haha, found you

i've found my insecurites again.
not being good enough. not being pretty enough. christian enough. tall enough. polished enough. not smart enough. damn i can go on and on.

not being worth it.
sigh.

i don't know why. no, i do know why. i've always been insecure, but i've learned to fake my courageous amazingness. i want to say that other's have contributed to my loud mutedness, but i don't know if that is entirely true. but deep down i know it is because no one is born with a feeling of impending worthlessness. every one is born with the ability to just BE who they are. and love that person. and i don't think i love who i am.

i'm the queen of 'fake it til you make it'. but now i'm tired and only want to hibernate til life is over.

damn. i have a lot of issues.
lol

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with this ring...

i guess i'm guilty *shrug*
but ask me if i care.

the mister and i were out to dinner last night, and we were checking out our waitress ashley...he then commented on the fact that she was engaged. we'll leave my response out of the story....somehow he asking for our bill turned into 'so, how long have you been engaged?' *gag me* turns out homegirl was not engaged, didn't even have a boyfirend. so apparently we are guilty together.
guilty of wearing rings on our 'forbidden' finger.

his response 'that's just weird!'
give me a break! *insert mild neck wagging*

there are many reasons why women wear rings on their commitment finger other than marriage
*commitment to purity and God (which is the most common)
*commitment to themselves and their own worth
*commitment to warding of creeps and to remaining uninterested
*commitment to fashion (i mean you only have so much fingers to wear gorgeous rings on, may as well use all of them...right?)

i started wearing a ring on my left hand when i hit my mid 20's, more so because i got sooo tired of men always trying to chat me up, and it became a slight deterent. for the men that just didn't care whether i was taken or not, i resorted to just showing them my attitude instead.

gone are the days when supersition ruled and a jeweled commitement finger meant doom, bad luck and tainted. and well, gone soon will be the days when men see the ring as a 'do not touch' sign, thanks to loose females and homewreckers, cheating has become as easy and almost as acceptable as the bad smell oozing from the bathroom stall...everyone smells it, few will screw up their face and ask 'who did that?'

sacred is as sacred does. (does that even make sense?)
even though the mister told me not to wear mine because he finds it weird, i'm commited to myself, my worth and my gorgeous rings that only come in ring finger size.

so i guess i'll remain guilty for a while longer.

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hearts are stupid.

i find myself afraid to love.
terrifingly afraid.

when sweet thing left he really did a piece of work on my heart. broke it. not only my heart, but me. he broke me. broke what i thought about myself, broke who and what i wanted to be with someone. in love.
one day happy and caring for each other intensely. loving me. the next, i am no longer worth the effort, the work to be great with someone.

i am no longer the hopeless romantic i used to be. i no longer believe in fairytales. fairytales are for losers. and i am no longer a loser, i am awesomeness. if cold.

but this dude right here, he makes me want to love. his pursuing of me, makes me smile sideways, and even though i am pretty sure my insecurities are scaring him, he wants to hold my baggage and help me unpack them and that's scaring me. is there such a thing named love. do stomach butterflies really exist or are there figments of our imagination when given the drug that half closes eyes and gives the angels their angelic voices.

i'm not saying i will fall in love with dude, he doesn't even have a nickname yet...i am the queen of nicknames and he doesn't have one yet. signs of the good, the different? the lasting....? i am definitely in like with dude...but love is for losers. i mean, that's what i tell myself, because deep down i no longer believe i am worth the effort, the work to be great with someone.

but he makes me believe that i could one day...

and even though i am liking him more than a crush, it's been a little over a month since my world was shattered and the love of my life broke my heart. i no longer cry, but i do. i'm not ready to love. not ready to just be. not even ready to be touched, because my body still remembers...

my heart is no longer my own, in the midst of tears and pain i gave it back to God, vowing that any man that wants it needs to go to him (my daddy) to get it. dude makes me forget that vow, my heart wants to leap into his open hands and snuggle there.

but hearts are stupid.
i no longer will be.

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life is a movement

I'm in love.

his name is life.

he helps me to keep it moving.

I love that life doesn't wait for us. I mean if it did we would all be lazy, procrastinators. content with depending on tomorrows and laters, fat from our own existance. but life is desgined to cause movement. and we have to move along with it, well I take that back, we don't have to move with it. there are many people, you know some and I know some, at one point we ourselves were those people. the everything's ok people, the laid back people, who don’t run after busses because there will always be a next one, who don't regret going after opportunities because there will always be a next one, who jump from relationship to relationship because there are too many fish in the sea. and semen.

and so life passes by. and we are left standing still. growing older without ever having grown.

life is designed to cause movement. create movement. life is a movement.

sigh…and that is a beautiful thing. God designed life to not wait for us. to not be on hold when we are going through crap. when pain buckles our knees and threatenes to push us down and trip us up, the earth keeps rotating.

God desgined life to push us, motivate us, to inspire us to live. to not merely exist, but to live.

merely existing is boring. and then you die. and no one remembers you.

not even the square inch of life you once occupied.

life is a movement. full of jumps, leaps, runs, dancing, climbing and sliding down.

falling into crap, and getting back up. and showering in the rain that comes in the morning.

movement of muscles. smiles, claps, laughter, damn high fives, running mans and eating (I mean shoot, we gotta celebrate!)

life is a movement.

get moving or die. left standing.

