Rough Writer.

I used to date this pretty boy from Orange County. No further explanation should be necessary after that description, but he was in the military so I figured he knew a little something about roughing it despite his shiny exterior. I was wrong. The first time I asked him to “Hit it from the back”, he said, “Huh?” HUH? WHAT DO YOU MEAN HUH? tenor-1When I asked him to pull my hair, he grabbed a few small strands and timidly tugged on them as if they weren’t attached to my head, and he was scared they’d come off. Boy, quit playin. After we were done, I asked why he seemed confused when I asked him to hit it doggy-style. He said no one ever asked him to before, and it was in that very second I realized the real reason his previous marriage didn’t work out. 

In contrast, Thor was like the bed Goldilocks picked in the story with the three bears. He knew exactly how hard/soft to fuck me. Man, I really do know how to taint innocence don’t I? When I’d ask him to pull my hair (fellas take notes), he’d grab a nice hand full, twist it around his wrist and gently, yet matter-of-factly tug on it until I resembled a Pez dispenser. He rarely ever needed instruction, but on the rare occasion I’d test him and ac12b78192843c152678209ae22e3729mutter something like, “I know you can fuck me harder” or some shit like that. Well I guess one day he figured he’d test me by slapping me during sex. 

My first thought was, “Did that just happen?” By the look on his face, he was thinking the same thing. I should clarify that it wasn’t an airy slap that left a sting. It was almost like he just forcefully pushed my face to the side. Still, I didn’t know how I felt about it. We looked at each other for a second in an awkward moment of silence until it set in. Then, he laughed and I gave him one squinty eye and a head tilt, as if gauging his next move. Apparently I’m bad at gauging, because he slapped me again. That’s when I decided I wasn’t down. 

Him: You don’t like that?
Me: No (although it sounded like a No?)
Him: No?
Me: Nah, I’m good.

He never did it again. Funny thing is, it didn’t hurt. Not in the least bit. It bothered me, because I felt disrespected by it, although I’m not exactly sure why. It can also go the other way around. I have one homie who was fucking a girl who wanted it more rough than he was comfortable being. Alas, everyone has their own perception of what “liking it rough” means and it’s getting harder and harder to interpret.

In the world we live in today, it’s almost as if we have to sign an agreement prior a’la 50 Shades of Grey. I agree, it’s a boner kill to discuss these things in the heat of the moment, but better safe than sorry. Also safe to say you can slap her ass, pull her hair and choke her out, BUT LEAVE HER FACE ALONE. Well, depends on what you’re going to do to it. 

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I spent most of my adult life wanting to be the kind of woman who squeezed every second out of every minute of every hour out of the day. At the time, these were high hopes for a girl that couldn’t even commit to making her bed in the morning.

I wanted to be the woman who woke up early, went to the gym, made breakfast, wore heels to work, looked flawless on the train, killed presentations, power lunched, had happy hour with her girls, then came home to her modern, high rise apartment Downtown and had a glass of wine while writing her book before bed. Instead, I woke up at 7am, but hit the snooze button four times, had wet hair on the train, and got anxiety hosting every All Hands meeting.

Then, about a year ago I slowly started to become the woman I wanted to be. I don’t know what triggered it, perhaps nothing. I started making my bed every morning, and somehow found the energy to wake up early and make breakfast. I found myself washing dishes right away. I went to the yoga and the gym consistently. I became less tolerant of messiness, and I could no longer sleep in or lounge without having couch potato remorse.

I had finally tapped into the part of me that was just as productive outside of work as I was on the job. Even as I write this, I’m trying to purchase black out shades and watch an episode of Sneaky Pete while researching cheap vacation destinations in July. I come home from work and look around my apartment trying to find things to do. I have yet to just come home, and take a load off. The fact of the matter is, I can’t sit still until I’ve finished everything that can be done. Except, I’m constantly finding new things to do.

I had finally turned on that part of my brain. The problem now is now I can’t turn it off. I can’t relax until absolutely everything is done right then and there. Everything is urgent even if it’s not. I’ve created a monster. One that unpacks right when she’s back from a trip and puts every dish away even if she’s running late for work. 

