50 Cent Ain’t Scared

As a quirky, indelicate, argumentative peacemaker, my best friend (who we’ll call Eminem) dates a wide pool of suitors. I’ve met the army brat, the marine, the tech nerd, the one who held out for longer than I thought and earned my respect for being in it for the long haul, and a few more who burned brightly only to slink into the past. However, when Eminem brought her new boyfriend (let’s nickname him Dino) something was different. It was in the way Dino and I watched Eminem as she waited in line for the bathroom at a withering party; making jokes about sending our little honey off to preschool. We giggled through the town; stopping at bars, sipping on beers (I feel like this is the right moment to dip into a country tune, and continue listing shit in the style of INSERT ANY COUNTRY ARTIST HERE). Simultaneously, something else bubbled beneath the surface. A look of defeat lingered around his hollow, virtual blue eyes. At daybreak we dove into matters of life and death while flipping pancakes, speaking about the subject as if it were a hot new piece of literature at the Algonquin round table. I was impressed. How had I been lucky enough to receive friends who cared about more than what flickered on our snapchat screens, or, (since I’m keeping this in the vein of country music for reasons unknown) or fantasizing on the latest dictionary of today’s who’s who (-Nickelback (middle school was weird for me (but my hot pink Lucky brand cowboy boots were and ARE dope (no my feet have not grown since 7th grade (yes I am blessed, vintage is a right and not a privilege)))))). If my steady feet were youth, which the elderly eye at with goblin-like brooding, I would be fearless. The end of days hangs over my life like mistletoe: unwelcomed with supercharged meaning. One day, the grim reaper will creep into the wine cellar, spot me sitting on the shelf under a thin layer of sparkly, glittering dust (because this is a fantasy and I don’t want ugly dust bunnies on set), and notice that I’ve been around since 1926.

Sometimes I’ll find myself on the subway, calmly riding into narrow passages underneath Manhattan, thinking: are these the last people I will ever see? It intrigues me the way in which coffee induced New Yorkers ignore one another. I'm not saying I want to shake hands with the oddly attractive homeless man who looks like Matt Bomer if he had been in the Revenant instead of DiCaprio (we’ve made eye contact so many times and I’m terrified by what my body likes). My fear of death comes from living the implications first hand. I am a detective in it; easily asking questions about the other side, so much so that I am neutralized to the mentally paralyzing results one receives from in depth research. I pull down my baseball cap, flip up the lapels of my jean jacket, and clutch the small notepad and pencil struggling to breathe in my right coat pocket, creeping around the corner because I’m hot on the grim reaper’s tail. I liked Dino because he had done the same. He couldn’t pretend to misunderstand our present, and watch life go by ignoring the destination. I knew we were both tuckered out from dancing on the line with death.

Still, there are conditions in life that force one to overcome that fear. For example, if I were ever in a life-threatening situation with my sister (and by this I mean I hear a suspicious sound in the house and my horror movie brainwashed noggin immediately thinks THERE IS AN INTRUDER and I need to grab the biggest knife and tuck a wrapped pair of scissors into the waistband of my sister’s children’s place pants in case (GOD FORBID) we get separated) her life comes first. I feel like 50 Cent in those moments, pacing through the house with her tucked safely behind me chanting in my head “or Imma die tryin’.”

Conversational Drug Dealers

I have never believed in knocking other people down, unless it’s for the sake of comedy. Comedy, with boundaries that I can’t and won’t define because it’s not the point of this post, (and that’s for all of the inquisitors who mentally revel by poking holes in my staunch admission when the word “comedy,” to them, means softcore hazing, as if (yes, I’m doing another comparison in a comparison) I said a dash of french kissing is okay, and I am pictured fluffing the pillows on the set of a porno, but since I’m there there has to be a tinge of artistic genius, like little ol’ me ruffling the blanket in a Renaissance-like nude (I would most likely have been the slave in the background) or, I don’t know, re-fluffing a pillow on the set of HBO’s Girls (a show I support tenfold)).* So, *adjusts tie* Comedy allows us to make fun of our flaws in a way that brings others joy. Even I have indulged in the more direct tradition of making others feel like shit for the hell of it; the worst being the way I snickered at a (and I’ve always thought this word deserves an “m”, for example, and maybe this is just the “urban” slang in me, but doesn’t volumptuous give a certain edge?) voluptuous girl wildly dancing in the club a few feet away with my, then, sweet and slimy promoter. My criticism replaced her freedom. In less than a second I had shamed her for enjoying some sweat of the night, a heavy, vodka filled drink, and an immense sense of fluidity. This was the memory I had when ensuing a fight with my roommate, who we’ll call PCP, on a relaxed Saturday afternoon.

