It’s been hard for me to blog lately. I was just telling Jeyel how my shit’s been lackluster as fuck. It’s not that I don’t have anything to say, it’s more I have too much. And it’s not that I’ve been too busy, because we can always make time for the things we love. Rather, I’m finding it hard to put myself out there like I used to. You think I divulge everything on here? If only you knew the thoughts that never make it on the screen.
Personally, I believe times like these are even worse than writer’s block. Writer’s block entails there’s nothing there. I on the other hand know exactly what I want to say, but know how vulnerable those words would make me look. Moreover, how those words would make me feel. I had one blog already scheduled to post. Some straight heart-on-sleeve type shit. But the closer it got to midnight, the more apprehensive I became. I felt like it was too much. Writing about dicks, and dildos, and giving head is one thing. Writing about broken hearts, failed expectations, and a shattered self-image is another. And almost forbidden to me now.
This frustrates me. Because I just finished skimming over old posts, and the most popular ones evoked emotion. Frank Ocean said that when you’r e happy you enjoy the music, and when you’re sad you understand the lyrics. I’m sorry if you don’t understand.
Remember when I wrote this post? The original post is below. Maybe you’ll understand it better.
“Then in September, I’ll be leaving for Spain for a year.” The sentence hit her like life without parole – except harder. Tears began to well up in her eyes. Slowly they ran down her cheeks like rain on a window pane. She didn’t know why she all of a sudden cared, especially when they had nothing. Especially when they were nothing.
She felt so foolish. She actually laughed outloud at herself. There she was questioning whether or not she was being respectful of the situation, when he clearly didn’t respect her. There she was, thinking of the perfect farewell gift when he didn’t give a flying fuck about her. The worst part? She still clicked “checkout” and made the purchase anyway. Because it’s what she did best. Be sweet, be forgiving, be stupid, and be kind. Be herself.
For the past two days, she lived that good LIFE. Room service, laughs, drinks, dinners, poolside lounging, prime rib, raw oysters, high heels, short skirts, eyebrow raises of approval, smiles of appreciation, and elbow rubbing with legends – all charged to the universe. Yet, she spent the past 20 minutes crying in her room. And just like that, she gets a text message, and she feels helpless once again. “The universe must really hate me,” she thinks.
And there she lay with his arms around her waist. Like the many nights before. Like the many nights before that turned into mornings after. Disappointed, and ashamed. At HERSELF. Not so much for what she did, but for what she didn’t do. She walked in the summer sun, yet felt a cloud of dark grey doubt over her head. Her feelings were eating her alive, so when she finally got to work she picked up the phone – something she rarely ever did, and called him. He picked up, and a lump of barbed wire formed in her throat.
“Hey …,” she said.