Shit Bitches Love Quarantine Edition IX

I’ve documented the shit that bitches love for the past few years. Just as the tides change, seasons change and what we love changes along with it. What better time to write a new edition than while in quarantine and I ain’t got shit else to do? It will be a good way to for me to self document and hopefully get a kick out of in the future. Hoping you get a kick out of it too. 

Tik Tok. Good God y’all love this shit so much – TOO MUCH. Not going to lie, it’s entertaining and creative for the most part … until I see someone use it wrong. Last time I checked, the main points were to use music and some sort of choreography. Since it’s first emergence, it’s involved to intricate lip-syncs of KUWTK episodes. While I don’t have an account myself, I ain’t mad at it. Thanks for staying inside to film these and keeping the rest of us entertained. Bitches love being a savage (and classy and boughie and ratchet).

Whipped-Coffee-1Dalgona coffee. I haven’t drank coffee for maybe two months now. Ever since Rach put me onto Mudwatr I’ve drank that almost everyday and save the frappacinos and mint mojito’s from Philz for special occasions. Still, it was impossible to escape the Dalgona coffee trend. Almost every other story on my feed one morning had the delicious, whipped drink on it. Similar to a Greek frappe, it’s equal parts instant coffee, sugar, and boiling hot water whipped into a fluffy cloud and placed on your milk of choice. It tastes delicious. Unfortunately, it also tastes like insomnia and an immediate trip to the bathroom. Bitches love things that are sweet and bad for them.

IG challenges. Any of them. All of them, but especially the #DontRushChallenge. There’s a bunch of different versions now – Cambodia, MUA, Nigerian, keto, healthcare, drag queens, desi, gym, etc. etc. and I really enjoy them. Just don’t ever ask me to be in one of them. That would require effort, and I’ve worn the same thing for two days straight and haven’t showered. Bitches love not giving a fuck.

Baking bread. Yooo, when the hell did everyone turn into a bread baker? Ya’ll done turned your kitchens into Tartine and I’m over here shoving King’s Hawaiian bread in my mouth as I type this. I’m not hating at all, I’m here for it. I just have questions. Did you already carry yeast in your pantry? Is banana bread that fucking good? Can I have some of whatever you make next. Bitches love making bread.

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Tiger King. I remember browsing through the section of new Netflix releases before Tiger King took off thinking that the trailer looked interesting. I figured, “Sure, why not?!” My boyfriend was surprised. Next thing you know we’re done with the entire series in two days. I can recall saying, “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!” several times during our binge watching. It was a classic case of you can’t make this shit up. Hate to say it, but I was obsessed and judging by the amount of memes, interviews, and Tiger King themed Zoom parties that have occurred since it’s debut, I wasn’t the only one obsessed. Bitches love big cats. But they hate that bitch Carole. Baskin. 

 

 

 

 

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What am I?

Intimacy. Licking your brain, while massaging mine. Exploring you inside and out. Becoming one then two then one again. Feeling you. Tasting you. Loving you. Lingerie and tailored suits, sundresses and basketball shorts. A deep exhale, a slow groan. A tickled moan. Beer kisses and a scratch on your belly. A beginning and an end. 

#writingwithRupi Today I participated in my second, online poetry workshop with the amazing Rupi Kaur. In this exercise, the prompt was to write the word “sex” (here, hold my beer). Then, we were to write all the words we associated with it. Then, we had to write about sex without using any of those words. We weren’t allowed to stop, or make edits. The whole process was stressful yet cathartic, and I was humbled at how many participants were such amazing writers. I hope you enjoy this little poem from someone that is not a poet.

For those of you still with me, the words I couldn’t use were:
Man
Woman
Me
Morning stretch
Wit
Garlic butter, bone marrow, uni pasta *shrugs*
Ambition
Power
A good book
 

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The Isolation Journals – Day 2: Nora McInerny

I am now on Day 26 of sheltering in place. My household started a week before it became official, and the cabin fever has finally settled in. On Monday I had the realization that while “This too shall pass”, it’s in no rush to. Still, every time someone asks how I’m doing, I tell them I’m “Good”. Sometimes I tell them I’m “Chillen,” but all of the time I tell them I’m grateful. 

I feel so much gratitude that I almost feel guilty about it. I feel even more guilty when I secretly judge those who choose grief over gratitude. I really need to work on my empathy, I used to be the person I now judge and am very well aware that everyone deals differently.

The truth is, I’m not good. But I’m also not, not good. So when someone asks, I choose to say the former, because it’s the easier answer. I say I’m good and that’s the end of the conversation. Any other answer has the potential to turn polite small talk into a pity party you do not want to attend and one I’m not sure I want to throw. Me not, not feeling good also has nothing to do with the pandemic. It has everything not to do with it.

It has to do with the hassle of moving. It has to do with anxiety ridden insomnia. It has to do with the depression that immediately follows a really bad night of anxiety ridden insomnia. It has to do with feeling unsupported. It has to do with my fertility doctor “highly recommending” I have a baby sooner than later (sooner as in now). It has to do with the unknown, and it has to do with feeling unfulfilled amongst other things.

It sounds like a lot when I put it all in one paragraph like that, but everyone is dealing with a lot right now. Dealing with all of those things separately is enough to make any person be not good. Throw in a pandemic, and it can make someone feel awful. But I don’t feel awful either. I know you’re not supposed to say this, but I feel just fine. And today, fine is good with me. 

