DONT SWEAT THE SMALL STUFF

   Thanks to Tumblr I have learned a thousand and one insightful things about life. The addition of Pinterest has only made it even easier for me to gain access to witty and profound statements, save them to be pondered. Re-reading them in an attempt to appease my heart of whatever stress I am under at the moment. One that has managed to pop up on my TL recently has been “don’t sweat the small stuff” or at least some paraphrased version of it. Well, I am sweating.     

   Interestingly enough, I read a little quote (on Pinterest, I am now addicted. Sue me) about the size of a man being proportional to the size of things that bothered him. I am troubled by the possibility of my dreams never reaching actualization. I am concerned about the beyond. I ponder if heaven is anything as I have read in Randy Alcorn novels, and more importantly, I wonder what route will take me to the sky. I wonder how I will die. Cue the gasps and fingers snapping to rebuke it.

   It’s sad but the thought has come into my peripheral recently, and I have been unable to shake it. In a perfect world, my death would not be coming into question till my body refuses to carry me but what do you do when this world takes souls out of healthy bodies? People my age and younger are dying. It is easy to dissociate from the stories you hear in the grapevines, but it ‘s hard to do so when you knew the soul. The idea that this person will never make you scream their name in exasperation. You will never hear their voice on the other end of the phone call. It tires you out. You see your youth fleeting. I was not prepared for the evil of Earth.  

   In light of Manchester, my fear has once again risen to the surface about to spew from my mouth. My head is full of what ifs. What if I don’t make it to twenty? What if I die in a terrorist attack, get captured by terrorists or end up the victim of a hate crime? My heart does a little quiver when I leave the house; I double check all locks when I’m in the house. It sounds like deranged behavior and to be honest, it, is. But when you have hopes and dreams bigger than yourself, you guard them. With your life. And you sit and stew.

   I am angry that I am scared. My fury mixes with heartbreak as my innocence high tails back to Disneyland. I am upset that the situations beyond my control outweigh the decisions I can make.

So, for now, I will sweat the small stuff, I will worry if my hair is too frizzy and if my shirt is ironed. I will obsess over my highlight reaching “glazed donut’ standards. I will sweat the small stuff because my heart cannot take the big ones.

Till the next rant, it is 3:20 am. I have to be up at 6:45 am.

 

 

FEMINIST AND TIRED

I am a feminist. And I am tired of talking about it. That means talking about it to men, women including other feminists. I just want to stock up on feminists t-shirts and go live my life. This fight for something obvious and important is so exhausting, which could be said about the black lives matter movement.

I am at the point in life where I assume that if you are not a feminist, you will never be one, and there is no sense in trying to convince you. I just mark it as a malfunctioning of something in your life, either environmental or internal and I decide to limit/cut off all subsequent conversations.

It is extremely hard for me having grown up in a family where my uncles had been treated exactly like my mom. My father told me when I was younger that whatever a boy could do I could do five times better (come to me with that “can you make a baby by yourself” argument and see what happens). The idea that my genitalia which I had no control over makes me in some way sub par to a man is utterly ludicrous.

I’m not even talking about the feminists that don’t want to shave their body hair or feel pressured into dressing more masculine to be taken seriously in the task force. I am a do what makes you happy kinda chick. I am talking about the basic, have autonomy over your body and life, and get paid the same amount kinda thing. I am speaking about husbands treating their wives as equals with respect and not batter them from pillar to post thing. Is this so bizarre to think that we should be treated with decency?

I tweeted that since summer is here, the boys who yell out their cars in an attempt to get females reactions have returned. Please, please, please someone explain to me how yelling “Aye yo ma”, followed by whistling and kissing sounds is respectful? I’ll wait. Write in the comment section. It is not a compliment. I am also tired of the ignoramuses that come with “well it’s better than it used to be.” Fam! Black people are no longer slaves in America, does that make the situation at hand any better?

The idea that I am someone’s property or that I am incapable of taking care of myself makes me tired. A man trying to explain what being a woman is too me or defining a lady and the ways I don’t fit the parameters make me want to scream.  I just want women to feel safe, to feel respected and I just wish this wasn’t a movement. Just the norm.

PSA: This is in no way discrediting the struggles men go through in today’s society. I am a woman. I can only speak from this perspective.

Till the next rant, Thanks for sticking around!

Mermaids

and hours turned into months. Forgive me.

The semester is almost over, I can almost taste it. Actually, it’s the bitter taste of having two major finals on one day. I am back, and I will try and find things to piss me off so I can write but for now, we chill.

Actually, I am having an argument with two college students about the existence of mermaids. Join the club and tell the world that they don’t exist. Or present your proof for their existence. Both ways, it’s nice to type again.

Till the next rant, I am not very responsible. Much love.

Been A While, Where Have Yall Been?