Rain had fallen the day before, and I cracked our overbearing window a small distance, eager to catch the scent of a clean city. Our banter continued as usual; us diving into controversial political matters that ran wild like little mice in our flat. I each one shoved out the window, unwilling to rehash matters of the past. I deemed the ridiculous stalemate between all four suitemates in cleaning the space, (which had now escalated to leaving bags of trash in the open, and spilling liquids on granite countertops and bleach white floors), as irrelevant, and argued instead of agreed. I wonder if the communication error between PCP and I goes beyond us not hearing each other, and into a fundamental understanding and respect for the other’s emotions. Between us, there is no “agree to disagree,” and I faded away from this conversation with a trash bag in hand, headed to the garbage room for a slice of silence. Some people refuse to hear the truth. PCP recounted the list of cleaning supplies purchased with her money, and the numerous times our suite was due for a good cleaning and she took the L, with a prior defense against my belief in her jab intention of mentioning it. I, am a firm believer in not preambling whatever thought people inevitably say by using a “No-Offense” tactic. For example, earlier in the year, I discussed my deep disdain for unsolicited advice, and by that I meant that when I am looking for advice, I will ask for it. Poke me in the right spots and I will surely erupt into a volcano of repressed family issues.  However, in the conversations we’ve had, many of them beginning with me recounting a random anecdote of the day: I’ve been feeling a little stuffy, I didn’t get a response back from my mom about the event, what have you... (IS THAT HOW THE EXPRESSION IS USED? BECAUSE I’VE NEVER USED IT BEFORE (IN WRITING), AND I’M CURRENTLY ALL CAPS GIRL BECAUSE I’M VERY, VERY EXCITED) *Returns to professionalism of blog post* ...She will respond with, and I quote “Well, here’s what we need to do…” often followed by take this order of drugs and you’ll feel better, or have you tried emailing her? And I do itch with annoyance, sometimes responding with “We don’t need to do anything.” To put it simply, I don’t see these things as problems. They are merely obstacles I have to conquer during my day. I have no qualms about the relentless army of germs in my stuffy nose radicalizing to join the cancerous cells, in the same way I don’t think that my mother will never get back to me: I am an only child, and even if she were to abandon me, I think she would want to make jokes about how she left me with me. Apologies, one should never make a stand-alone joke about abandonment.

I’ve prided myself on never responding in conflict where I don’t care to. I took out the trash when asked, re-upped on toilet paper when no one else would, and while these are trivial things, they have transformed into the behemoth that lingers in our suite hallway. Not to say that I didn’t learn a lot from PCP about using organic products to be more health conscious, or the benefits of buying items online instead of in person (that one didn’t really stick because I’m huge on instant gratification), but I’ve grown worried about random things: cancer, having a stroke, the deathly implications of black mold, etc,. I think about this in retrospect to my first ever anxiety attack. This is not to say that my PCP is to blame for the incident, but it would be downright moronic to rule out her influence in an effort to be polite. And I listened intently when my mother said it wasn’t only Friend X that had been a piece of the anxiety puzzle, but PCP as well. Somehow, I had been changing from the outside in.

