Thanks, Captain.

The other day Jey asked me, “You ever have those moments where you’re reminded of why you’re with someone?” before praising his wife. Thankfully, I do. 

I remember having a really tough week at my previous job. Granted, I hated the place and my boss treated me like shit, so every week was a tough week. But it was an exceptionally tough week. I was reaching my boiling point, and was on the brink of quitting without having a new job lined up. My patience was non-existent, and I was having meltdowns more frequently. I was complaining all the time, and my partner took the blunt of this. 

One day as I was wrapping up, I refreshed my email to do one last check before I left work. On the very top of my inbox forwarded from my boyfriend’s account was a subject title that read: FWD: Your San Francisco Giants Opening Day Starter Pack. Soon after, I received a text from him saying “Did you check your email? I know you’ve been having a tough time lately. This is the only thing I know that makes you happy”. There I was suffocating him with my bad vibes, and there he was buying me tickets to Giants games. I felt horrible and grateful at the same time. 

There was another instance I remember vividly. It was a Sunday night, and I was still at this horrible job. We were in bed, and the later it got the more anxiety built up inside of me knowing I was getting closer and closer to having to go to work the next morning. Without warning, I burst into tears. Instead of freaking out, he acknowledged that he was unaware it bothered me this much and held me while I cried. He said words, but never told me what to do. In that instant I knew what to do: never let go of this man. 

Truth be told, this same man drives me fucking nuts from time to time. He is imperfect, he loses his patience. Sometimes he yells, and sometimes he makes mistakes. He procrastinates, and always fails to put his clothes in the hamper. However, one thing he never fails to do is calm my storms. And you need that shit. It’s one thing to have your partner be the sunshine after the rain, but it’s another to have them be there during the storm. 

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Shit Bitches Love Pt. VIII

Eight?!?! Y’all still with me? Well, as long as bitches continue to love shit, I’ll be writing about it. Let’s get to it … 

Plants. When the fuck did everyone get a green thumb though? I thought this shit wasa46c20e02baec84234f05f3e6e902ce0 over when the succulent obsession died down, but nope, it was just the beginning. If you know me, then you know I’m just jealous of anyone that can keep a plant living for more than the drive home from the nursery. To this day, I have killed 6 succulents all because everyone kept saying that they were hard to kill. Challenge accepted bitches, I succumbed to the trend and bought my first 3 adult plants ever in life AND they’re still alive nearly 2 weeks later. Bitches love photosynthesis. 

Crystals. We won’t repeat this anywhere outside of this blog circle of trust, but when I was little I had a rock collection. I’ll give you 5 seconds to judge me, but that’s all. I used to frequent a toy store called Imaginarium that carried “intellectual toys” like science fair kits and … rocks. Some of these rocks included crystals. All they did was sit in a suede pouch with all my other rocks that I eventually threw away, because well – THEY WERE ROCKS. Now, crystals can help you relax. They can help with communication, and anxiety. They can bring you luck, protect you from bad juju, and give you patience. There is a “healing stone” for almost every ailment. I’m wondering if there’s one to make me stop being such a hater.

tumblr_nyaccybQkC1tljg0oo1_1280I absolutely wanted to purchase some crystals for the new apartment not too long ago. They’re pretty and it wouldn’t hurt to have some good vibes around at all times, but good vibes are only as good as you make them and like the homie said, “I see bitches buy crystal yet are assholes putting out bad energy themselves. Like, na a crystal is not gonna help you bro”. Bitches love rocks. 

Japan. It’s as if there’s a new hotspot to visit every season. At one point it was Thailand and Bali, then Santorini, then Cuba, and now Japan. It’s not like nobody’s ever visited these destinations before, there just seems to be an influx of people at a given country/city at a time. In the past 3 weeks, I’ve seen 3 different people on my feed in Japan and I have 2 more friends going next week. I, too hope to visit one day. In the mean time, I just hope someone brings me back some salt and camembert cookies. Bitches love Tokyo Milk Cheese Factory. 
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Michael B. Jordan. I mean, what’s not to love? Bitches love Michael B. Jordan. That’s it. That’s all. 

