i’m bringing sexy back

I just wrote four pages in my journal and I started with “I really don’t like my body.”

It’s not bad, for sure, but there are some things wrong with it. Namely, a) my thighs are always a tad bit too jiggly and thundery for my taste, b) all of a sudden my stomach is where I harvest extra fat, and it’s pudging out in a very unattractive way, c) my breasts won’t stop growing, and d) blah blah cellulite and all that stuff that everybody hates. I certainly wouldn’t trade my body with a vast lot of other people’s, but there’s always room for improvement, and who would I be to the female race if I didn’t stress about my problem areas?

But then I was thinking about something that is both reassuring and terrifying, at least when applied to me personally. I don’t know about everyone, but with most people I know, none of whom have perfect bodies or perfect personalities, but who have high enough marks in both areas, it is not a real problem to have a sex life even when you don’t look like a celebrity. Clearly famous people are not the only ones who get laid. I suppose I don’t have much of a problem in that area; I can certainly find people to sleep with me, if not to date me, so where I need to work on my personality, I evidently don’t need to work on my body. Even though I do. According to me.

So I guess what I’m finding out is that, at least in my experience, it doesn’t take a perfect body to get what you want. Is it that guys are just horny and don’t care? Is it that I’m too easy? Or is it that guys don’t notice imperfections, even if they are actually quite noticeable? I’m assuming it’s a combination of all of these things. But, given that I am probably not the only girl who has hooked up with people when she has wanted to, I’m confused as to why we flip out so much about not looking perfect. And why magazines can’t find a way to say this in a real way, rather than saying something like, “You’re perfect just the way you are!” or “He likes you for who you are.”

That said, sex is not enough for anyone. Not even for me. Most of the time. But I don’t like the attitudes about it. Maybe I’m just a socialist, but I think that even if the farmer is willing to give you some free milk, if you like the taste of it, you should damn well buy the cow off of him. Because we all need to make a living.

oh, and

Somehow in my last post I forgot to connect the two issues, but I think they’re related, which is why I wrote about both of them. There is a problem with people thinking that audience is the same thing as genre, and then booksellers and librarians shelve books in the wrong way, and then publishers don’t realize that they don’t have to be marketing books the way they are. The reason we don’t have more books with nonwhite people on the cover is partly because the covers that do have them are in the “urban fiction” section or somewhere similar. And this is also the problem with developing a national literature. We want to have one, but we try so hard to divide things by race and ethnicity because black people are the only people who want to read “black fiction,” so we can’t just have one place for everything.

I’m terrible at explaining this stuff. Someday I’ll do better.

dearth. of lots of things.

Yesterday, while I was waiting for my final flight home from LAX, I decided I wanted to buy a magazine. That was silly, because I knew I would have lots of magazines waiting for me when I got home (I subscribe to Interview, Glamour, Latina, Essence, American Songwriter, and Nylon), plus all the online reading I have been starting to do (Narrative, the New Yorker, Necessary Fiction, YA Fresh), plus all the hundreds of books I want to read in general. But as I’ve been a bit disappointed with my reading, and as García Márquez is very tedious in a second language, I said, “What the hell,” and spent $6 (why are magazines on newsstands so damn expensive!?) on the Ficion 2009 issue of Atlantic.

I’m not quite finished reading it (I read all magazines cover to cover, except sometimes Interview, because I’m getting a bit tired of it and “society pages” really don’t interest me at all–I would like to do a post about magazines later), but I did get to the set of four essays on the topic of “national literature” and whether it exists. The four writers addressing the question of the place of “national literature” in an increasingly diverse and cosmopolitan world were Margaret Atwood, Joseph O’Neill, Monica Ali, and Anne Michaels. Unfortunately, the only of these authors that I have read is Atwood, but then again, most of the most helpful books I’ve read on writing are by authors whose novels I have not actually read. Funny how that works.

The essays were short, so they couldn’t really go in depth, but I was pretty disappointed with the lack of opinion or resolution in any of them. None of the authors really seemed to end with their opinion; most of the essays just talked about their feelings about how they fit into a lot of “communites” (Do I write as a woman? As a Canadian? As a writer? asks Atwood; Not all Brits look, feel, and act the same, Ali points out) and how that makes it harder to define a national literature. But I didn’t really think that was the point, really, and I think all four writers really missed the mark and missed out on an opportunity to talk about the way “genre” is defined today and how that helps and hinders the formation of a national literature. But, you may as well still go on and readBorder Crossings, because the essays are well-written, if boring.