I’m not going to give you the “I have been busy” rhetoric this time. Even though I have been. I have also managed to churn out a couple of impassioned, well-meaning but ill timed posts. There were not posted because something in the back of my head wouldn’t let me. The last few months have been intense. I turned nineteen. I’m old. I started a new semester with a whole new course load. I am taking honors classes and ended up on the honor roll. Woot Woot! I am actively trying to gain weight, I work, I take time out to curse the New England weather. I can’t make it sound like I am complaining, I love it. My last post was about how I had become a waste of space, well I did something about it. Somehow I still find time to be bored and binge watch Netflix. All in all. I’m back for the umpteenth time. I found a new part of my life to explore and talk about.

Till the next rant (its a few hours away)

The Africanist

Stop Talking, Gaby

My mama always used to tell me that if Africa pulled itself together – dropped all the tribal bickering, allowed both genders to realise their potential, stopped with the corruption etc. – it’d be a force that could dominate the globe. Think about it: even after colonialism there are enough natural resources to flood the markets.. The pure human capital.. The raw entrepreneurship that comes with living in a developing country – I’m so sure that your average hustler in Koumassi market would put Lord Sugar’s apprentices to shame, if he had the same means and opportunities. The problems facing the continent are diverse, numerous and challenging, yes, we all know that; but the potential. Is. Phenomenal.

For this reason, it saddens me to hear Africans (both at home and in the diaspora) admit that they’ve “given up” on their respective nations. The modern era has infected human beings with a…

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THE BYSTANDER: RESHAPING YOUR PERSPECTIVE


        I could make up a thousand excuses, and tell you about the posts I have composed but haven’t posted but I won’t. I have been struggling, with my perception of self. Coming to terms that all the things I could do, play an instrument, draw, paint and even pray are starting to atrophy before my very eyes. I have been a bystander to my own life.
So for once, I won’t talk about societal norms that piss me off ( you will hear about them later), I’m going to talk about me. Yesterday I was talking to a friend; I started being honest with myself. Complaining about how bored I am for months and have made less than feeble attempts to do anything. My exact words were “I have become a waste of space” I’ve become so lazy and complacent and the queen of procrastination and as the year slowly slips away I am forced analyze what I want with life. My life.
        At this moment, I am watching Beyonce’s Life But a Dream for the second time.  At a point, she talks about taking her independence and “reshaping your perspective of yourself.” I have to do that. I am going to be nineteen years old soon, not on track with the plans of my life. And although I have to understand that God’s timing isn’t my timing, I show no effort. My life seems to flash by with little to no input from me.
        Well it did, I decided a week ago to be present in my life. That sounds crazy weird. And in one week, I have realized it is easier to destroy than it is to build. I remember when I hit my lowest and how hard it was to get out of my depression to this point. I realize how hard it is going to be. Thank God I am innately stubborn, I refuse to stop. And because I am innately stubborn, I am independent and very silent about my life. Silence has almost killed me. Not only am I making an effort not to sink, I have to learn how to talk. Which means calling my mom, losing my shit in group chats, speaking gibberish with my baby cousin (it is amazingly therapeutic) and being able to be vulnerable when it matters. From those conversations, I find strength. I find that I spend less time just floating through time and space. I am alive.
        If anyone else is going through it as well, don’t give up. You have come too far from where you started. And take the time to talk to somebody. Hell, talk to me I’ll listen.
        I wish I had all the answers, and I wish this were coherent, but this is how I feel, and what I’m going through. Honest, my hand to God.

                                      Till the next rant, tons of kisses

I DIDNT RUN AWAY, I PROMISE.

That title is a lie. I did run away. I spent the last few months, moving and starting school which played a  part in my absence. My laptop was acting like it had lost all sense, so we had to break up, and I got another one. But the bigger reason, was my insecurity, reading other peoples’ words and feeling like I could never reach that level. Or words that sounded like those that I wrote when I was thirteen and realizing that I couldn’t summon up words from that place anymore. But, I have decided to power through. Hence I am writing this on a whim in the library when I should be learning about the many ways that fats are going to kill us.

So like I already said, I moved to school, and the harrows that have caused is unmentionable. I can go on for hours about how cold my school is but my dorm is sauna because someone keeps messing with the heat, trying to get us to die from heatstroke. When it gets unbearably hot, I sleep on the cold tile floor, and I’m glad to say I have started a movement. The bathroom is a pig sty because two girls don’t seem to understand hygiene causing my roommate to attack with bleach every day which is all still in futility. The cafeteria food is a mess; the only edible things are pizza and french fries which put me on the path of the freshman fifteen, heading straight towards the thirty. I’m having trouble fitting into my jeans. Why am I playing with obesity?

All is not bad, my skin is clearing up, I have stuck to my principles and vows and did I mention I am having trouble fitting into my jeans? Which means, I am on my way to slim thick!!

So far, so good. I change my mind, there is a bee hovering near me in this library giving me hives. I gotta go before I lose my mind. Truthfully, I am glad to be back.

Till the next rant! Much love.