Rodan & Fields. Raise your hand if you’ve felt personally victimized by someone selling Rodan & Fields products? I’M KIDDING, but you all know you’re thinking the same thing I’m thinking and you know someone who either sells or uses their products. And if I wasn’t such a paranoid hypochondriac I would be too, have you seen what they do for your lashes? They know what the fuck they’re doing, and I’m happy that people who don’t have a conventional 9-5 are able to make money this way. Honestly, I’m a fan mostly because the company is ran by 2 boss women.  Bitches love other bitches.   

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Write vs. Wrong.

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Writing is second nature to me, it’s always been. From the time I learned how to write complete sentences, I became obsessed. I started this blog nearly a decade ago (HOLY FUCK), and I am so grateful that I still have some of the same readers who’ve been down with me since I was shooting in the gym aka on blogspot. Y’all the real MVP.

Although far less frequently, I’ll every so often receive a DM or comment on one of my posts that genuinely brings joy to my soul. I’d write 20 posts if it meant just ONE person would feel less alone. But. I’m not going to lie. Most days I’m wondering why the fuck I even bother.

At the height of my blogging journey, I averaged 2k – 3k viewers a day. This was before the social media explosion, and before Instagram even existed. Although it was nothing compared to the numbers today’s online influencers garner, it was still a huge accomplishment for me and still is. Shit, I was happy that people other than my mom read my blog. My only regret was not riding the wave and taking advantage of blogging before it reached its tipping point. 

I’ve never been one to hold back from acknowledging my failures and while writing hasn’t been a failure, I’ve failed to write for a living. That was my ultimate goal in life, to get paid well doing something I love to do. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get angry at myself every time I saw some IG celebrity going on a free trip to the Maldives, or publishing a book, or simply getting free swag in the mail. I could sit here and talk about how many of them have very little talent and are corny as fuck, but what does that say about me? Even if this is true, what’s also true is “hustle beats talent when talent doesn’t hustle” and that is where I’ve failed the most. Truth is, I don’t hate these people – I admire them

I know what it takes to pursue your dreams. I see what people do to achieve them. I know the formula, I’ve even watched YouTube tutorials on them. But how does one strategically curate being real?  

It’s a constant struggle I face every time I log onto my @GATNB Instagram account. Quote then photo then quote then photo. Wait, they all have to be in the same filters. But that one looks better in F3 not G3! UGH, I don’t want to take a picture in front of this mural that has nothing to do with my website even though it’s really pretty. I like THIS photo, but it doesn’t match the “aesthetics” of my  page. THIS IS FUCKING DUMB. It’s easy for me to use my writing as an excuse to not want to post pretty pictures, because the writing should speak for itself. However, it’s not easy for me to see everyone else succeed because they drank the Kool-Aid. I mean, I like Kool-Aid too. 

Thus, I’m at a standstill. I’m not doing anywhere near as much as I should, yet my stubbornness won’t let me quit. Blogging may have reached it’s tipping point, but it’s never too late for me to hustle harder.

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Marvelous.

San Diego Comic Con was always an event I wanted to attend, but never got a chance to due to either financial or timing reasons, so when the opportunity to attend Silicon Valley Comic Con presented itself I gave my bank account and pep talk and YOLO’d myself into purchasing a Stan Lee meet and greet. Let me tell you, it was worth every penny. 

Ironically, I never got into comics. I grew up with an older male cousin who introduced me to comic books, but as a reader I wasn’t a fan of the short blurbs. I was however, impressed by the graphics and characters. That’s what pulled me into watching the X-Men animated series every Saturday morning in the 90s. The obsession then crossed over to trading cards, which I bought at the liquor store across the street from my apartment anytime I had spare change. I can vividly remember the excitement of ripping open a pack and obtaining a card I didn’t already have. I still have all my cards in a box. Somewhere. I hope. 

In short, SV Comic Con was the nerdiest, most amazing thing I’ve ever been a part of. I knew I would have a good time, I just didn’t know I would geek out as hard as I did. The second I got into the registration line, I saw someone in Gandalf cosplay and got more excited than the day I met Brandon Crawford. The best part was seeing everyone dress up and have fun regardless of their age, gender or ethnicity. It felt as if it was one of the last places on Earth where you could escape reality and not be judged for it. There were so many great costumes, but I got shy to ask for photos once it got crowded #alltheregrets.