Shot Calling In My Ear

The night began with sushi, us loving the salty stick of seaweed against our tongues. It was a girls night, and we were ready to brave the concert/pop up shop/film showing, a New York City medley of trendy events tainted by ignorance of our general annoyance in what to call it. We took the subway, attracting glances from unwelcome parties, and stort shares from younger girls. It was obvious a sense of adventure coursed through our veins. Upon arrival, the bouncer chimed in a sweet tone (and if you’ve ever heard a bouncer reject you, it’s never sweet, but I gotta milk the experience because I detest rejection in all forms) that it was full. Intrigued by a challenge, we pulled ourselves up by the bootstraps, and patiently waited outside, making conversation with the two burly men. Surely enough, another group came behind us and they we’re on the list. He let us in before them, and we sailed through the next checkpoint by riding on the coattails of the invited group. Big smiles adorned our faces: we had made it inside without paying a cent. Magic was certainly in the air tonight, and for each photo I stuck out a beckoning tongue like a child on first sight of snow. Safely inside, my friend, let’s call her Dominatrix, and I split up, which I found odd-- but was too drunk to think more on it. So, left to my own devices, I pushed my way through the crowd and got hoisted on stage. Much better view. And who do I run into? Dominatrix. We chat more, although it seems that she’s not really into talking, and the two of us dance in a subtle, cute way that makes one appear to be with the talent. Personally, I don’t care for that bullshit. If I’m gonna dance, it will be full and free. The second the concert ends, we head for the door, and I spy people going into the green room. This is now the second time I’ve parted from Dominatrix who says a resounding, “I’ll be right back.” I pivot towards backstage, and as I step into the catacomb of wooden walls, cluttered with scribbles from other artists, the motif of talent fills my eyes. Whether it was the alcohol or the talented DJs that lay before me, I felt my ambition growing silently behind me, slipping onto my shoulders, and around my waist, for this was the league I had dreamed of.

Later that weekend, I went out with Friend O, whom we’ll call “Fo” for short. Fo and I pregamed to win the actual game, and this grew into a night of big secrets being whispered in our speeding cab. We hadn’t hung out in a while, and I was pleasantly surprised to be cracking up into gaggles of laughter as we had before. The club we arrived at was discreet: no one could identify what’s goes on inside unless you had a cupped ear pressed up to the light blue doors. Fo had a picture of a passport on her phone. I, a pristine fake ID (and by that I mean it was done well enough to pass as a fake that gave its best effort). Rejected with a surly smile, I let Fo go inside and meet up with our other friends. I would use my fail-safe and head to a wild, rooftop party instead. But something told me no. I  tried a second time to get in, and even snuck in twice only to be caught the first time, and performing a fantastic storm out the second when the alcohol briefly let up and I found my self-respect. I don’t know why not being let into a club stung me so. Maybe it was the fact that every white girl from here to the Netherlands got in, and I didn’t. Maybe it was the sweetly patronizing way bouncers talk to young women; in a predatory stance, and with a quickly gripped tongue like a deadbeat Dad.

A short while later I was on top of the world, taking in highlighted skyscrapers with an ignited imagination. I ran into good friends I hadn’t seen in a long time, and we smoked and talked the night away. Somewhere out of my rejection, grew the chance encounter of meeting with friends I loved. Still, the universe had given me a gift. I was with friends I could laugh with and have a good time cutting up on the dancefloor, not a crowded club girating to what sounded like the Bingo Players on a garage band loop. There’s something in the Manhattan air. It feeds you like the subway rats do the gigantic mutant, monster snake I’m convinced lives in the underground of subway tunnels. Magic is all around us; the morning french of lively New Yorkers, the quaint track of the sidewalk spanning for miles ahead, the singsongy tunes of a couple in anger. Suddenly the world is exactly as you thought: brimming with destination.

Am I Cool Enough?

Version 7.0 of me looks for ways to transmogrify instead of evolve. Yet, she never stops to think about the fact that one can’t change the skin they’re in. Yes, plastic surgery does exist, but I’d rather stay looking the way I am now than fall into a vortex of needles and knives, trying to find who I am on the inside by projecting my desires on the out. I am not the brand of NYU chic that dresses like the homeless, or rocks multiple colors in my hair (though I have been dying to dye it since I arrived). I don’t check the boxes of being from a rich family, or owning a trendy apartment in Brooklyn, or walking around as a wild, reckless art student, ready for an adventure to drop into my DMs. Today, being cool is being everything that other people want you to be with a splash of the bizarre (i.e. one mysterious food allergy). Reinvention is a complicated and enticing task, like a tall glass of absinthe in a chatter-filled, swanky hotel restaurant. And I watch small beads of water roll down this glass chalice, circling it with my eyes like a cheetah hunting its prey. I throw out pieces of my closet, buy random hair colors from Duane Reade, and remake the pledge to successfully upkeep painted nails, all the while wondering: when a random selection of classes, late-night rendezvous, and the social anxiety of fitting in are stripped away, what brand of human is left?

