Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Quick Blog/Tumblr Shout Out

This is quite a positive blog by a male who is conquering eating disorders and self-harm. We can all use a little positivity in our lives so click the link and check out his blog.


Monday, March 26, 2012

Sooo They're Not All Bad

Nice to know. =) Their dry sense of humor is refreshing. Nice tumblr.

 However, I do worry about this one. This is what I'm afraid of, what it is doing to the psyche of people too young to accept the reality, too far removed from a time when racism was this blatant and in your face. I pray for the future of the world's children.

A (Un)Healthy Dose of Fear

Amandla aka Rue
I'm tired of talking about race. Tired of having it occupy my mind. Tired of having fear furrowed inside the fiber of my being. But I must admit, after recent news happenings regarding the Trayvon Martin case, an Iraqi woman's death filled by hate in California, and the world wide whine (click the link, it's an enlightening read) about the movie casting of a character found within the imaginings of a fictional book, I'm a little scared.

Growing up in the 80s/90s in a very decent neighborhood had allowed me a certain level of naivety. Oh, I knew racism existed but I thought it was just in pockets. Common sense would tell you that all Black people are not evil and all Middle-Eastern folks are not terrorists. Technology has given voice and, in some cases, anonymity, to those filled with ignorance and the ability to use a computer. And the ignorant follow blindly behind the ignorant. That doesn't bode well for our future.

Twitter Hate on the Hunger Games Casting of Rue
As I said on Facebook: You would think I would be used to this. But, strangely, I'm not. It still hurts. But it also makes me all the more determined. Hate over the Hunger Games. Smh...just leaves me to ask the question, what's a Black life worth? Surely it should be the same as a life. Period. What does color truly matter? It's less than a 1% difference in the DNA. 

But I've got to realize that racism is taught and tolerance isn't and, if it is, it's, sometimes, taught with a blithe sense of superiority: "This is our duty to help the poor starving Black children of Africa..." Sigh. I'm just so tired of it all but it doesn't seem to be going away. 

Black is not a disease. It is not an impairment. It is not a disability or a disadvantage. It is just another level of difference to the outer layer, the surface of a person. Not all that different than having blue or green eyes, red or blonde hair. It's a mutation that evolution saw as advantageous. Guess evolution didn't plan on some mammals obtaining and retaining a prehistoric-reptilian-sized barbaric brain. I bet these are the same people who profess a love of God, who ask to be accepted because of their sexuality, who plot on bursting through cafeteria doors, wielding high-powered rifles and laying waste to the lives of their peers. It must make them feel worth something to glare at a person with an obvious difference. I have pity for them. But I'm not stupid; I, also, have a healthy dose of fear.

Source: tyrawm

Sunday, March 25, 2012

Mental (Un)Rest

I wanted to find something else to talk about this weekend other than Trayvon Martin but, until today, the case consumed me-- the injustice, the ramifications, the likelihood that any of my children could be just as affected, the realization that I, as a Black mother, have to have a talk with my sons about what it means to be Black males in this society and that I, as a Black woman, wasn't aware that there was a difference between the two genders.

Unlike the President, I do have a son, two of them. My oldest son could be Trayvon; in fact, with a quick glance, he is. So I'm terrified scared shitless of what the future holds for my children until they cross the line of 25 years old, the year, it seems, when maturity catches up to physicality. My heart is arrested with the possibilities and the uncertainty. There is so much hatred in this world, as well as fear. And, sometimes, justifiably so because, sometimes, especially in certain neighborhoods/cities, the bogeyman is Black.

But I have to wonder if the knowledge of knowing you are guilty by pigmentation does not assist in creating the problem. It hurts to be judge by the content of my skin rather than the content of my character. But, with the news and the stories from Black men detailing similar situations in which they were unfairly regarded as something to fear, I'm realizing Black men have it far worse. It's hard not to have a chip on your shoulder, to not fulfill the prophecy because everyone already thinks they know how the story goes, so why not give it to them. And I'm going to have to somehow let my children know the rule of this game called Life without making them feel less than because of the circumstances of their birth.