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Obviously, the highlight of my day was breathing the same air Stan Lee breathed. He’s on my bucketlist of who I’d want to meet, only to be  accompanied by the Obamas (If I could go back into time, I would’ve loved to have met Jim Henson as well). I’m a fan of good people. Visionaries. And most of all, those who have the audacity to create alternate universes where the good always prevails. I couldn’t help but look around the convention center that day in awe by all the people who were influenced by this man, so to say I was honored to meet him is an understatement. 

I wish I could say Stan Lee was a jubilant old man, full of life, and smiling with every fan he met. The truth is, he fell asleep taking the photo with the couple before me. When it was my turn, he didn’t move or speak. Was I disappointed? NO. I was happy that at 95 years old he was there to begin with. I was however, concerned about whether he was there for the fans or because he was being taken advantage of by those who should be looking out for his best interest. I suppose we’ll never know. I can only hope Stan knows how happy he a bunch of nerds that day, and that there are plenty of people like myself who would take back their meet and greet just to make sure he was being taken care of. EXCELSIOR!

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The man, the myth, the LEGEND.

 

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No Pain, No Stain – WBW 7/31/13

The other day while drinking in a friends room at a hotel party, he cautioned me to not spill my drink. “I know you be staining the sheets” he said with a devious grin. I knew how he knew too. Your girl smashed the homie’s homie, and contrary to popular belief men talk just as much if not more than women do. I probably should’ve been mad that he put me on blast in a room full of strangers, except I was more offended that he didn’t think I could handle my liquor and would go spilling my coconut Ciroc all over the place. Motherfucker I had been drinking from 11am to 7:00pm that day, and I spilled just as much alcohol as I gave fucks: ZERO. So hah!

Now before I proceed, I’m going to first tell you to just fucking relax. It’s not going to look like the aftermath of a Quentin Tarantino fighting scene in your bed after we fuck, so calm your balls. The truth is, the homies homie has what I like to call a hamburger dick and I apparently have a narrow vagina. Put the two together, and you’re going to have lots of fun. However, you’re also going to have to change your sheets more frequently. I wouldn’t say I’m a “bleeder” though. Oddly enough, I never bled with Thor and he was packing straight HEAT. One day I took out a tape measurer and measured from the very bottom of my vagina, and discovered that his dick was practically playing doorbell ditch with my belly-button. If I have kidney problems in the future, I’ll know why. At least I also know I have a deep vagina.

There are actually a few reasons why women bleed during intercourse, and unless she’s a squirter, it’s not much. Most of the time, it has nothing to do with a man having a big dick either. I tend to spot the first three days before and after I actually have my period, so I basically have a fucking two week menstrual cycle that you will most likely cross paths with. I also bleed when I’m not having sex enough. So if you don’t want me to bleed on your sheets, then maybe you should fuck me MORE! Every other day instead of every other week. Is that too much to ask for? The last reason I’d ever bleed during sex I’d have to say occurs the most, and it’s the angle at which you’re tappin dat ass from. There’s a specific angle where it’s a fine line between hurts so good, and just fucking hurts. So if you hit it just right (or wrong) – I’m probably going to bleed.

I’m sure all this talk of staining the sheets is totally turning you on, but there’s a bunch of simple solutions to it. Fuck at her apartment, lay a towel underneath you, find a woman with a bigger vagina, or how about you just stop being a bitch? I mean, it’s technically your fault that she’s bleeding anyway. Unless she’s leaving your room looking like an episode of CSI, there’s a lot worst she could be leaving behind: like a toothbrush for instance. Besides, if sex was supposed to be clean, then we wouldn’t have dirty minds.

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My unGlamorous Self-Care Routine.

Who knew that something as necessary as taking care of yourself would all of a sudden be so trendy? Well, thanks to Instagram and Pinterest it is. One day I woke up and everyone was carrying crystals in their pockets, using the Headspace app and burning sage. Even though I’m not into all of it, I’ll all for it. You gotta do what you gotta do to take care of yourself, and try new things until you find THE thing that works for you. Here’s hoping it’s not just a fad, and people continue to take care of themselves.unnamed-2

The day I knew “wellness” had oversaturated the media, was the day I saw an anti-mainstream self-care meme on my Instagram feed. It stated that self-care wasn’t all about bubble-baths and taking naps (shit, what did I sign up for then?). It acknowledged the dark less floofy side to self-care. The side that some people aren’t willing to identify or accept. It reminds me of getting a bikini wax. I know, I know. What the fuck? If you’ve ever had a bikini wax, they pour hot wax on your skin and use it to rip off your hair by the roots, then immediately apply pressure afterwards to ease the pain.

