Thursday, August 30, 2007


[YESSSS...I'm still SEXIN STRONG, via blog that is. The events detailed in this post provided the real life initial inspiration for my marathon multiple blogasms...Enjoy. ~Management]

Last Monday...

It's always best in the morning...after a full night's insomnia. Tossing and turning, anxious for dawn to usher in the energy and hope of another day. The morning…after I’ve been satisfied.

On this morning, I caught my breath and stepped one foot onto the hardwood floor…the contrasting sensation of cold zipping like mercury through my heat.

The blast of water in the shower has a similar effect in the morning…after a full night’s sweat.

In the 30 or so steps it takes to get from the porcelain foot of the tub to the window in my bedroom, my skin has already absorbed the excess mist. Summer is on hiatus at the moment, as the storm clouds bum rush my horizon. Humidity plays sidekick. The muscle.

There’s something about the rain in the morning…after a hot midnight. The earth’s shower. There’s something about its cadence upon impact on my windowsill. On the concrete. Atop the hood of my car parked just across the street.

I stand in front of the window, the vertical blinds allowing only strips of a vertictal view. I see my car and the rain’s onslaught. And I wanna get back into bed. I want the sheets to umbrella me.

I turn toward my shelter, when out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse through the blinds.

A thigh.

Then a forearm.

A cross-trained foot pulled up to a taught...

My eyes are bad, but I can see that ass clearly.

I’m moving my head slowly, left to right…boring a hole through the blinds.

He’s all charcoal skin. Sinewy, shirtless stretches. Dreads tied back. Arms dented with strength.

At the moment, I need to be reached. I need his arms not on the tree parked beside my ride, but rooted on my sides.

Instead, I’m now rubbing lotion there on me, as I do most mornings. After all, ashy ain’t a good look when you’re expecting company.

Every morning I stand in this exact spot, at this exact time, flirting with the commuters down below who have no idea that nakedness dances just beyond the blinds. If only they’d look up.

I’d wave.

Or perhaps there is someone just beyond the blinds just across the street, also 3 floors up, looking directly across at me looking down. If only they’d let me know.

I’d hide.

If only the charcoal man would look up from his morning jog out in the rain. If only he’d turn his attention away from the tree on which he is leaning for balance. Stretching, bending, reaching for the rain clouds.

I’d throw down my house key.

If only I knew he was coming. We’d both be, right about now.

But I never listen to my dreams. When I saw him, around midnight, in a sleepless dream, I rolled over and counted the hours ‘til morning.

He's gone now. A blur in the rain.

I almost run after him.

Sunday, August 26, 2007


No, I havent cracked yet...I just need to interrupt the orgy for a quick request...

Anybody in Chitown or Raleigh, email me, pretty pls.

(Thanks, MDubb!
Brown Blogger, I tried to holler at you but your email isnt on your page)

Thursday, August 23, 2007


And now the second installment in the SEX WEEK series...(part 1)

“My sister said you’re home.”
“Hello to you, too, B. Long time. I thought you were gonna email me.”
“Come over,” Bryan answered. Weazy took a deep breath, knowing that her summer wouldn’t be the same if she complied.
“What, you big sophomore in college now so you can’t come see an old friend who knew you before you were grown?”
“Where are you living now, Bryan? Kinney told me what went down with (grand)Ma.” Within an hour the pair were sitting side by side on Kinney’s boyfriend’s couch in the basement of his apartment. A six-pack of wine coolers separated their thighs. This was their routine. Long talks after long disappearances. There was always so much catching up to do, between Weazy’s college exploits, and Bryan’s drama with his grandmother and uncles.
“So who you let have my cherry?” He finally asked, tossing the last bottle onto the floor.
“Excuse me, your what?” He winked his way through her mild aggravation, leaned over and planted a moist peck on her forehead, then lips. It was perhaps their thousandth kiss. Up to that point it was the staple of their horizontal history. There was always an attraction, always cohesion to their conversations, always quality in their quiet times. There just wasn’t much of a bond. They were friends who happened to make the other wet or hard.

Back in high school they spent days in Bryan’s grandmother’s basement that should have been spent in classrooms. She would brave the winters at the bus stop, counting the minutes until she’d be warmly wrapped in his lanky arms. They logged hours on the telephone. Double dated with Kinney and her barrage of boyfriends. But they were never considered an item. Weren’t prom dates, nor at the top of the other’s Christmas list.