So now I’m home and catching up on my blog reading, and I went over to one of my favorite blogs, especially when it comes to blogs about the world of publishing, Jacket Whys. One of the latest posts is about the amount of human models on YA books this year, and how few of them feature black models. I was so happy to see this addressed, as this was always something I noticed as a child. There was rarely a book that had a character that looked me, and almost never are there books about non-white characters that don’t have major plot devices revolving around the fact that that character is non-white. For example, you could never do the show “Malcolm in the Middle” (blue collar family with unexpected genius middle child) unless you also added that the family had just moved into a predominantly white neighborhood and had trouble assimilating, or if you had an episode where one character starts dating a white girl and has issues with it, or something. Those things drive me crazy. I have no problem if a white writer wants to write a white character, or if a non-white writer wants to write one. Write what you want; it’s your prerogative. But it always bothered me that a writer couldn’t just change someone to be black or Hispanic or Native American without changing most of the arc of the story. So many stories you read don’t have to be about white people; they just are because that’s the default. So many books I read as a child where I said, oh, that character could so be me! But no, the model has blonde hair and celebrates Christmas, so no. Damn.

Obviously, a lot of this problem is general hegemony and the fact that white is still the driving cultural force of our nation. Peggy McIntosh wrote this great essay years ago that I’ve read for classes, recommended to friends as reading, and just link to very often because it’s fabulous and often helps illuminate for white friends why it is “harder” for me to get by sometimes, even though I’ve been raised mostly white. Unpacking the Knapsack of White Privilege is an excellent, quick read that everybody should check out, regardless of their racial or ethnic background. I commented on Jacket Whys and linked to it and am still reading the other excellent comments.

However, I want to know what it is that could help facilitate a change in publishing. Of course more writers need to abandon the magical Negro and other stereotypes and write diverse characters, but since writing is only one part of the package that is a book, I wonder what else it is that keeps us from seeing more interesting protagonists and models on covers. Do we not have enough non-white editors and graphic designers? Do we lack models? Not working in the publishing industry, I can only go so far to make suggestions as to what we need. I’m confused as to the easiest way to solve the problem.

School Library Journal also published a fantastic article on race in literature. Read it, do.

a cold summer in montevideo

It’s funny, because I love to learn languages and meet interesting people and experience new things, but I’m learning that I am really not a good traveler. Like, I really don’t like to be away from home. Who knew that after spending my entire childhood and adolescence begging for boarding school, for my mother to accept a job working abroad, for college out of state, that I would end up a homebody who loves spending time with her family? This is some weird sort of karma.

It’s not that I don’t like being in Montevideo. On the contrary, I was actually really happy yesterday to return after a weekend in Buenos Aires (beautiful, beautiful city, but snooty people and lots of dirt and a somewhat unpleasant hostel experience). I’m sad that I haven’t gotten to take full advantage of my classes or internship, having missed more than a week due to my flu, but I really like working at NGOs, and working at a Latin American NGO is twice the experience, because it’s work experience and language practice. But traveling in a group is just not my thing, and I feel very off-balance not being at home. I’m too accustomed to being settled. Apparently I don’t like change. Apparently I actually like my life in Tucson. Interesting.

Something that has always astonished me is that I can’t really write when I’m on vacation, even though being in another country (or just another state–pretty much everything is different from the desert) gives me a lot of inspiration and generally feels exhilarating, at least for awhile. But I don’t feel compelled to pick up my journal, I think partly because there is so much to say that I don’t know where to begin. All of a sudden there is a new climate, new streets to learn, a new culture of people, new stores and restaurants and foods, new phrases, and now a language that I’m starting to think in. It’s like there’s so much to say just superficially, just to establish my new place in a new world, that I can’t actually get to the point of talking about my feelings or new friends or specific experiences. It’s a daunting task, and I simply can’t say anything without spending two hours just writing in a journal. And there’s no time for that, because I’m on vacation on a specific program and I have things I need to be doing. And on days like today, when I spend my afternoon alone in my hotel room on my computer (though I was actually looking up important information for the rest of my trip, like hostels and bus fares and things), I feel like a failure on both parts, because why should I be in my hotel room when I’m neither experiencing the country I’m in nor doing something I would do at home, like work on my writing? I don’t have all the things I need to feel at home, but I also feel a bit overwhelmed always being here.

