotion my house. Only time I had seen my mother cry was when her father died. My brother and sister? Never. We never hugged. Never. Never said, “I love you.” Ever. It wasn’t a cold household, we just didn’t need any of that –at least we didn’t think so. I knew everyone in my house loved me, they had no choice *shrugs* Love from family never really had to be proven  rather, that’s how I interpreted it. I knew these people cared for and loved me. What mattered more in my house was respect. My brother wanted to run the show & my mother –being a Dominican woman– never held that from him. My sister –a Dominican woman as well– didn’t want to be bothered. Her bedroom door used to have “Beware of Lisa” or something of that nature, on it. “Do Not Enter,” or something. I never really gave a f*ck what her and her sharpie dreamt up. I  did my little sister duty. I snooped at my leisure. I plundered through their stuff & wore their clothes to school 🙂           

      During those years,  I was by myself a lot. My best friend was Negrita, a mean black lab who who could chew through any chain. No one ever came into our yard. My first friends were the boys who lived next door: Larry + Danny. Larry was a year older than me. & Danny, two. Janel lived on the other side of me. She was my first best friend and two years older than me. One would have assumed she was too old to be my friend –I was in 2nd grade and she was in 5th and that’s huge in elementary school, but Janel taught me a lot. Janel is one friend I never had and never will have a bad word to day about –especially when it came to guys. I was too young, so the concern wasn’t mine. But guys liked Janel. She was gorgeous and dope. Sweetest thing there ever was, I promise. + She was a good friend. When she and I grew apart, it wasn’t a big deal. There was no fight. No hard feelings. I believe she moved. She also still older than me. Janel protected me from a lot. Everyone. She was like an older sister to me, and a good one. I’m not sure what Janel got into, but I never bore witness and heard no tales. She kept her business to herself and I’ve never been good at questioning folk. Then inescapable aloneness turned into a preference after a while. Most of my time on this earth has been just myself and my radio. (Janel used to play Selens’s “Dreaming of You,” turn off the lights and hide on the other side of the bed. The song used to make me cry & for some odd reason, Janel liked to watch. Kids. *shrugs*).  Why am I telling you all this bullshit? — so that you understand that I’ve been understanding for a very long time. I’ve lived a long 24 years and in that time, have seen too many come and go. Especially with the females I’ve come in contact with. So that you know that I’ve always been focused. That this is no facade. This is me & my feelings are always exactly as I feel them. I listen to them. I acknowledge them. As much as I acknowledge my own feelings and actions, I acknowledge those of those around me.

        I’m having a tough time keeping females around. Luckily,  I don’t want anymore friends. People do too much. They tell me too much. Allow me to see too much. Most new male “friends” can’t get over what’s between my legs and feel the need to try their hand –just in case, I suppose. I’ve had to put some on probation: public meetings only, chaperoned indoors, never solo. Most females will tell you their hoe-tales within the hour of having met you –then your afraid to sit next to them lest you be associated with them or catch something.  Granted, I am no God and I shouldn’t live my live assigning judgment to others, but I think it’d be much more disrespectful to ignore my morals than to let people know I don’t agree with theirs. I fear passing judgement, but isn’t someone  supposed to live life following the straight path? Not to say everyone should –in a world defined by the “other,” but I suppose I need someone to compare myself against. I’m not sure if it’s tough to make friends because they wouldn’t hang with me or I wouldn’t hang with them.

          I”ve sat back, reflected and understand how someone might be able to call me stuck up or… idk… whatever you want to call a girl who’s obviously not a whore and you’re upset that she can carry herself with grace… but then I wonder why I feel so bad? I have not one thing against Mary Magdalene. I don’t know how else to say this, but you know what’s right and what’s wrong. I’m literally and unapologetically afraid to hang out with females.  We all know  that men aren’t necessarily their friends, but women who applaud their whore friends actions are no better than the whore herself. It seems men are more okay with being individuals. Females can’t seem to manage that as well — most can’t even use the bathroom alone. Around their friends they’re one way and around their men another. Around new men a whole other. It’s really the men who drive us crazy. We’re so worried about getting one that we try to attract them all. At the beginning and end of the day, the only person who you need to make sure is attracted to you is your man. Fuck bitches. Fuck niggas. If you can’t dress for you, dress for him. & if you understand what it is to be in a relationship, you understand that that one man is one man –whether you’ve met him or not. Whether it’s official or not. Whether you have a title or not. & If you’re still worried about finding a man, I would argue you need to spend sometime with yourself to understand that you need not look for that man. He will notice you. If you are in Chicago and he is in China, he is still yours. Because if you are still looking for him, he’s still looking for you. & if you don’t believe that, I feel for you. Everyone should believe in love *shrugs* and its a sad existence for those who don’t.  (I’ll have to write more on this later. I’ll link thought… give me some time to manage my thoughts. I told you, I get ahead. I’m far from basic. “Above Average” is how the teachers used to grade me. I liked that.)