Yet, as Weazy approached 21, and the halfway point of her college years, the yearning was becoming more pronounced. There were college boys with off-campus apartments. Boys with advanced degrees in sexuality that far exceeded Weazy’s desires. She wanted to go some of the way, but was unwilling to go all the way. Not without a map.

At the moment, Bryan’s hands were headed in the right direction. They slid from the side of her face to the side of her chest. Soon her breasts were swept up into his hands, and soon his face found respite there. He unleashed her flesh from the simple brassiere, and before the dank basement air could hit, his mouth covered her tepid nipples. Another of his signature moves, performed on countless occasions. One that elicited the slightest of moans each and every time. This time there was a sigh. And a smile. And a silent recognition and appreciation for the comfort. The familiarity. The fervor.

She pursed her lips to purr and was met with a wet set. With her eyes closed she could practically draw in each line and crease that etched the small pillows he called lips. They had a feather’s touch, and each time her lips met his, she felt the urge to pull away and inspect his for an imprint. Weazy was no slouch. She parted the siege with the precision of the anointed, allowing her tongue to announce its graceful arrival.

If all else failed, kissing was her thing. It was her area of mastery. A kissing bandit of sorts, she found sport in planting juicy ones, wielding wet lips like a sword. Kissing got her out of many a jam. In middle school she learned that when a boy’s fast hands were jogging well beyond her intended destination, a few deep kisses to the neck could buy enough time to distract and redirect her panties up north. It did little but agitate in high school, but college brought on a new life lesson. The penis was not the only powerful pressure point in the pelvic region. And hitting the others with the lips causes a frenzy that can easily divert immediate oral expectations.

Guys had gone down on her and seemed happy to do it. So she never even lifted her chin to reciprocate. Not out of spite. Out of fear and foresight. Fear of getting it wrong, but with the foresight to know that her name would be sullied from one end of the campus to the next. So kissing remained her staple, because even pretending goes a long way.

But with Bryan there was a respect built. A trust that allowed her to give without regret. So when she had given every inch of her tongue to his mouth, she portioned it out across the rest of his body. She straddled his chest and took in the shimmering green tint of his gaze. His mouth was tilted toward her, begging, but she focused her attention instead on the cleft in his chin. She liked the scratchy stubble against her skin. He liked the trail of kisses from there to his chest.
She lingered at the thin wisps of hair there. He squirmed his way to the left until his nipple was eye to eye with her tongue.
She loved to pay homage to the protruding scar on the left side of his torso. He would have preferred she skip that route, but held her hunches in place there anyway.
She tried inching down but felt a long barricade against her backside. Though he was poised to position her center in the direction of the erection, he allowed her to choose her own adventure.

She chose to U-turn.

He lifted up onto his hands, his chest plastered against her back, which now faced him. Her face pointed toward the socks still on his feet. He leaned back onto the pullout couch in the dark basement of his sister’s boyfriend’s crib, and lightly yet with an entitled authority placed two hands on her back. Pressed her forward.

Horizontal. Naked. Knees against ears. Their clothes now a casualty. They waged war simultaneously.

She surrendered just moments before him.


The next night…

“Yo, we 69’ed!”
“Yeah right.”
“Stated. That’s my word.”
“Aight, nigga.”
“Lemme get back down there.”

Bryan had left out the part about how the only reason they did that again, for the second night in a row, was because he couldn’t get the condom on. Weazy was pissed and hurt, because she didn’t know his sister’s boyfriend all that well, and had more respect for her friend than to let her brother’s business get back to her. She told him so when he came back down to the basement with a glass of water for her.

“You couldn’t wait to run your mouth, huh?”
“I could hear through the damn walls, Bryan. At least have enough respect for me to wait until I’m gone.”
“I’m out.”

Out, but not gone. She was back there every night that week. And every night marked yet another failed attempt at shaking loose her virginity.

But on the eighth night…

“I can cut diamonds, boo. Gimme the rubber.” Weazy felt the furnace of hell at her back as she said a silent prayer for this to be it. She held her breath, having abandon the fantasy of putting it on for him, back on Night Three.

In fact, she didn’t even bother sitting up. She counted stripes in the wood paneled walls instead. Then an entire set of teeth appeared grinning in her view. The green of Bryan’s eyes were more sparkling than ever before. They held a promise.