So while I can’t bring myself to be totally me, neither can I stop myself. I really want to be writing. I want to be working on my novel, and I want to be working on my essay for Ann’s book, and I want to be working on that other novel I started, and I want to start developing some really good short pieces, because it’s about time I started submitting stuff and making money off my writing, and it would be prudent to start publishing in the genre I want to have a career in, rather than in all the others that I just do for fun. But I can’t work on things here, because I’m very materialistic and high-maintenance, and I don’t have all my drafts or my big old desk or my things. Things, things, things. This is why I’m a bad traveler. I can’t pack light. Physically, mentally, or emotionally. I have lots of baggage.

It’s not all that bad. I’m learning, and that’s really all I care about. This is probably the first summer experience that doesn’t feel like summer (which it shouldn’t, because I’m in the southern hemisphere and it’s freezing). What I mean by that is this is the first summer experience where I’ve gone away to a program and have not felt like it’s completely magical or that I’ve made friends for life. In fact, the only person I see myself really remaining friends with is the one person I knew before coming, though I really did not know her very well. That’s totally fine, I guess. I am a huge cynic, and since college I have become a lot more particular about the people I make friends with. I know lots and lots of people, and I really like it, but I also really like just having a handful of really, really good friends, not a bunch of friendships that are all high-maintenance. There are people I have a deep necessity for, and they generally make me happy. The rest make me happy, but they’re not necessary. And that’s the way life goes. In this group of people, I feel very, very old and stuffy, and I guess I kind of am, but it’s also just how I’ve developed within this group of people who are not very much like me. And it’s fine. I am enjoying my learning experiences, and I am very excited for my two weeks of travel with my friend.

I am all over the place. And where I’d really like to be is home, but I know if I were there, I would be complaining about how I never go anywhere. There is definitely more to traveling than just appreciating where you come from, and I hope I am doing that. I think I am more meant for individual and small-group travel experiences than strict programs with boisterous personalities. I am slowly drawing into a shell, and I really shouldn’t do that.

BUT planning for my traveling is so exciting! Another three days in Buenos Aires by myself, this time to meet my grandmother’s cousin and to go to museums and experience traveling the way I like to do it, then a bus ride to Iguazu, a stay at a hostel for a day or two, bus ride back, boat back to Uruguay, perhaps a day in Montevideo, then travel to the hot springs! It’s going to be a packed two weeks, but it’s going to be great.

montevideo 1

Now I know I am acclimating to being in Latin America, because it does not feel at all like 4:30 in the morning. I just got back to the hotel, and most people are still out at another club. I was with Caryn and Danny and two uruguayas, Melu and Lili, and when we left the club El Pony Pisador, we decided against paying a cover charge for an overcrowded club, so we went to McDonald’s (elegant and gorgeous and really nice here!) and hung out, speaking in Spanglish.

I feel very immersed in Spanish already, and I’ve only been here since Monday afternoon. Oh, I guess that’s a week already. I really like it here. I don’t feel entirely comfortable, but I think that’s a good thing. Many of the participants don’t speak much Spanish, so we’ve been divided into two groups. Thankfully, my group doesn’t have to sit around learning grammar, since I feel like every class I take “teaches” me the same thing over and over again. Instead, we are learning about Uruguayan culture, politics, and slang. We’ve learned a few things, like formal phrases for letters, and much more vocabulary, but mostly we just get to practice conversing by talking about things that are actually interesting. I love it. I’m just not a huge fan of having class at 8:30 in the morning, because it lasts for four hours.

After class we eat out, and then I go to my internship at Un Techo Para Mi País. It’s like the Habitat for Humanity of Latin America, except they actually do a whole lot more. Thursday I went to a shanty town, which was a really, really powerful experience. We have poverty in the US, but it does not look like this. Or smell like this. At the risk of sounding really cheesy, I felt extremely humbled. And then afterwards, I left and met everyone at the hotel, and we went to Teatro Solís to see the opera “Nabucco.” So it was a day of highs and lows. The opera was pretty good, and the theatre is absolutely beautiful.

Since I am here on a Jewish program, we are required to go to Shabbat services each Friday. So last night I went with most of the group (there are 9 girls and 2 boys) to the Orthodox synagogue. I did not like it.

More than that. I felt pretty offended by it.

I won’t say that I know everything or even a lot about Judaism. My family has always been more culturally Jewish than religiously so, but it’s not like I don’t know anything. And never having experienced Orthodox Judaism aside from here, I can’t say how common this is. But first of all, this separating men and women thing is a tradition that I think needs to go. Everyone has an equal right to enjoy and participate in a religious activity. After the service, people asked if I liked it, and I wanted to say, “How could I? It wasn’t meant for me to enjoy.” The women were put into a small part of the room, and we had a glass partition up that had lines across it so we couldn’t see much. We were perpendicular to the podium, and we were crammed. The partition was a two-way mirror so that the men just saw themselves. But they were in the main part of the synagogue, and they had room to dance and move around and greet each other.

