Love You Times Infinity.

During your viewing me and the girls all went up to your coffin to talk shit with you one last time. There, I asked that you visit me without scaring me. I suggested throwing a Cornut at me or something of that nature. Harmless enough. That night in my moms room, around the same time I received the text that you were gone, I sat straight up from bed and smelled flowers. I don’t remember exactly what kind, but the kind you smell when you touch down in Hawaii and get lei’d. I looked around for any candle remnants, and waited just to make sure I wasn’t losing it. But the smell was still there, fragrant as ever. Then, just as fast as you took your last breathe, the smell disappeared. 

I told myself it was late, and I was making things up. There was no smell, no sign from above, no flowers. Until Rachel reminded me that I asked you to give me a signal that wouldn’t scare me. Even in death, you knew just how to cheer me up. I walked to the front of the church before your funeral the next day, and took a deep breathe next to your coffin. Tuberose. Just like the night before. 

22072_1359726238042_187144_nFast forward to yesterday, two years after your passing and I’m at your grave crying more than the year before. I’m spreading a bouquet of Gerber Daisies on your headstone, wishing your drink of choice wasn’t Anejo with a water back because I know we’ll be taking shots at dinner in your honor. I see Ferl keep one of her flowers, and I do the same. When I get home, I stick it in a water bottle. I call Nikko and cry my heart out to her. I call Evan and cry my eyes out to him. I hope that you’re OK and not just dead in a box. I ask that you let me know the latter isn’t true. I cry all night, and end up working from home the next day.  Continue reading

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What’s Secret Is Sacred. – TBT 07.10.13

Whenever a woman meets someone new, so do her friends.

When me and Thor first exchanged numbers, I’m pretty sure I texted my best friend before I ever texted him. I also brought her along to our first date (in spirit), making sure that she approved of my outfit beforehand. In between ordering drinks at the bar, I let her know that me and her just took shots and were having a good time. When the movie ended, I let her know that “we” were going to eat sushi. And when I was back home , I informed her that we kissed on the first date for the very first time. We both giggled at the thought.

I continued to share my adventures with Thor with my closest girlfriends after that. I’m sorry, it’s just what we fucking do: live vicariously through the rainbows and butterflies of others. But something we especially looked forward to during story time, were our sexcapades.

It took me four dates before I finally gave in to the D (which btw was extremely hard (pun intended) because I was extremely attracted to this man, and all our dates ended with us making out on his couch). Hence, the morning after the fifth date I got carpal tunnel from all the typing I did. In case you couldn’t tell by now, I have a vivid way of describing things. So from the way my clit clapped the first time me and Thor kissed, to the way it gave a standing ovation when I felt the size of his dick, my friends joined in on the round of applause too.

If only I could bring up old Meebo chat logs, then you would be able to relive the experience of cumming three times in one session with me as well.

Alas, all stories eventually come to an end. However, this usually happens under only two circumstances: 1) we stop having sex with them (or the sex is too lackluster to share) or 2) we fall in love with them. That’s when the sharing of dick pics cease, and tales of how one got fucked so hard it sent them into anabolic shock stop. Sharing is caring … until you actually start to care for the guy. Girlfriends may share clothes and food, and maybe even their car. But never the man they love.

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Passion Is Pain Is Beauty.

Truth be told, I have a thing for the ugly handsomes men who are a little rough around the edges. You know, the young Troy Aikmen types. The guys who look like they’ve been lost at sea for a week, homeless, or in one too many bar fights. Thus, it’s no surprise I have a slight affinity for scars. 

A subtle shiner under the eye of a hockey player, a bruise from a bullet penetrating an officer’s kevlar vest, and stitches from misusing a table saw all have the potential to be dangerously sexy. By no means am I encouraging violence or insinuating that a man is only as tough as his scars, there’s just something to be said about the struggle that accompanied them.  

Scar? What scar?

Scar? What scar?

I used to date a man who had a big nose. OK I dated several men with big noses but that’s besides the point. One day he picked me up to go to a Halloween party sporting a crooked nose instead of a costume. He explained that he got elbowed during basketball, and began to apologize for looking unsightly. Meanwhile I thought it looked kinda hot. I gently ran my finger along the bridge of his nose a few times that night, then let him fuck me into New Years. OK, I would’ve let him fuck me into New Years without the crooked nose, but that’s also besides the point. 

Despite my weakness for scars, there’s still a line to be drawn. Not all injuries are glamorous, and not all scars are sexy.When does a scar simply become scary? Perhaps when they look a little something like this?

Well that's gonna sting.

Well that’s gonna sting.

[OK, please excuse  me while I digress but … WTF IS THAT SHIT? I mean, JUST LOOK AT IT! I know Lawler won the fight and is rocking this busted lip like it’s NY Fashion Week, but I can’t even take it seriously it looks so grotesque. While most of the emphasis was on Rory MacDonald’s injuries, I could not get past that ripped lip and I still can’t look at it without touching my own lip to make sure it’s still in tact.] 

The word “attractive” is certainly up for interpretation, but where there is ambition there is always appeal. Many scars tell a story or courage and perseverance. They often stem from passion, and passion is always sexy to me. I’m just going to wait until those stitches heal up before showing you how much.

minsky2

Couldn’t get past all those tattoos to even notice his legs at first.

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Main.

This song makes me want to do rapid rap hands with the simultaneous ugly face. It also makes me wan to have hella hoes. The power of music. Safe to say it’s my newest addition to y ratchet playlist. 