Without speaking, her kissed her with deep undulations, an almost feverish rhythm to his cadence. His hands held her face gently, then tightly. Hands that smelled of fresh latex. Then came a deliberate succession of actions.

Fingers through her fresh perm.
Kisses to her eyelids and nose and ear.
Her head cradled in his arms, in an almost supplicant swoop.
His skin pressed solidly on top of hers.
Her right leg pulled up around his waist.
Then a silent, unspoken knock at her door.
An inquiring look in the eye. Then permission granted.
Then an ambitious thrust.
And a wide-eyed stare. And a gasp.
And the answered assumptions of apprehension and anticipation.


“Where did you find that candle?”
“It was sitting right on the top of the toilet tank,” Weazy answered.
“Why can’t I join you?”
“Because I just wanna be alone for a sec, B.” From his spot on the floor, Bryan reached into the bathtub and playfully splashed water onto Weazy’s skin.
“You didn’t even bleed, boo. The couch is totally clean.”*
“Yeah, well good thing I can’t stain his bathtub, because I’m sitting in a pool of blood right now.”
“The water’s cold.”
“It’s perfect.”
“So are you.” Bryan kissed Weazy on the lips and stood to his feet. Standing in his boxers and bare chest, he looked down at her, shoulders hunched, shivering in the shallow water in the bathtub of his sister’s boyfriend’s apartment.

“Come out soon, boo.”

Weazy’s gaze remained on the faucet before her.

She heard his feet on the hardwood floors descending the stairs and exhaled. She picked up the votive candle with wet hands and examined herself in the flickering light.

If the candle had been a mirror, Weazy would have seen the enormous grin spread across her face like the sunrise. She blew it out and cupped water into her hands and over her face. She began kicking her legs and squealing with the thrill of a newborn. She conjured up the best I’m-sitting-in-a-tub-and-I-just-had-sex dance she could within the confines of the tub. She stood up and stretched her limbs. Swiveled her hips recklessly to gauge the status of her internals.


She stepped out of the tub and onto the towel Bryan left for her.

Weazy had no clue exactly what she was stepping into.

But she couldn’t wait. Because at that very moment, she was elated, knowing that her first time happened not a moment sooner than she could have handled.

*In real life I can’t remember if this is true or not. I’m kind of remembering being mortified at him telling me the exact opposite. It’s quite possible that I blocked this shit out, and if that’s the case I’d like to keep it that way.

Care to share your first time? (use your own yard pls, don’t be doing it on my property!)

Wednesday, August 22, 2007


[I know I wasn't the only person horrified that bl0gger was on crack this morning. :)]

So since I'm not getting any, I'm gonna talk about sex every day until I crack.

Remember undergrad? There were basically 3 topics that led to bonding with new people...old school
TV, high school exploits, and SEX.

So here goes...


Oh.My.God. (I'm assuming this means "intercourse")




That shit WAS funny.


That damn 112 CD still makes me tear up.


Yes...but then I like to sprawl out and pass out.


Yes...but reconciled it by refusing sex from others later.


*blank stare*


The ONE time I dont mind someone running their mouth.
Speak up!




My friends like ugly notsomuch.




Says a lot about the sex that I can actually recall the porn.






"I know it's up there somewhere."




Who DON'T I wanna have sex with right now.


Very much...if ever I, um, open up.




Not enough, yet too many.
But for the record, I'm one of those chicks who is mad political about her "numbers."


If it's good sex!


Spoke to his sister recently...and I doubt his baby moms would appreciate me calling.


My friends/relatives like losers, so no.


Not that I know of.




Waste of time, but ok.


Yup, but not at work.

()church (wait, you mean intercourse?)
()parent's bed
(X)your bed
()picnic table
(x)kitchen counter
(x)dining room/kitchen table
()woods (open and/or in a tent)
()hood of a car
(X)the other person's bed
(x)in a house with parents home
(x)at a party
(x)on top of the washer/dryer
()with other people in the room
(X)grandparent's house
()bookstore stock room
() linen closet

30. How many virgins have you "deflowered?"

None...I hope.

Monday, August 20, 2007



I didnt mean to say it outloud.

It seems it's getting harder and harder for me to divert attention like I used to.

If a question's asked, I answer. Truthfully.

Therein lies the shitload.

I havent prepped. Havent even considered the ramifications.