This, to me, seems like an anti-religious practice. Religion is meant to bring people together, and I didn’t feel like any part of the service was for me.

I will say, though, that the book they used for the service was great. I really appreciate transliterations of Hebrew, because I can’t read it. I do want to learn, so it actually helps to have a transliteration written under the Hebrew, so that you can match the sounds together. And they also had a paragraph on each page explaining the significance and meaning of the prayer, along with the direct translation. That actually feels very Jewish, because I think a lot of what makes this religion wonderful is that you aren’t expected to blindly follow things; instead it is about asking questions and thinking about things and discussing issues. So I really liked that.

After the service we were all assigned Uruguayan families for dinner. Jessica and I went with a man and his 11-year-old son, and when we arrived at their gorgeous penthouse overlooking the Rio de la Plata, we met his older son and wife. They had a daughter who was in Rio de Janeiro for a wedding.

I messed up the ritual of handwashing, and I felt bad, but I tried. We sang songs together which I knew, and then the father said the other prayers for the challah and the wine. The dinner was amazing. So many meals have three courses here; I am going to come back home in five weeks weighing at least 10 pounds more.

There’s so much to say about my experiences that I don’t know how to write it all. That’s the problem with traveling. I have barely been journaling at all, because I just don’t know where to begin. This is why novels written as journals are implausible; it’s impossible to remember your entire day and have time to write it all. When I travel, I like to be drenched with the experience, so I don’t usually remember that I should go get away from it and write it down. It’ll stick in my head, I’m sure. But I’ll also try to write about it here.

normal people and famous people and those in between

So I touched Ira Glass tonight.

I also heard him speak and saw him, you know, like all the other people in Centennial Hall did. But then my friends and I went up and acted silly and talked to him.

Anyone who doesn’t already know how awesome Ira Glass is is a fool. Hi spresentation was pretty awesome. He just has such a wonderful voice, and it was just an interesting presentation, though in some ways disappointing. Ira Glass is not someone you feel like listening to while sitting upright in a chair, smooshed against lots of other people. For some reason I felt one of my headaches come on, which didn’t make it any nicer to be uncomfortable, but it’s also one of those things that is weird to experience in person when you’re used to radio or the podcast. I wanted to be lying on the floor or on my bed with my eyes closed. That is how you should experience This American Life.

Regardless, it was cool. And of course I went up with the rest of my friends afterwards to go talk to him. I wanted him to sign my ticket, since I didn’t have anything else for him to sign. And while waiting in line was fun, just because we all got to hang out and because I talked to this other nice random girl who is about to graduate from law school. But meeting interesting people in this way makes me feel very, very uncomfortable, because I can never make myself look smart or interesting while doing it. Even if I had a burning question to ask Ira Glass, it would never be something that would just come to me while I’m standing in line with a ticket stub and a ballpoint pen. Just like people want to wait after concerts to meet the artist, it was something that needed to be done, but I also didn’t want to. I’m sure if I spent hours with him, we’d find something interesting to talk about, and I could actually make myself appear as smart as I’m pretty sure I am, and I could ask some good questions. But accosting someone after a performance is awkward and nerve wracking. I’m not one of those people who can just go up to a stranger and spill all of my life and dreams and ask for advice. Is it because I know the advice will likely be something I’ve heard before or because I know the advice of a famous person isn’t necessarily better than the advice of someone who knows me better? I’m not sure.

It’s a strange form of networking, and I’m not sure whether it’s better to be good at it or bad at it. Generally, I am pretty good at meeting strangers (at least adults and professionals…I’m terrible at people my own age) and being friendly, talking about myself, and ending up with advice or encouragement or connections or a job offer or something. It’s this conniving but genuine thing that I’ve sort of mastered. And I’ve just been lucky, I think. But when you’re meeting someone who is famous, even when they’re only famous to you, like Ira Glass, it’s hard to gush without sounding swoony, to ask for advice without being a cliché, to ask questions without being boring. I never know what to do.