Bits and pieces of trendy, of blank, pastel caps with a nondescript word, of loose shirts that assign a character trait, of gaudy, expensive pinky rings, don’t define me. I, am Winnie the Pooh. Walking around with a jar, looking for honey to fill to the brim. Just like my favorite yellow bear, I surround myself with a wide range of characters types. Friends who have witty, clever minds, but fail to make small talk at a party. Friends who own the eye of the beholder, but never have a genuine comment; and that’s not to say they are stupid, but that they live in a reality they have created, constantly speaking in projections. The finest of the bunch are those who flip the friendship lightswitch on and off so easily...it makes one wonder how good the good times were. The line between friend and foe wags happily in the distance, and I squint from afar, attempting to catch a glimpse of this junior casualty when it’s no longer in motion.

As a child, I never understood the mechanics of a dissolving relationship where sweet memories faded into the distance, and disdain rose in replacement. I recently got into an argument with a friend I’ve had since freshman year. Let’s call her Friend X. Our friendship lived on the rocks like a turbulent stretch of sea, but I was proud that we had come so far. We hung out practically every day, never chatting about stereotypical high school bullshit: like how “cool” our other friends were, and who we all (a bitch word for collectively) decided not to talk to (even bully, (I feel like this is the moment where I swipe on cherry lipstick in a mirror, then look over my shoulder at Hubert, my 1930s therapist, who is secretly planning to commit me, and state: I was reckless in my younger days)). This friendship, for all intensive purposes, was real. And no matter how large the toll our arguments took on me, I remained steadfast with an amendment to apologize for little spats when the catalyst of our fight was insignificant. However, on an ubiquitously boring Tuesday, a day that began with my roommate and I rolling in barrels of laughter on our organically mopped floor (organic in the sense that it was mopped by a human, not robot swiffer, and the cleaning solution itself is made from things of the earth), Friend X reprimanded us for mocking someone who has never been the butt of a joke. Abandoning my old fashion rules, I refused to acquiesce. Friend X needed to take her business elsewhere, lest she be content with my vexation. What I didn’t see coming, was just how comfortable she was. The issue in friendships with layfolk who care significantly less about you (than you do them), is that they will repeatedly proclaim unrequited love, down to loyally texting and calling right when your iPhone is looking fairly dry. But, truth lies in action. And as I continued with my day, enraged by Friend X’s remark, I slid our relationship between transparent slides, belted it under a microscope, and scribbled down my findings. Had I made mistakes? Certainly. Had she? Naturally. It dawned on me. In every argument, I was first to apologize.

Another cherished friend of mine, Friend O, has performed the exact opposite. Normally when inebriated and in public, we are inseparable, and our relationship spans for miles in the eyes of adorers. It’s magical, right? To be so connected to someone, and have everyone notice the connection like fast, free wifi in a crowded coffee shop. As if the verification of everyone else makes the relationship deeper, so it only needs to be recognized and not lived in. Secretly, behind our well lit candelabra, is the kind of bond where we only really talk when we need something from each other. It seems now that we never see each other at all, when I want the exact opposite. With all of these thoughts of connecting at the hip, burgeoning my mind like the sound of a hypnotist’s swinging pendulum, I don’t voice my opinion. Why haven’t I told her that I just miss her and want to grab food sometime? Though the circumstances are different, I still feel like Bob the Builder, asking myself; can I fix it?

Counselor! I’m Up & Out.

I’ve been thinking about new beginnings like punch drunk, lean machine tweens idolize Justin Bieber, the Jonas Brothers, and throw it back to Jesse McCartney-- I think you catch my drift. Fantasies about enduring college in a foreign location, embracing an academic semester, and releasing myself into the wild plains of the unknown riddle my mind. Naturally, such thoughts occurred in the middle of my Mythology lecture; only reaffirming my belief that institutionalized classes are often boring and I would be better off teaching myself. Disclaimer: Every day at the school of Joie would be either a half day or  snow day. I was amused by the bug-eyed, obvious genius seated next to me, playing video games on his widescreen samsung while taking meticulous notes and periodically pulling a bunch of bananas (still attached) out of his bag to peel and pick at one until another hunger pang. Unaware of my entertained inner monologue, he continued this ritual with a sense of comfort similar to Americans firing up the winter ridden, lonely barbecue on the fourth of July. As I watched him with a peculiar sense of happiness, I also felt a deep envy bubbling in the dungeons of my berated, chastised darker side. I, too, want the freedom to be myself in a room full of people, and unabashedly do what I please. Now this doesn’t mean that I’m interested in becoming a career flasher, though I am thinking about investing in a rather marvelous trench coat that would make me more fashionable than the most well known, but more that I seek to live in the only reality I will ever know: the one playing in my head. And if this life is all a simulation, then there’s only more onus to do so. At the welcomed tune of my teacher bidding us eager students adieu, I cheerfully walked home, slid underneath my comfy little Macbook, and began filling out an application to study across the world. Ideas flew into my head about learning something other than theatre: possibly marine biology in the vast Australian sea, or writing comfortably under the glorious Parisian sun.