And now that I've said it I have to own it. Have to live with the impulses to daydream about it.

Sure, I've been in the market, but I wasnt really ready for the investment.

Yes, it's gotten to this where I can't even CONSIDER the possibilities without anxiety.

The complications of another him.

Friday, August 17, 2007

10 Ways to Bore You...I Mean, 10 Things I Like About Me

A 2-a-day. Wow, I got stamina!

This tag is brought to you by Organized Noise, an atypical guy, but a complete gentleman.

If you are reading this, consider yourself tagged with no obligation to oblige. But if you do tag someone you're supposed to say something nice about them...and I really like that you are all at my place and don't mind that I don't always have enough seats, sometimes run out of chips and dip, and limes. But I'm grateful that you always take me up on the invitation and come thru. :)

10 Things I Like About Me

1. I find great joy in making others happy.
I go to great, elaborate lengths to make people close to me smile. Driving to the hood to cop my nephew some Ups he cant get in Upstate. Leaving a Red.Stripe in a place my classmate would find it. Thank you notes. Stocking the fridge with apple juice and Fr0sted.Flakes for my brother. Sending my mom books that I know will keep her up into the wee hours. I love hearing a smile in a thank you.

2. I have a healthy competitive spirit.

I stay making up one hairbrained competition after another. Staredowns, dance offs, memorizing, freestyle battles, whose knees will buckle first, etc. When I'm compared to someone, esp in writing, in my mind I'm saying, "Bitch, I will DESTROY you"...but then always give them props for helping me up my game. Oh, and for some ungodly reason I think I'd be really good at flag football (they had a little commercial on the other day during the Chargers game and I was like, Ooooooh, I wanna play!).

3. I pay attention to detail.
Early on in undergrad a recruiter said that this, and writing were the 2 most valuable skills you could have, and I've embraced it ever since. Attention to detail certainly enhances my business. But you'd also be surprised how eager lovers are to reward it as well!

4. I enjoy my own sense of humor.

There is no greater compliment you could pay me than, "Wise is so effing STUPID! Just ridiculous." A friend recently pointed out that I always laugh the hardest at things that sound like I said or did them. Which also explains my current infatuation with a crush who is basically my identical twin.

5. I'm finally at a point where my own writing impresses me.
Knowing other good writers has finally paid off. Now when I edit my own stuff I rarely vomit.

6. My left nip.
It's really pretty. I tried to post a pic, but bl0gger was trippin.
Oh well.

7. I'm a Birthday Girl.
Birthdays are my thing. I'm particularly obsessed with my own, but anytime I meet someone that I like, I put their bday in my phone, and make a big deal when the day arrives. 2 weeks ago I flew home for one night to throw a friend a surprise party. I can't front, the cake's a big draw.

8. I maintain the mind of a child.
I have nieces and nephews who range in age from 2 to 18. They're all pretty cool kids, which helps...but I'm also the aunt that struggles to assert authority with them cuz when I'm with them, I act like them. We sit around and somersault over eachother, make up silly inside jokes, draw unflattering pics of our parents. When I came home for C-mas last year my nephew said, "I thought you'd come back from grad school, I dunno, a little more mature." I promptly whupped his mature 8 year old azz. But the point is, I think like them and speak in their language, so they trust me with their secrets and anxieties. SO precious.

9. I like that I'm regular.
No bells and whistles, really. I'm woefully regular. I'll admit to having some unregular gifts and talents, but at the end of the day, I'm no shiny suit. If you meet me, it's either an absolute letdown or a seamless transition depending on your impression. But I'm psychologically incapable of pretending to be someone I'm not. The person I am after 6 months is the one I was after 6 minutes.

10. I like Jesus.
I'm not ashamed in the least to have a flawed and complex relationship with my Savior. I often challenge Him, but never doubt his intentions. I dont know all the answers or the ways that He dictates I should live my life, and dont always make the effort. But I do care. I'm comfortable with trusting that the life I'm leading is all by divine design, even if that life doesnt always feel fulfilling. I'm just thankful for the chance to live it.


Management has obtained exclusive transcripts to the recent alleged Home Invasion by Wise's REAL FRIENDS.

Here's what we know...

PROFILE: "Gay Bartender"...
Known her since 4th grade.

Hated her until 6th.

College roommates (what a disaster)

Residence: Brooklyn

Stopped in town en route to interview Comm0n in DC.

