Flowing Thoughts Like a Stream. But Not Really.

Oh, hello again writing challenge, #AprilWritingChallenge to be specific. Take part, because you have nothing else better to do than read my blog. Maybe you do usually, but 9 times out of 10, at this particular moment, you don't. Join the Young Writer Gang. It's better than the Beyhive, I promise.

Day 7:
The most annoying celebrity is one who does not keep his or her overly adorning fans in check. If all you're focused on is more and more promo and publicity and not curbing your followers' reckless acts of Standemonium, you're inching further and further towards my burn book. Using Beyonce as an example will be too easy; anyone who knows me knows I'm not scared to criticize her in the presence of her worshippers. But believe it or not, that's the only reason her very being irks me. Knowing she is the epicenter of the lives of a million too many blind-eyed admirers, and they fiercely defend her very name as if they passed through her mind EVER... it blows me to pieces. Smithereens. Chris Breezy too.  Bey's got the older drones while he has the young, dumb and horny at his will. But I shouldn't be surprised. How can I expect him to check his Stans when he can barely check himself (nor his constantly on vacay PR team)? I throw my hands up in the air...

Day 6:
At 40, I want no trace of this shy, overly cautious dreamer to exist. I want to be an expert wordsmith, a counsel of sorts. I don't want the word novice affiliated with my name. I want to be able to control my own fate, not wish upon it. Say "I want" and boom, so it shall be (with a bit of prayer of course). I want to be unafraid, move without inhibitions, speak without regret, write without premeditation, live without doubt. At 40, I will live.

Day 5: 
If I had a million dollars, that would suck because I'd either have to go into hiding or die. Come on, let's not act like we don't know what happens to folk who win the lottery. They end up sipping on cyanide smoothies or hit with child support claims or on the side of a milk box. Not quite my cup of tea. If course I'd want to use it to help better the lives of others. I'd want to pay off my college loans, pay for my sister's future college fees, pay off my parents' house and then donate a huge amount to charity, but once someone announces your name as the lucky ticket winner, no one cares about your philanthropic intentions. You're as good as gone. Now, it's crazy that I immediately jump to this theory instead of assuming that I'll one day earn it on me own. My friend's have previously checked me about my pessimistic mindset that as a writer, a million dollars sitting in my account at one time isn't feasible. There's no reason they should believe in that for me more that I believe in it for me. I'd probably aim a little higher if financial gain was truly my goal. But deep down, I know it just isn't. I'm a hippie in hiding who just wants to be loved and happy. And comfortable. Money usually assures that, but that trifecta is something I want to secure by my damn self using nothing but passion, perseverance and faith. Lawd, what a task....

Day 4:
In a perfect world, I would be able to keep my head on straight. Alas, today proved otherwise. Today, I learned that the water in the coffee machine at work is not that hot. And for that, I am thankful. Evidently, I’m not that amazing of a multitasker as I expected. My inability to wait silently on the phone for the participant on a conference call while simultaneously fixing myself a cup of tea is astounding. I placed my phone on the counter so I could watch it, in case the call got disconnected. Because then I’d be screwed. I was expecting a call from a singer in Cali. But I also wanted some tea to go with a piece of banana bread I brought for breakfast. And I spotted almond milk in the office fridge. I’m not sure who it belonged to, but I needed to hurry up and sneak some into my tea before someone joined me in the kitchen. So I hurriedly fixed my cup and tea bag under the nozzle, and used my other hand to press the “Hot Water” button. Mind you, my eyes kept darting back between that and my phone.  As the hot water streamed, I noticed the string of the tea bag loosely twirling, and in efforts to use my thumb to pin it down (I hate when the string and tea paper fall into the water. Nobody want to fish that out), I shifted the cup ever so slightly to the right. But of course, my lack of expertise in multi-tasking made me continue to hold down the “Hot Water” button as it flowed directly onto my hand, and into an obnoxious puddle under the machine. I yanked my hand out, and glanced frantically at my phone, and my right hand was STILL pressing the button. Idiot. I scolded myself and massaged my hand. With a sigh of both relief and embarrassment, I realized that there was no tingly sensation on my skin. No redness. No swelling. No damage. Just a river of a puddle I had to clean up. God felt my shame and thankfully kept everyone out of the kitchen during the ordeal. I cleaned up the mess, refilled the cup, and still snuck my drop of almond milk. It tasted great. 