For me, that’s what my my not so fun self-care regimen is comparable to. Something painful, yet necessary to ensure smooth sailing afterwards. My unglamorous self-care regimen consists of a big slathering of moisturizing, butt-hurt cream and a hot bath of letting go. 

Instructions:
Repeat daily until symptoms of depression and anxiety subside/disappear. 

  1. Shed light on shady situations. People are shady. Even those you considered friends, which obviously is most hurtful. I’m constantly torn between whether something is worth salvaging, or if the actions should already show you where your friendship stands. Since I’m a non-confrontational person, I tend to avoid certain situations in hopes that karma will do the dirty work. However, I am currently trying to use the shade as motivation to live my best life so that I don’t even care if karma does its job or not.
  2. Let go. I’ve learned the hard way that you won’t always get the apology you deserve or closure you want, and that people don’t fuck with you the way you fuck with them. Growing up an only child, I’ve always wanted everyone to love me. Obviously, that’s impossible. But when someone who used to love you no longer does, that’s just heartbreakingSelf-care means ACCEPTING THIS whether you’re OK with it or not. This is extremely hard for me. I thought it was hard with relationships, but it’s even harder to do with friendships. I don’t think there’s ever been anything I’ve let go of so easily. Shit, I STILL refuse to get rid of my baby-blue Mecca sweaterdress (it’s gonna make a come back, I swear!). 

The truth is, it doesn’t matter how you take care of yourself long as you take care of yourself. What works for you may not work for others. While a massage sounds like such a better option for self-care, not doing the aforementioned would be self-torture

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BTW, it’s still very OK to take a hot bubble bath while drinking wine and reading a book.

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Decent Proposal.

Sundays have always been for brunch. But instead of bottomless mimosas in last night’s clubbing clothes, it’s now cold brew with coconut milk followed by cast iron pan shopping. “My God, have we lost our edge?” were my exact thoughts as I squealed in delight at a muffin tin on the clearance shelf at Sur la Table. The answer was clearly “No” as we continued our girl date at Rach’s house to literally Netflix and chill. We started to watch an episode of Hot Girls Wanted: Turned On, that immediately led to conversations about selling your underwear online, polyamory and getting paid for sex. 

The main question was, “Would you do it?” As in, would we sleep with someone for $1,000,000 although we were all in relationships. Funny enough, none of us said NO. Instead, we rationalized our decisions using the following:

1. Who is the other person? Do I know them? Relation and degrees of separation play a big part in my decision. How does he look? It doesn’t make it any less unethical, but it definitely makes it more bearable especially if it’s some Michael B Jordan doppleganger that I would bang for free if I was single. The negative aspect to this is while it makes it easier for the person who is going to have sex, it makes it harder for their significant other. 

2. What kind of situation are we in? Do I own a lone shark $500k? Are me and my husband jobless with a baby on the way? Am I about to lose my house? Do I need a lifesaving operation? How desperate am I? To be completely honest, I don’t need to be at the very bottom of my luck to consider this because it’s also dependent on the next factor …

2. How much money we talking? Is it an insane amount that we’d be stupid to say “no” to regardless of the fact we’re doing pretty well already? Is it enough to make me pay for my man’s haircut and drop him off at old girl’s house and wait outside the door with a bottle of Gatorade and towels for when they’re done? Originally, $1,000,000 was at stake and we considered it. However, as soon as it was upped to $5,000,000 I said “ABSOLUTELY” with no hesitation. 

Funny enough, the real test isn’t so much making the decision and then sticking to it. I  know people that hook up with people they don’t necessarily want to all the time. It’s called alcohol and bad decisions. While we’ve discussed important issues leading up to and during the tryst, the most important part is what happens after. Will I be able to forget about it? Will I be able to get over it? Will I be able to look at my boyfriend/husband the same way again? Will he be able to look at me the same way? Hopefully, the answer will be YES. And if it isn’t and we start arguing, hopefully we can just stuff each other’s mouths with dirty money to shut each other up.

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