PROFILE: "Flavius"...

Origin of friendship unknown, but goes way back to childhood and matured during middle and high school.

Residence: DC...bout to move to NY (but I know deep down that he's gonna effing HATE IT just like he did ATL)

Stopped in town en route to BWI for a 7am flight Tuesday morning down south...for a funeral. Then up north the following day to Upstate NY (home)...for another funeral.

It's decided hours prior that they will both crash at Wise's crib for a classic one-nighter.

I call them Real Friends, not to delineate others as “fake,” but because I just don’t know any better term to describe them. But they remain the benchmark, despite the fact that I only see them on birthdays and perhaps at home at holiday time. Our friendships exist largely through texts, emails and bylines.

These are NOT the people you talk to daily.

Not the ones with which you share weekly Girls Night or Madden Saturdays.

They may not even be the ones on speed dial in case of an emergency.

But they for damn sure are the ones who will UNDERSTAND and INTERNALIZE said emergency when you finally do get around to telling them about it. [And they for damn sure will find the after hours liquor store while on a 7Elev run for Marlb0r0s].

They may not know all your business, but they know YOU, they know where you come from…they just KNOW.

So, even though they were only here for a night (except GB who stumbled back over the next night after Com’s album release)…their place in my heart is everlasting…


Flav: "I wouldnt go as far as saying Wise is an alcoholic..."

GB: "...but you know that if you come to her crib on little to no notice, there will be a full bottle, juice and a 12-pack."


Flav: "I need to leave DC. I'm nomadic by nature. It's been 5 years, it's cool. But I'm still in love. And I need to get as far as away as possible."
[he and the ex still live together. yikes]


GB: "What the fcuk! I'm 30. My credit is flawless. I have savings. And I can't BUY a place in NY. Not only because a studio in the slums costs half a mil, but because on absolutely any day of the week the magazine could get shut down. Then what?"

Wise: "I'm gonna go ahead and get to sleep now bec I dont believe what the hell i'm hearing from people I otherwise respect!"

GB: "Look, the mom on M0esha was the shit! Weazy Jefferson, ehhhhh."

Flav: "Yo, you realize we were the kids the system invested in. They sent our little Black asses around the world, brought in the best education. But those sons of bitches taught nggas LATIN, taught us how to BE smart, but never not once taught us how to LIVE smart!"

Wise: "She had a kid with a sociopath because her dad's one...and she doesnt know him well enough to know what that's like."

Flav: "No, she had a kid with him because her first real love got murdered and she wanted HIS kid."

GB: "Anytime I have the convo about parents, Wise is always the example of our only friend growing up who lived with both parents. You had a dad Wise, so OF COURSE you think that's the answer to everything."

Wise: "Oh you already know I think Dads are the answer to black on black crime, poverty, all that."

GB: "Heredity is a muhfcukah! Both of you are the antithesis of your parents, yet the absolute embodiment of them at the same time."

Wise: "And I suppose your sexuality is the embodiment of your mother's resentment."

GB: "Can somebody look in the kitchen for my boots!"


My mother always says, "When you find a real friend, hold on to them for dear life."

I couldnt get rid of these muhfcukas if I tried. And they just KNOW it.

Wednesday, August 15, 2007


Tuesday Morning, 8:03am
The Crib

"Yes, I'd like to call in a possible disturbance."

"A break in?"

"Not a break in, a disturbance. No, no. An

Would you like to report anything stolen or missing."


"Anything out of place?"

"Uh, yeah."

"We'll send someone out."

"Not necessary. I think I can piece this one together..."

Let's review the evidence...

My fire escape. Looks like all hell broke loose out there...

An open cranberry juice container...

And wait, what is that lime green label??

I was afraid so.

It just doesnt add up. I'm nothing if not tidy. Even outdoors.
But this. Beer bottles and cups and wrappers.

A damn SHAKER??

An overturned bottle. (that's the neighbor's nasty grill. Not mine.)

Wait...I don't smoke.

Season 5 of the Jeff.ersons. Hmm, only reason that would have been discarded so carelessly is if someone perhaps tried to argue that Weezy wasnt one of the greatest TV moms of all time. I dunno. I'm just drawing at straws here. Nothing concrete.

Again, I dont smoke...

So upon further review, who in the hell was blazin and left remnants on top of Thurg00d, no less?!