Day 3:
Dear Future Husband:

Please don't judge me based on how corny this is. That fact that I'm writing to no one. To nothing really. This idea. Because quite frankly, that's all you are. An idea. A product of many nights' fantasy and many a classroom day dream. I've come across many who've piqued my interest. Prompted me to dabble in my sketch book so I could remember the crush. Take me back to the times I tried to guess how you'd look, imagine you standing next to me. None of them had faces. You're ungraspable. The very thought of being bound to someone and have someone bound to me (willingly) is thrilling. So many people start to plan the lives and weddings and future families (I've already named two and a half kids. You get to pick a middle name), but that's not real. That's just a woman planning a dream with herself. It's not real without tangible flesh, another source of warmth. I can't see that far. I see a mirage of whoever you are. That's scary because you never know if that paradise will ever come. But you cross that dry patch of hope like a trooper, canteen at hand because you have faith. That's all I got right now. Faith, a hazy image of what I think I know I want, swigs of water to keep me focused, and you on the other side. I think. I hope. I can't wait for the day that you prove my doubts wrong. Be something real, please. Imagining is getting old.  

The Girl You Haven't Found Yet

Day 2:
I fear I won't let myself be great. I can be my own worst critic sometimes. More to come after 11:59.... UPDATE: Okay, so I technically wasn't late for this one, but here's the continuation (#cheatcodes lol). And I rethought my fear. I really fear that I won't recognize a blessing when I see one, because I'm so afraid of a possible mishap and I shade myself from the possibilities. I'm such a cautionary tale with the way I go through life. I don't spend large amounts of money because I fear the feeling of looking at my Bank of America account and seeing single digits. I don't date because I think I may be wasting my time or his because I don't know what I want and don't know what I'm doing. If things are going sour in one area, I say oh woe is me, I keep messing up instead of thinking, maybe this is a sign that this is the end. I don't let people see things or put myself out there because I'm more afraid that it won't receive their blessings than I am excited for the doors it will more than likely open. I know I'm complaining, but I'm entitled to that time of complaint because I know what the solution is. I know what I have to do and how I have to do it. And when I should do it. But I know my pace, and it'll take a while.

Day 1:
I contradict myself when I think I have nothing to write about. If you were a good reader, you saw one of my latest posts about the disease called Writers Block. Can I tell you about how so much has happened that I could write about, but don't know how to approach it. Yesterday, if you engage in social media, you know about baller Kevin Ware's tragic mishap with his leg. As screen shots of protruding bone skated up and down my timeline, I was more intrigued by the GIFs of his grief-stricken team mates crying shamelessly on the court for him. The guy with the long B last name collapsing in a heap on the hardwood. The short one named Smith sobbing into the arms of the much taller teammate that held and consoled him. Then Ware himself, who you can tell was squeezing his eyes hard to overcompensate for the electric pain that was probably shooting down his mangled leg. Yes, it looked mangled. His coach didn't fight back tears either. It was a tragic situation with so much beauty tucked in each corner of the scene. The camaraderie, the brotherhood, real ass emotion. It was all there. You don't get to see that often. Nobody gave a damn that the cameras were rolling, sick paps and onlookers trying to sneak zoom shots of the wound before sideline help used towels to curtain the horrific scene. I saw the hurt and I clutched my stomach. But then I saw the love and cried. I really am too in tune with my inner mushy. I feel too much. Why can't I bring myself to write about that more often?


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