It’s catatonic the way we look at ourselves in motion. I think about waking up every day, heading to the same classrooms and workshops, sitting in my unassigned assigned seat, and flipping through the pages of my legal pad (because A. composition notebooks were never an option for me since my parents are lawyers, and B. nothing makes me feel more official than a smooth, finely lined, crisp legal pad, in which I can scribble down notes like the details of a crime). While routine is comforting like the going out of business commercial for Raymour and Flanigan, it can sneakily be alarming like the back in business commercials for Raymour and Flanigan. And let’s be real; the takedown of a furniture store with a name that hoity-toity brought me joy, furthermore, who doesn’t want to support good natured Bob’s Furniture? I bit my nails into oblivion, an old habit that resurfaces when I feel pressure from ticking time and what I can accomplish with my remaining credits at NYU. After all, this is the turning point. As a second semester sophomore, the process of formal education is no longer about exploring options in the company of other ill-equipped, unworried friends, but about making a choice on how you want to spend the rest of your life. And I don’t have the faintest idea on how to spend it. The decision to pick and stick with a career is so concrete and domineering, that it lurks over me unwanted, like shadowy clouds on a sunny day. I know the details (since I’ve used this word twice you should be aware that I officially pronounce it [di-TAIL] and not [DEE-tayl]). I want to act in various pictures on the big screen, write about my experience the whole way there, model in different magazines with the figure I’ve come to know and love, and create music that will inspire all listeners. My goals became clearer than the first time a blind child slides on a pair of Miraflex (Miraflex are cute baby glasses that look like motorcycle goggles), and fragments of a road map leading to a manifestable future lay in my lap. Being a “typical” college student simply isn’t enough for me, and it hit me hard when the sarcastic jokes about dropping out fled, and the serious John Malkovich toned ones propped a foot in the door, coaxing me with a strong case to make against my parents when they caught wind that I wanted to reject their immigrant earned education. I would clear my throat and anxiously begin, “Spending my days experiencing the world instead of reading it through a textbook could provide the best knowledge: one learned first hand.”

Illustrious Friends

The genie cab driver knew exactly how to assuage my guilty conscience. He must have been in his early sixties, accomplished with stern, black glasses, and a heavy foreign accent. After reprimanding my catcaller, who had followed me from the bar to the cab, and had a firm grip on the sliding door while mine buckled on the handle, he cruised confidently by city blocks. Shy and sullen, my opponent turned back to where he had came, the contents of his drink splattering the sidewalk like a Pollock. My thoughts ran wild: how could he be upset when his friend approached me first and he encouraged it?  Was something expected of me? With perfect timing, my current Rae Sremmurd favorite played its intoxicating tune in my head, and I knew “some young niggas like to swang.” Maybe it was in the way he kissed me. Loose bodies clumsily slid by every inch of my electrified, unpetrified state as we smacked lips. I agree that my drunkenness played a significant part in that cutting edge scene, and now I had slipped into the night longing for him and an unspiked water bottle. My invited captor had tattoos sprawling up his arms, the haircut equivalent of a mushroom, bowl like-style for little white boys except with dreadlocks and new age approval, and a cute nose piercing that reminded me of Vic Mensa. And how could I say no to Vic when he was serenading me on a mental loop?