Not that I’ve met a huge amount of famous people. But it’s still awkward. I hate listening to people fall over themselves at a book signing or an event like this one, and I know it’s mean of me. Who am I to tell someone to be less excited? Just because I’m inhuman doesn’t mean they need to be. But it’s so embarrassing. You know those times when other people, even when they’re strangers, do something so weird that they’re not embarrassed by that you end up being embarrassed for them, just because the thing you share is both being human? It’s horrible. I’m such a bitch sometimes.

crowd theory

I’ve realized that the reason I don’t enjoy large, loud concerts is because I am less capable than most at succumbing to a collective. Last night was the huge stadium concert, which actually looked fairly unimpressive, because the stadium seats 56,000, and about 12,000 people actually showed up to the concert, though close to none actually went to the entire six-hour event.

Anyway. Not my point. (But they should have had it in McKale so it would look more impressive.) I really, really enjoy good concerts. I do. I adore music, and there is something really special about witnessing its creation and performance live. But I am really not a very flamboyant spectator. This is how I know I would not be a good famous singer, much as I’d like to be famous. I can’t really free myself to move around a lot or scream or anything. I sing along, yes. That I feel almost compelled to do, and it’s hard to keep my mouth shut. But moving around and waving my arms and showing “my diamonds,” as Jay-Z asked us all to do, is hard to do.

Waving my arms is the worst. I feel supremely uncomfortable and self-conscious when I am doing that. I’m sure it’s actually gotten harder since leaving high school, since I don’t dance anymore. But it’s never been something I’ve been able to do naturally. It’s a strange feeling, but even though I feel stupid not doing it, I feel like I have a physical aversion to doing it if I actually try to be one of the crowd.

There’s this thing called crowd psychology, and you can google it or look it up on Wikipedia if you like. I think the best example of this is English soccer fans, if only because I’ve already had a long conversation with my friends about that particular theory and how it’s manifested in that group. But basically, it’s the idea that people do things they would never do otherwise when they’re in groups, and it’s also very easy to be caught up in a sort of collective conscious and feel the same, act the same, and react the same. This is how people can end up rioting after they win a soccer game, or how they can feel an amazing rush of adrenaline when they and their friends go after a rival team’s fans and start beating them to a pulp. Ahh, the rush of physical fighting! Such a guy thing. I really don’t get it.

This is also how people feel when they go to a school football game and find themselves with a passion for their team that they never knew they had, or they notice that they’ve never had such a potty mouth before, or they realize that they and everyone around them is saying the same things, “oh!”ing at the exact same time, stamping their feet together, clapping the same rhythmic pattern, or what have you. Crowd psychology. Try and say you’ve never experienced this.

But I swear I don’t have that. I feel detached from other people almost all the time. I have definitely felt some moments of belonging, so I guess I’m not a complete alien, but those moments are things like bonding with the party room crew while we were sitting by the haunted house at Bennington College, or snapping a photo with my Kenya group soon after we’d returned, just before we went inside to graduate from high school. Group pride, certainly, and a sort of collective understanding and a feeling like in that moment, I loved those people more than anyone else, but never have I really lost myself in a moment that became a collective moment.

Even when Obama won the presidency, ecstatic as I was, I felt like I was faking it. I cheered because, yes, it was a wonderful thing, and because everyone else was doing it, but it was conscious. That’s not crowd psychology. It didn’t take me over; I just observed it and blended as well as I could. And even then, in a moment that I was truly happy and hopeful, I was not part of a collective conscious.

So last night, though I loosened up as the night went on, and I shouted the lyrics to “99 Problems” like nobody’s business, I felt completely aware of how out of my comfort zone I felt. And shouting the lyrics and dancing a bit was the only thing I did. My arms feel too heavy to wave them like everyone else; I don’t understand that whole diamonds thing because I’m definitely not as cool as I like to pretend I am; I did not shout out to Kelly Clarkson, “Kelly, I love you!”** repeatedly, and even if it had happened to be a Mariah Carey concert and I was thinking that same thing, I wouldn’t say it. I was lost in the musical conscious, but that’s not tangible, and it’s not even human. I am incapable of being part of a crowd.

I take back my earlier statement. I probably am an alien.

**This same girl at one point turned back to me and asked me something; I think the question was, “Aren’t you so happy right now?” which, looking back, is a really nice feeling to have, and I just smiled, because I wasn’t yet ready to buy the whole Kelly Clarkson deal (though after her entire set, I am sold–hers may not be my favorite style of music, but the girl is well-trained. She can belt, she can sing, she can scream–all in one song). Later, Kelly played a song from her new album, and this girl immediately grabbed her BlackBerry and googled the lyrics so she could sing along. Best. Concert. Moment. Ever.