And the real smoking gun...Wise summers in sandals. So whose are these...

Yup. This could only mean one thing...

My REAL FRIENDS Are in Town.
Stay tuned.

Monday, August 13, 2007


For the first time in 30 years I looked in the mirror and looked OLD.

Now granted, my eyebrow dude pulled a fast one and changed his after settling for the alternative threading a week and a half ago, I am looking kinda Ernie & Bert.

And true, the time of the effing month has left a scattering of unflattering breakouts across my forehead.

And there are the few errant greys.

And come to think of it, my eyes look almost as dark as the lenses on my shades.

Ok, this isnt the first time I've looked ugly ...but def the first time I bet I could buy a Molson unmolested.

Exhibit lil laugh lines so sensitively pointed out by Brolic Boy.

Exhibit B...a box full of photos positioned right below my mirror. [Somebody found somebody else who in turn found me on I pulled out the albums trying to find pics of them from back in the day.]

Instead, I found a So...Wise Yearbook of past events and candid moments.

Wise of old, if you will. Oh shit...

Remember that party at Cheetah!

Wow, it was like 15 of us crashed in my lil azz crib on the Dip.set block.

Whoa...I had forgotten all about that cat. I need to g00gle him.

Awww, my mom looks so pretty!

Look at my babies!!

Whoa, graduation seems like a lifetime ago.

What was that shirt??

DAYUM, my hair was sooooo long!
Fresh perm, too.

Every pic of me from high school to college to recent grad feature me in one youthful pose after another. ()I never appreciated it back then of course, but I had a hopeful glimmer in my eye and a Pantenesque sheen to my healthy hair.


It occurred to me that the last days of my 20s were also the last days of my hair as I knew it. It started to deteriorate as my bday approached.

I cut it off in May. Embraced the loss the same way I did the turn of the new decade.

And for the first time ever, as I rocked my lil nappy fro, I looked OLD.
(You gotta understand, the Perpetually Juvenile look runs in my family. My brothers are damn near 40 and still look like Bishop and 'nem from the movie Jui.ce, and I routinely get carded when buying my mom's K00ls 100.)

It's probably still not visible to the untrained eye...I'm sure I'd still get mistaken for an undergrad.



Ms. Thomasine..."So what are you waiting for?"

Wise..."I dunno. I'm still trying to get used to it short. I've never not had a ponytail. And been rocking long braids since March."

MT..."You have a lot of hair. More than I did when I started. You got a cute lil pea head, too. It'll be longer than you think."

I sit up in the swivel chair. Take one last look at my old looking azz. Take a self-portrait with my phone.

Wise: "Let's do it."

The next time I faced the mirror, an hour later, I was 21 again. Fresh face, bright eyes. Pea head.

Freshly twisted hair.

10 years from now, God willing, I’ll look in the mirror and finally look 30. I’ll have photographic evidence in a box by the mirror, and a head full of locs to tell the story.

Thursday, August 09, 2007


I have many friends going thru effed up break ups right now. And some languishing in ridiculous relationships. My boy Coop says it’s because when you meet someone, you actually send forth a Representative of yourself. Some people are able to maintain the persona for longer than others, but invariably, that shit don’t last.

And sooner or later the real you shows up and more times than not it aint the YOU that you introduced to your s.o. and vice versa.

I agree. And it sort of takes away the comedic value of me saying to friends…

“You shoulda married ME. I wouldn’ta gotten knocked up before we even met eachother’s friends.”


“Had you baby mama’d ME, I woulda NEVER legally changed the kid’s name behind your back. Then cussed out your mom and made us move out of the house you grew up in (mortgage-free) into a bullshit ass townhouse (rental)."


“Damn, if you had moved in with ME, I wouldn’t have broken your cell phone in a minor altercation.”


“Whoa, I’m moody, but to not talk to you for an entire week because you’re a vegan and the smell of my turkey burgers made you slightly nauseous, is just crazy. I’da just tofu’d it up!”

It’s all jokes, lightens the mood, makes convos about these relationships less depressing.

But it’s also true.

I wouldn’t do any of those things and they know it. Because they know ME. We’re friends. Genuine ones without alter egos.

But the fact is, there was something about these relationships that attracted both parties.

Something that kept them there.

Something that only they can understand.

So I wonder, why don’t more people fall in love with their friends, people they know?