My 30 year-old me would be SO PROUD … yet my 36 year-old self isn’t. I feel as if it was done all in vain. Because seconds turn into minutes, and minutes turn into hours, and hours turn into days, and all I have to show for it is a clean apartment and a planner filled with crossed-out “To Do Lists”. Here I am doing all the things I’ve praised, yet I don’t feel anymore a Goddess than I did before. What gives?

I’m not going to downplay the importance of prioritizing and utilizing your time. It’s an admirable talent that I’ve strived years to have. However, I am going to glorify the importance of quality time as an adjective and not a noun. Because you can count all the minutes you spend (or don’t spend) on various projects throughout your day, but it’s the times you love, feel loved and have purpose that count most. 


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On My Mind.

Current song: On My Mind
Current mood: Nostalgic

On my way to grab lunch the other day, I made sure to play my Jorja Smith playlist on Spotify to prep for her concert later that night. On My Mind began to play, and the hook resonated with me:

I finally found what went wrong
You think I would mind
Oh, you think I, oh
I finally found the wrong in you

In life, you go through certain things, and you never forget how you feel in those moments. Not even years later when you’ve seemingly moved on. Similarly, there are songs that trigger these feelings and like a bullet to the chest you are instantly brought back to that exact instance of heartache, happiness, betrayal,  and confusion, etc.

Jorja’s hook mentioned above is one of them. As soon as I heard the words, my eyes went tight and I pursed my lips thinking of a specific fuckboi from my past. I remember how manipulative he was, and how I constantly blamed myself for the way he was treating me. I allowed him to make me feel unworthy of love – what more his love, and I allowed myself to believe I deserved it. The On My Mind lyrics remind me of the days right after I finally snapped out of my funk and basically realized HE WASN’T SHIT. I wished this song had came out 10 years ago, because it would’ve definitely helped me at the time.

Still, I appreciate the song nearly a decade later. Despite being in a great relationship today, I can remember the pain of the past as if it were just yesterday. Because no happy life, wonderful partner, beautiful family, or big house will ever make you forget how it feels to be disrespected, betrayed, and heart broken. I believe songs like this are written not only to help those going through similar situations, but also to remind those who are no longer in them to appreciate their current relationship even more. 

Current song on my mind: The Sweetest Love
Current mood: Grateful

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It’s Expensive Being an Adult.

What started out as one of my many, useless Facebook rants about adulting, ended with an entire post about buying expensive shit I would’ve never cared to have 5+ years ago. Although I’ve been paying rent and living away from my mother for over a decade now, I feel as if I JUST got my first “adult” apartment. Maybe it’s the fact that my name is actually on a lease or that I had to apply for it, but more than likely it’s because I’M BUYING A LOT MORE SHIT THAN I HAVE BEFORE.

Long gone are the days of mismatched dining room chairs and twin beds. Who am I even kidding? I didn’t have a dining table in college! At any rate, I’ve compiled a list of unnecessary necessities whose prices always make me gasp. 

Rugs. It almost makes me mad that rugs are so expensive, especially knowing that it’s just going to get dirty and walked all over on. I’m not even talking about the fancy ones made of unicorn hair flown in overnight from Middle Earth, because even the Ikea ones can be costly. WHYYYY?


$1,700 whyyyyy?

Bar carts. Bruh, you’re not even a full table. I can barely have a meal on you, WHY ARE YOU SO EXPENSIVE? Is it because all the goodies you will hold like Japanese whiskey, Hall reds, and sipping tequila will take away all my problems and bring joy to my life? OK then, fair enough. Moving on…

Throw pillows. I legit have no explanation for this. For the most part, these just end up being decoration, or falling on the floor because the abundance of them leaves no room on the sofa. I have an ugly, brown ass couch, so throw pillows are necessary to unbrown it. I get that some pillows are handcrafted in India by someone’s 167 year-old grandma and shit, but even the ones that feel like sandpaper can be expensive. 

ANYTHING FROM CRATE & BARREL. This just makes me mad, because everything is so fucking cute there. Sure, there’s CB2, but even then only people with money think that’s a steal. It’s the difference between something being $1,100 and then being on clearance for $999 – IT’S STILL FUCKING EXPENSIVE FOR ME. But I get it, I really do. Because I’ve been eyeing the same $50 kitchen canisters for 2 months now. FUCK YOU CRATE & BARREL!


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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. 
Michael B jordan Workout
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.


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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