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my sista b****...part one

collectively women are a hot mess. we are no better than any other people, or stereotype. we gang up on each other, immaturely and maturely pull each other's hair, steal each other's men and call each other worse names than the carriers of sperm do.

bitch. whore. slut.
what ever happened to sister?

we call ourselves names trying to erase the degradation underlying in our face.

I am the baddest bitch.
what ever happened to 'i am woman'
your God given role was not good enough for you?

wiping the spit from our lips after pronouncing the last sound, making up stupid meanings to make our given meaning more agressive. much stronger. more decieved.

bitch has evolved from the name one calls a female dog allowing any male dog to mount her in the street or behind a bush. birthing within her womb many babies that are a burden to give away or sell. drown in the river. toss away in a box. to being a slang term for complaining: griping, misery and unhappiness even if momentarily. to complimenting all those meanings into one : women who are strong- minded, assertive, and in Total Control.

decieved.
the baddest bitch.

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dead leaves falling

i think the dead leaf falling to the ground thinks many things. sadness for being forced to leave the branch it's always known, anger for not being able to slap the butts of crap happy birds leaving it's surface. happy that the crap happy bird will no longer be crapping on it's surface.

but the number one thought.
i hope i don't fall into that pile of crap.

i mean, isn't that what we all think as we are falling down. some dead and some dead like. forcibly or willing. with happiness or sadness.
i hope i don't fall into that pile of crap.

if you were a dead leaf, what would you be thinking as you were falling down dead?

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whores and sticky notes: the kiss back

i love that words have the ability to spark conversation. and my post 'whores and sticky notes' sparked a conversation/response from someone i love and hugely respect. renee, girl you are awesomeerr!

here is the response she dropped in my facebook inbox today and i had to post it.

Deliciously, tantalizing blog. Provoked me to write a response. Here’s what we don’t talk about, there is no excuse for whoredom. As believers, newly converted spiritualist, we’ve lost what the religious folks we’ve liberated ourselves from possess; a hard-core ethical stance. In our fear of being less “SP” (Spiritually Correct), we dare not judge, for judgment of another is a greater sin than murder, or rape, or theft right? Wrong. Judgment is a necessary evil. Judgment is needed to decipher what is right or wrong in the kingdom, it is the “sticky note” we assign to people and the manner in which we handle them that is the sin, not the identification that they may be a whore etc. etc.

With that being said, you make a valid point that not every whore (male/female) has been tickled, touched, poked or prodded DIRECTLY. What they are dealing with could very well be a generational curse. We, as human beings live by cause and effect, we don’t choose bad just because. Particularly when that bad carries so much danger, emptiness, loneliness. Living in that place, with those decisions, is a reactionary space. Even if its lonely that makes me react by choosing sex. Even if there are forces that my spiritless self doesn’t quite understand working against me, that causes me to choose reactionary sex. Owning whoredom or not makes it no less reactionary and thusly, there is a very serious root cause.

I believe people are inherently good. I don’t believe any young girl or boy unless socialized to believe differently, decides that whoredom is a good thing. Thusly, the secrecy about one’s condition comes into play. The shifting of responsibility also becomes evident. No one truly wants to own the ugly inside of them. Darkness and light cannot coincide but we try and try and try to live that duplicitous existence. Reactionary space . . .just my thoughts provoked by whores and sticky notes.

Thank you my friend for sharing your creative mind and matter. ; )

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ok, serious question...

.....is it just me or are there some women that just always look trashy...no matter what they do, they always look like they should be walking off the set of dancehall queen rockin' the skittles weave, fresh from the daggering, or walking out of a bad, very bad trailer park. with 5 kids. hollering for jimmy james' no good behind.
O_o

there is this woman at work, no matter what she wears, no matter how she does her hair, makeup or not, she always looks trashy. and she is not the first, even brittney murphy (RIP) was affected with this ailment. i absolutely loved hated her dirty, skankalicious role in 8Mile, but i realized that even after the movie wrapped she still looked like alex...my girl was in that role for life. i don't know what it is, or where it comes from, (i secretly think it's the permanent raccoon eyes), but something has to give.

something has to give or we have to find a cure for the perma-tatty syndrome.
because i'll be damned if my daughter comes out looking like she should be on 'flavor of love'
delicious my ass.

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contradiction adoration

ex. the kisser. recovering ms.rubies. i am such a contradiction.

on one hand, my mouth is foul, i think about sex alot, i talk about it even more, my humor is raunchy and morbid, and i have an attitude problem. on the other hand i am a saint, the daughter of a pastor struggling to build and maintain a relationship with God, lover of people, giver of great advice, all around good girl.

and so i had to create a place where i could be both, and be me in all my imperfect beauty, my thoughts, my opinons, and my attitude splattered over lip prints because i am strangely obsessed with lip prints (and kissing). now that i think about it, maybe i shouldn't love the contradicton that is me, that could be part of my struggle...but the little high pitched low sexy voice in my head questions me 'why can't you just be both?'

i guess we'll just have to see won't we. if i can be both. if naughty and nice can live together in perfect harmony, i mean doesn't everyone have a little naughty in them? maybe the question will evolve into 'how much naughty is too much naughty' because no one will ever tell you that you can be too nice.

the kisser meet ms.rubies.

oh! and by the way, i never write with capitals if i don't have to, that's part of my rebellion.

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