        “Well we all know most girls just aren’t like you,” he’d said from somewhere sunny. Book in hand and feet in sand, CJ called me on his vacay to just say hey. Alone on a sunny Sunday, I’d appreciated both his call and his appreciation. I barely tell anyone my business, but I speak freely with CJ for one reason: He’s never, ever, ever tried to kiss my ass. He tells me the truth and can hold a full-length conversation with me. Frankly, most people can’t. If you’re still reading this post, I congratulate you. Most people can’t hold out and read this long. Either they’re unable to or their uninterested. But if you came here to find out about me, I see no reason why I should dumb myself down & delete what I have to say so people who don’t like to read will feel welcome here. It’s #BasicBitchSyndrome –applies to both males and females, but mostly females. I’d spent my morning cleaning the house and playing with Duchess (I try to make up for the missed weekday lovin’ when I can. That’s my baby) and kept coming back to one question: Why don’t I have any female friends? Because it’s tough. Because what most females want to talk about is men.

      Because most bitches, it pains me to say, are very fucking basic. They’re as caught up on their bodies as the dogs they attract. They want to gyrate in a skin-tigh body suit and ask that you pay attention to their minds. The reason people “hate” fashion is because some get so consumed in and by it, they think they;re not allowed to care about anything else. How about, pick up a fuckin book? We pass judgement on others simply to combat the judgements we already have for ourselves. If a girl has Louboutins, she must have been on her back because you can’t afford them. *shrugs* I’m guilty of it too. I think every woman is a whore. I’ve seen females up close for far too long. Most actually are. & most are dumb as hell (but most niggas are too). Instead of thinking prescribed thoughts, why don’t we open up our minds a little bit? Talk about other things? Far too often, I get made fun of for wanting to talk philosophy over my Jack & Coke. Far too often, I overhear whore conversations (and am invited into them) without my wanting to. My first time at The Smithfield, had a girl ask me if I had a condom on me.

         “What if you want to hook up with w a random guy in a bathroom?” she’d asked.

         “Yea, I guess I wouldn’t,” I’d responded.

Then there are the conversations I overhear from children: “You know how many times we fucked?” he’d bursted out?

         “We ain’t fuck nothin’,” the girl responded trying to defend herself in front of her female friend. I was waiting for the bus when they walked by. They had to have been about 14-15.

         “Well, you know how many times we had sex?” he rephrased. “Like a hundred, right?”

          “You did?” the third girl inquired. “Tell the truth, I ain’t gonna say nothing.”

     I’m worried. These are the conversations our children are having. And I wonder where they learn them. There aren’t too many women I respect, out here. not to say you can’t party. not to say you can’t indulge. I’m just saying, what goes on in your bedroom is not dinner table conversation. Especially not with me there. Call me what you want, but those aren’t conversations or situations I want in my life. It seems like people simply want to be h=overheard and acknowledged for the the most basic of shit: What we’re wearing and who we’re fuckin. & if not for ourselves, we’re busy trying to figure out who somebody else if fucking and judging what their wearing. Women –more so than men — need to wake the fuck up. It’s okay to have thought…. it’s also okay not to. But if you’re going to have one thought, it should be self-respect. The ideas of self-respect, self-worth and patience won’t kill you. If you believe people are only judging you on what you wear, perhaps is because that’s what you do. & vie versa. We are exactly what we put into the world.  Sit down and consider who you are and what you want. Fuck how other people interpret you –you have no control over their minds. The only people who should worry you are those you are meant to connect with. Everyone else falls into the “supporting character” list.

        We need to have better conversations. We need to wake the f*ck up and be in  the world. I shit like clothes and clubs thoroughly, but I also enjoy Thoreau. I’m just tired of kid conversations. I’m tired of feeling like the f*ckin bad guy because I don’t eat up everything that’s spoon fed to me. It’s also a pain in my ass to have to contain myself and continue my conversation when people don’t want to delve any deeper into the meaning of things. People don’t want to discuss. Most times, it turns into a battle of who can yell louder –whether between friends or in romance… see how the two are really the same?  If you keep thinking about what other people are thinking –instead of making up your own mind –you’re going to think just like them. You’ve got to break out of that. You have to make deliberate choices. If you’re going to be a whore, be an intelligent one… Be a whore with a purpose. A proud one. If you’re going to disrespect yourself, then you should have some Louboutins by now,  too.

         I just want people to wake the f*ck up & employ their minds. The sooner you figure out what you think, the easier life will be. If you haven’t woken up yet, no one really knows you –not even yourself, so how could anyone want you? The real you. Limit your basic conversations. It’s ok to delve deeper. It’s also okay to say nothing… That’s the route I might be taking. Most people aren’t even worth conversation #LetsBeHonest. What’s worse is how I feel like a terrible person for having the morals I do. I was a child once. Just once. The times for mistakes has come and passed. There are too many grown ass people making little kid choices (or little kids making grown choices). Somewhere we need to be who we’re supposed to be: Men and women. We need to watch the way we carry ourselves and the stories we’ll be passing down to our children. More matters than just  right now. Than just the first impression people have of you. You’re a whole person. You should hope to (and aim to) be respect as such.

Frankly, I’m disappointed too often. I know no one cares… but no one feels like they need to call this out. This is serious. Women need help. I feel for men, you all don’t have too many to choose from. S/O to my readers who’ve made it this far. You are officially the #elite.

PS: ID(ever)GAF. This is how I feel.