My friends and I had started the night with one large bottle of white wine and cascade-clean, sparkling Scandal glasses, destined to make tonight one for the books. We went from club to club, dancing on the line of acceptance and rejection, until finally we entered a mysterious conclave of sorts, properly introduced with a warning from a girl I vaguely (and by vaguely I mean through instagram) knew, “Guys have to pay one hundred.” The epic journey commenced. On the inside I saw sections of Brazil, long pinstriped, candy cane poles, and potted plants reminiscent of South America. The blue lights shone with reckless abandon, hitting my small circle as we lost ourselves in Caribbean music. The DJ came from behind the booth, noticing my eager attitude for the music of my people, and gave us free drinks throughout the night. What made it even better: I was still wearing my chocolate brown Pumas from my eleven A.M. lecture. 

*Note: If there were a theme song for gender equality it would play here.*

We bumped, grinded, and fell into conversation with friendly boys from Philadelphia  and ecstatic jailbreakers from Long Island (at least it wasn’t Staten Island), desperate for a taste of New York City. After making the trek to another bar, I met the man, let’s call him Vic for storytelling purposes, who kissed me with rumination. Upon arrival it was Caribbean hour, and we jumped into it all over again, strutting our stuff to soca tunes. Ironically, we made eye contact across the room (I’m not lying, and I really wish it had been something different; he approached me with a look of desire floating in his eyes, leaned down to whisper in my ear, and his lips grazed my lobe as he said “The dollar menu is back and I’ve got $2, let’s blow this popsicle stand.” When Vic rose from his chair to slide behind me, our bodies twisted and turned like vines on a summer cottage. We kicked back a few shots, screamed polite conversation into the other’s ear, and began lip locking. Food for thought: wouldn’t it be rewarding if this were the tale of how I made out with a celebrity?

Emotive Control

“This is going to be our year,” a good friend of mine and I decided together, texting each other rapidly with giggles to our bright pals. It felt like I had opened the finely wrapped present under the, then overbearing, Christmas tree with the old seventh grade Nokia, providing liberty to text my tween friends about bullshit circulating our group.  In order for this to work I’ll need to be honest. I am nineteen years old, which basically means that these are my prime childbearing years, and therefore my prime sexual years, however, I seem to be having none of either. Somehow, underneath sexual frustration caused by relentless glorification in the media and *not* my inability to tango in bed with male peers (who are either into one-night stands or each other), I am grateful for the latter. Not having sex should give me time to do other things… right? Well, as I sat on my soft, queen-sized mattress at home, flicking and scowling at different Netflix titles, I wondered: have I seen everything already? It’s true that I’m extremely introverted, so much that cancelling plans no longer provides a stimulating rush of freedom, but firm pat on the back; a salute to my typical way of handling social, extroverted, normal friends. Why is it that I prefer to stay indoors, tucked away in an abyss of sheets, eyes glued to a bright screen that will ultimately result in a head banging similar to a post-cry headache? What’s the next move, you ask? Hulu, of course. As if sitting through commercials when you’ve PAID for the service weren’t enough, the selections aren’t too hot either, leaving me at an impasse between too many Adult Swim animations and episodes five through nine of How To Get Away With Murder. Then it dawns on me. My eveready friend sitting inches away, smelling like tin-panned macaroni at a barbecue, green and plush, packed neatly in my favorite rainbow bowl. To smoke, or not to smoke, I pondered as most stoners do. This was the usual Wednesday night, feet propped up by my least favorite pillow, a bag of organic tortilla chips sliced right down the middle for optimal access (no salsa simply because I hadn’t gotten around to it) and a bic lighter acrobatically flipping through my fingers with extreme stealth. Settling on my inner thoughts as entertainment for the night, I decided to bridge the gap between me and Terabithia and brave the world. I pulled on the remaining functional belt loops of my nicest black jeans, wrangled my feet in red leather pumps, and embarked on a journey to Brooklyn with some of my close friends. The train ride took around forty-five minutes, but I was high and determined to have the wild fun that I should be having at this age. However, the music at the party, and the tormenting, high-pitched conversation from the crowd immediately brought my endeavors to a lull. I needed to be dancing, swinging my hips carelessly throughout the night, aware of my drunkenness in such a way that it slips and falls from my mind quicker than beer sloshes to the sides in a death-gripped cup. This blog is about the adventurous life of a young, black, (and we’ll throw in gifted because I’m in the mood to feel smart) gifted woman who has let the gauntlet of her previous life fall to her feet.