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Like the Deserts Miss the Rain.

I miss youObviously.

I miss you when I see your friends, and when your brother posts a picture on social media. You two have the same mouth, it’s crazy. I miss you whenever I wear your 49ers shirt. Or white Giants jacket. Or knit sweater. It no longer smells like you and it drives me crazy. I miss you when I hear island music, and especially when I see anything related to Allen Iverson. I remember when you would text me pictures of AI and Eligh – you so crazy. 

I think about you sometimes. Not all the time, but when I do I think about you a lot. I anchor my feet in our memories, so as to not waver when the sadness washes over me. I think about you when I run. When I watch sports. When I dance. Of course when I’m at the cemetery. I think of you when I see a cute guy and can’t muster up the courage to smile at him. And most of all when I’m sad. You’re one of the few people who never made me feel like I couldn’t reach out to you despite how often I did.

But most of all, I think about you when I’m doing absolutely nothing at all. And the closer it gets to July 21st, the more the nothing feels real. I miss you. As expected. But what surprises me is I miss you now more than ever before. More than on your first wedding anniversary. More than on my first birthday without you, and more than your first birthday without you. Time may heal wounds, but it does not fill up the nothingness inside.

As far as I’m concerned, nothing will ever fill the void you left behind. Because no matter how many new friends I make, how many laughs I have, or overly sweaty people I meet – none of them will ever be YOU. 

I miss you mare. I used to be afraid that I’d never stop missing you. Then, I was even more scared to forget about you. Now, I just hope you miss me too.

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Wannabe. – TBT 07.16.13

It was Casino Night at my old job when I spotted him. I thought he was handsome. “Handsome” is what I call men who aren’t my “typical” type, but good looking nevertheless. Being the shallow person I am, I took one look at him and knew I wasn’t his type. To confirm this, I turned around and asked my friend sitting next to me, “What kind of girl do you think he likes?” She took a look at his tattooed sleeves, almost skinny jeans and button-up and quickly responded, “Probably one that rides her fixie to work, wears biodegradable clothing, and grows her own vegetables in the backyard”. Then, we both watched as a brunette in a striped sweater sat down next to him. “Or a girl like her,” she added.

Ask any of my friends, I think everyone is pretty. I thought she was pretty too. Plain, but pretty. Guys like plain though. They like simple. I’m going to be that girl. I’m going to tone it down. Not expose my tattoos, maybe even take out my lip ring. I’m going to throw away all my big earrings, and double-finger rings. No more BOTB, no more Civil, no more Crooks & Castles. And I’ll only wear a beanie if it’s snowing outside.

I got off BART the other day and saw a woman walking up the stairs in all black except for her three-inch red stilettos. Around one arm was a large overnight bag. In one hand her purse, and in the other a cup off coffee. Yet, she still looked polished and sweat bead free. Like she wasn’t running late that morning. LIKE HER FEET DIDN’T HURT IN THEM DAMN SHOES.

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I’m going to be a lady. I’m going to wear heels all the time, and only wear sweats to sleep. If I wear flats, they’ll be sandals, or be some sort of animal print, or have a bow on them. Dresses to the club always (holy shit, I’m going to be my mom). No baseball caps unless I’m at the baseball game. No more penis talk at the dinner table. No penis talk ever. Matter fact, no tits and ass talk either. I’ll dull my tongue, and wear lots of pink.

I want to be  “that kind” of girl all the time. The kind that constantly updates her Facebook with an in-depth analysis on today’s political agenda and opinions on current events. The kind of girl that attends every protest, volunteers every Saturday, has read every book by Henry Miller, and knows what wine to drink with what meal. I want to be so engulfed by my job, that I don’t have time to feel like a ho. So sometimes, I want to be the “bad bitch” that uses men and is incapable of catching feelings. And sometimes I just want to be a plain old bitch, and not care that someone’s boyfriend is hitting on me, because motherfucker I haven’t gotten laid in months

But then I remember that “I can’t not be steezy”. I love hip-hop just as much as I love rock and roll. That I can’t live without my hoop earrings. Sweats are comfy as shit, and wearing heels all the time gives you corns. News 24-7 is depressing. I love the words “shit,” and “fuck”. And I really, really, love love. I remember that I hate being serious when I don’t need to be. That I’m a 5 year old at heart. That I rather be a Queen than a princess.

Then I think to myself fuck it, I’ll just be ME.

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Top 3 Reasons Men Should Watch Magic Mike XXL.

I kicked off my 3-day weekend by watching Magic Mike XXL and I’m pretty sure I’m pregnant. The first movie was cool for what it is, but I shit you not I could watch this one on mute at least 3 more times. Matter fact, I already texted 3 homegirls in different social circles to let them know I would watch it with them again. As expected, hordes of women clad with bottles of wine and bubbly inhabited the theater. However, I noticed a lot of boyfriends in the building as well. Were they simps? No, they were SMART. For those men who missed the memo, here are my top 3 reasons men should take advantage of the Magic Mike phenomenon. 

1. To learn some moves. We’ve all seen Channing Tatum’s moves, and even though I could watch them over, and over, and over … and over again, they’ve added another professional dancer to the  main stage: Twitch of So You Think You Can Dance. This was great seeing as there were no other real dancers in the cast. In absolutely no way am I complaining about seeing the other men flex, gyrate and bodyroll. It’s just nice to see more than that. Nothing is sexier than seeing a man doing what he does best – his passion or ME. 

Continue reading

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