Your prompt for today:
Put yourself in a moment where you were not fine. Maybe you were terrible, and maybe you were TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE. Put yourself back in that moment when you lied. Why did you do it? Whose feelings were you trying to save? Write what you wish you would have said, and imagine where that honest conversation could have led you.

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The Isolation Journals – Day 1: Suleika Jaouad

Dear Simone,

I always wanted a boy. I think I turned out pretty fucking awesome, but God forbid I have me another one of me. I’ve always wanted a boy … up until now. And it’s not that I want a girl, I just think the universe is going to give me one. The universe is going to give me YOU.

I hope you look like I did as a baby. Have you seen my baby photos? I’ll obviously show you when you’re old enough. I hope you have my big eyes and dark hair. I also hope you have curls and dimples. Basically, I hope you have all the features I love to look at, but don’t have myself. But most of all, I hope you are healthy and happy.

I know we haven’t met yet,  but I want you to know that you will be a better person than I could even THINK about being. I know this. There are so many more things I know and hope for you, but I rather tell you in person. 

Love you most,
Mom

Today’s prompt:
Write a letter to a stranger—someone imaginary, someone you met once, someone you only know from a distance. Tell them any and everything: when you first noticed them and what has happened since, how you’d like your day to start and to end, or what’s been on your mind. Or tell them a story about a time when something difficult led you to an unexpected, interesting, maybe even wondrous place. You may be stuck inside four walls, but there are no boundaries. Say whatever you want to say, whatever you think they need to hear. *Note: These letters are not meant to be sent.

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Anxiety.

we met in the only childhood room I ever had to myself. Teddy-bears and other stuffed animals danced above my head, and Luther Vandross’s Here and Now played softly on the radio. I was only 5, maybe 6 when yo told me my gradparents I just visited in the motherland would soon get old and die. I cried.

and here you are more than three decades later. keeping me up at night, then haunting my in my dreams. squatting in a vacancy in my head that does not belong to you. a monster under my bed. in the car. at my desk. on the bathroom floor. tears on my pillow. struggling in my soul. i wish you would go away.

anxiety you are the twin flame i wish i could extinguish. you are relentless. you are manipulative. i hate you. i resent you. i want you to die. but. if you die, i die too.

so instead, i will sit with you. i will nurture you. i will understand you. i will take care of you. i will empathize with you. i will learn from you. i will teach you. i will thank you. i will wish you well, then wish you away.

no longer my twin flame, but a spark of light. a reminder of how extraordinary it is to feel things, and a reminder of how far i’ve come.

#writingwithRupi Today I participated in my second, online poetry workshop with the amazing Rupi Kaur. In this exercise, the initial prompt was to think of something you were struggling with. Each stanza then had their own prompts. We weren’t allowed to stop, or make edits. The whole process was stressful yet cathartic, and I was humbled at how many participants were such amazing writers. I hope you enjoy this little poem from someone that is not a poet. Keep in mind I’m artist, and I’m sensitive about my shit #shoutoutBadu.

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Happy, Hurting, Healing.

I am happy.
Because I have grown.
Because I have meditated.
Because I have loved.
Because I have lost.

I am hurting.
Because I have grown.
Because I have meditated.
Because I have loved.
Because I have lost.

I am healing.
Because I have grown.
Because I have meditated.
Because I have loved.
Because I have lost.

Happy, hurting, healing. It’s all connected. It’s all the same. This is my story. This is life. This is the beginning, and this is The End.

#writingwithRupi Today I participated in my second, online poetry workshop with the amazing Rupi Kaur. In this exercise, the prompt was to write the title for the story of our life. We weren’t allowed to stop, or make edits. The whole process was stressful yet cathartic, and I was humbled at how many participants were such amazing writers. I hope you enjoy this little poem from someone that is not a poet.

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Dear Simone.

Dear Simone,
I’ve been dying to tell you how you’ve changed my life before even having life.
How your eyes light up an entire universe inside of me that houses people and places and feelings I’ve never felt before.
How your beauty reminds me of a childhood I never had.
A jewelry box containing my most prized possession.
My little peanut turned lemon turned mango turned melon in my little then big belly.
Green with envy when we go to the park, because everyone wants to look at you, to love you, to hold you, to be loved by you.
And I could never wind the clock back to a time I never knew you.
Your tiny  fingernails feel like butterflies against my face when I kiss you goodnight and you hug me like I am the moon.
In your cotton onesie I watch you sleep as peaceful as a glacier stream on the first sight of spring.
Hoping to keep these memories in my head like a video replaying over and over a highlight reel of the highest point in my life.
Because you are my blood – a sickly, sweet mix of all the good parts of me and none of the bad, because you will be better than I could even fathom.
I will carry you and your laughter and your sorrows and your tears and your dreams and your troubles on my back with the strength of a thoroughbred horse.
So I tuck you in, and say good night. I can’t wait to see what unfolds as I put these thoughts in an envelope and send it to you now, in the future.
My Dear, Simone.

#writingwithRupi A few days ago I participated in a poetry workshop the amazing Rupi Kaur hosted on Instagram live. We wrote three different types of poems with the first one written in letter form. We all started with the words, “Dear [insert word here], I have been dying to tell you …” We free wrote for a few minutes, and then she provided 10 random words we were to incorporate into the poem. We weren’t allowed to stop, or make edits. The whole process was stressful yet cathartic, and I was humbled at how many participants were such amazing writers. I hope she does it again, and I hope you enjoy this little poem from someone that is not a poet.

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