***Also, check out Cindy Pon’s blog, book, and contest. She’s giving away a beautiful brush painting/bookstore gift certificate, plus a signed copy of her book, which looks awesome. You should click on the book cover now. Do it.

who am i to you: lessons in diversity

Henry read two of my stories to help me find one to submit for my application, and he wrote an interesting comment on one of them:

People probably say this shit to you all the time and I know you must hate it, but I like the multi-ethnicity of these characters, and the fact that their race is not the point. It’s fresh, and makes them more endearing and not copied-from-tv-teen-dramas trite.

People don’t say that to me all the time, though I think about it a lot, and I both love and hate it. I don’t think it’s all that hard to do. All I did was give one character a Japanese name and then had her act like any silly, bitchy, ditzy drunk girl would act. Another kid I described as “Hispanic,” which should generally be avoided, but using it once is fine, I think. Another character had a thought where she was glad that she was black so that no one could see her blush. How simple!

I have a huge problem in literature with things like “African American fiction” being a genre, and an extreme inability to have a main character in a book be Jewish, Mexican, Hindu, black, or anything else without making the main conflict in the story about that person’s cultural or ethnic identity clashing with the mainstream. Want to know why we can’t all get along, world? Because our representations of culture refuse to let that happen.

three small words

Some words are just loaded.

i got a man and he’s so good to me, la la la la

For once, being happy isn’t killing my writing. My knuckles ache tonight, and I’m nowhere near done with my story. I need to finish the whole thing, or at least a good chunk, to send to my discussion group for tomorrow. Procrastinating is obviously still a demon in my life, but at least I’m writing now. It’s been so long since I’ve felt like this, having so many ideas in my head I have to keep switching from this story to that journal to that list and so on… It feels so good to be overwhelmed with ideas. Ever since my computer crashed this summer, even starting to write felt depressing. I found no joy with it. Now it’s coming back.

It helps that I had a really good advising session today. My music advisor is an asshole, so I prefer to email him rather than meet with him. But I’m required to go the English office for advising for my creative writing minor, otherwise I can’t register for classes, so today I went. I had the session with the guy who was just made head of the department, and he’s also my fiction professor, and we ended up having a good conversation. As a result, I’m taking far more English classes than I originally planned for next semester. I have priority registration on Sunday, and at the moment there are about 7 classes in the Excel schedule I’ve been making. I’ll have to drop some, but I just can’t decide which ones, because they’re all great. I will also have a Tuesday/Thursday-heavy schedule for once, instead of the other way around, and I should be done really early on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. All of a sudden, life is good. Even my concussion and my neck are healing.

The story I’m writing now I’ve had in my head forever. It usually takes me a good year or two to write a story I’ve memorized in my head. So I knew exactly what the interesting points were, some of the lines of dialogue, the visuals, the motifs, the theme, etc. But as I’m writing now, I’m seeing all of my anxieties transfer on. I think they still work with the story, but I’m not sure, because I feel so overcome by them right now. This is the first week I’ve been able to say this phrase, and I’m having a lot of trouble with it: “My boyfriend.” It’s on Facebook, so it’s real, and apparently when someone requests to change your relationship status, you get a message that says “[Name] requests that you add him as your boyfriend.” I beamed, as if it were a personal message from him to me. I’m a little bit of a freak.

I really want to say that phrase, because it’s like a really tempting slice of cake. A cake that you’ve seen in the window for days and you really want to eat, and then finally you get to buy it (and it’s just magically not stale, days later) and eat it. But you’re scared to eat it, because it’s probably about ten million calories. And I’m scared to say it, because I don’t want to go and rush things like I always do. I shouldn’t be, because it’s true. It has to be. He decided it to be so, and I wanted it, and when both parties want and one decides, it becomes fact. But if you eat the cake, it will never, ever taste as good as you imagined, and you’ll probably feel gross after you finish, because you just ate diabetes. I don’t want to seem overly happy or rub him in anyone’s face, even accidentally, because I hate it when people do that around me. But I’m just so giddy about the fact. On my superficial level, I just want to shout it from the rooftops because I’m just so damn happy about it. And on a serious level, I just feel good about myself and him.

I finished my Creed for this year today. It took me weeks to write, which has never happened. I don’t know what that means.

bee-tea-dubs, the title of this entry comes from a santana song featuring mary j. blige, sleepy brown, and big boi, called “my man.” and it’s actually good, so you should listen to it.