Is it because there is an intrigue in a new relationship, in which we embrace the opportunity to reinvent ourselves?

Because new people allow us a chance to be new people with new characteristics and new futures?

Do we just like having as many avenues and resources available to us as if the relationship fails, the friendship is still there for our refuge?

Because friends just know too much…or perhaps not enough?

Or do we just love anticipating the Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda?...or maybe we just all have really ugly friends.

Tuesday, August 07, 2007

North of the Border

Damn, the last post seemed so Debbie.Downer.

And it wasnt meant to be, AT ALL.

In fact, I'm pretty sure this trip will be followed by NO Loser Week. I feel refreshed and content, actually. Had a great Jump Up weekend. Id share some pics but, well you know.

But here are 10 Things I Learned in T.Dot...

10. My outfit is usually predicated by whether or not I can comfortably conceal my flask.

9. Canadian hoods kinda resemble American suburbs.

8. I will spend my absolute last dime on a good meal and a pitcher of damn near anything.

7. Indian men are sexy.

6. The way to heal a pulled muscle is to (ole skool) dance it out.

5. ALWAYS look before you sit in a club/bar. DO NOT just sit in a booth without first inspecting every inch of it. *sigh*

4. Sometimes "closure" is best without the formal "closure" convo. (wait, I think I knew this one already)

3. The classic 'so homo' trappings of a buckle belt, tight tee and braided dreads are VERY arousingly heterosexual on a grown West Indian man.

2. A Jamaican flag hanging out of your back pocket makes a small azz appear larger and more appealing than normal.

1a. A solid hotel/car rental/airline hookup is essential. I'm sooo in the market.

1. I shoulda been born independently wealthy with an international travel trust fund. *double sigh*


The anticipation is almost unbearable.

I’m walking to my destination, literally bouncing. The balls of my feet are like rubber, and soon I transition from step to step-ball-change… and I’m a backup dancer, and the street is my arena stage.

Every shimmy takes me closer to it, and I am literally panting, short of breath, heart racing. I’m thinking ahead to how it will feel, how I will feel afterwards, how this will alter my whole being for the next few hours.

I get back to the telly, and there it is…a huge bag of ice, my brand new shaker, a big bottle of cranberry juice, a bottle of grapefruit juice, and a bottle of Appleton Reserve.

I am literally Alcoholically Aroused.

Toronto was off the hook. Had a great time with great people, great food, great music, great parties, and most of all great effing liquor.

I realized recently that the conventional wisdom regarding the allure of controlled substances is actually the acute opposite for me.

Ya know, 'alcohol makes you forget your worries, takes you to a different place, makes you more uninhibited.'

Truth for me is that alcohol gives me a bird’s eye view of my issues. Drives me curbside to my shit, drops me off and speeds down the road.

And that’s probably the allure.

Because don’t we spend most of our time trying to ignore the uncomfortable things? I believe our daily routines are mere distractions from the bad stuff. In our quests to maintain a semblance of sanity, our fears and troubles tend to manifest through stress, bouts of anger, silence, obsessive work ethics, whatever.

And by *we* I mean Wise.

I haven’t done any research yet to confirm that this is an occurrence prevalent beyond my own head. But, I can confidently call my damn self out on this one.

A year ago my therapist asked me to bring in pics of my pops, and then asked me to describe, a) how I FELT in the picture, and b) what I THOUGHT in the picture.

For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what she meant by FEEL.

Everything I said was what I THOUGHT. I hadn’t a clue how to identify my feelings.

But at the bottom of a mojito/gin/rum/Goose/Red.Str!pe, I understand quite clearly what it is I’m feeling. And said mojito even interprets the shit for me. Even takes it a step further and gives me an opportunity to deal with it, whether by waving like I just don’t care, or drunk texting or earling out of the back seat door (I’m kidding. This isn’t exactly my steez, but you see where I’m going with it).

Gives me the stomach for one or two or three more, which in turn equals one or two or three more moments to face whatever it is I call myself ignoring.

And oh, how good it FEELS going down.

[INSERT Wise dancing all hard...
Row di boat, row di boat!]

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  • So...Wise??

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    Our Nation's (HIV) way of Harlem, NY and Upsteezy NY
    I'm older than I look, and stupider than you think. But I'm quite proud of my sharp eye for The Ridiculous, and by Ridiculous, of course I mean Me.