How do you do that? How do you tell them to behave less than without making them feel less than? How do you tell them that their difference is dangerous and detrimental to their well-being because of some perceived notion that has nothing to do with them and everything to do with the scary nigger stories told around white/other campfires or the lies laid out in white/other living rooms? Not all, mind you, but enough of them, enough to make cases like the Trayvon Martin tragedy reverberate through Black households all across the nation, inspiring men to reveal the silent degradation they had to endure, inspiring mothers to reveal their fears for their children.

I wanted to talk about something else, to not allow my fear to take hold of my mind, to live as if that day never happened. But it did and I can't talk about much else-- not the GOP's War on Women, not the Miami Heat winning over Orlando or getting slaughtered by Oklahoma City, not even the fact that I'm not sure that I want to continue blogging under this page now that my students have stalked me and now read up on my thoughts (that'll be another post, maybe. I hate the thought of having to censor myself).

The Miami Heat showing support.
This case, well, not a case seeing as how dude has YET to be arrested and, apparently, his whereabouts are unknown (safe for him I suppose. No neighborhood watchman to be on the alert for). Anyway, this tragedy has given me a reason to not sleep at night. I am now a parent who worries about something I can't change:

My son could be Trayvon Martin.

Rest in Peace/Paradise, Trayvon. <3

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

I AM Trayvon Martin

(321) 617-7548 is the number to the State Attorney's Office handling the Trayvon Martin case. After you listen to a 3 minute rhetorical speech on how they are launching "a review" and "an investigation" because we are "a country of law"; remind them that that law says 10-20-Life; that self-defense doesn't mean following a walking person in a car then confronting that unarmed person with a gun; that there should have been, at least, an interrogation and an arrest. Sorry ass Sanford police.

Ooh wee! That message made me heated. A review? An investigation? How about an arrest then the rest of that stuff? At least, taken him to the station for questioning, any station but Sanford's. There was no self-defense on the part of Zimmerman. He was the perpetrator. There is no allegedly in this case. And, so far, there is no justice. Oh yes, I definitely left a message. Hope y'all rocked hoodies all over the nation.

So I read this today:

"A letter was issued and signed by city manager Norton Bonaparte, reiterates the previous reasoning by Sanford police chief Bill Lee which said he could not carry out an arrest because self-appointed neighborhood watch volunteer George Zimmerman said he acted in self-defense.

The letter states:

Mr. Zimmerman provided a statement claiming he acted in self defense which at the time was supported by physical evidence and testimony. By Florida Statute, law enforcement was PROHIBITED from making an arrest based on the facts and circumstances they had at the time." 

How is this even possible? Doesn't the fact that he did the following and the other boy was unarmed more than suggest that the one acting in self-defense may have been Trayvon?

This case just leaves me with more questions than answers and a not-so-healthy dose of anger.


This song for Trayvon gave me goosebumps and explained the story well. 

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Race Card Pulled

I'm usually the last black person in the building to holler about race, even when I was pulled over by cops while in the Falls area b/c they said they saw smoke coming from my car (I don't smoke), even asked me how I, a college educated-- hell, high school educated person, knew the word "valid" when I used the word regarding my driver's license, even when a friend (Tq) and I were followed by cops while driving in the Pinecrest area at night b/c, I guess, we didn't fit the profile of million-dollar home inhabitants, even when an older white gentleman moved his wallet from his back pocket to his front while walking in front of me, even when I sat unwaited on in the Hard Rock in Puerto Rico (again w/ Tq) for about half an hour before we complained to the manager (and was given whatever we wanted for free-- we ordered all kinds of sh*t [we were tipsy from our visit to the Bacardi Factory]), even when the northern Spaniards pelted me w/ bread and shot me w/ water guns, calling me all kinds of names in Spanish, leaving me to hide in my dorm room for two weeks before I finally said f*ck it and flaunted my big beautiful black body all over Santander. But, even I've got to say something about this Trayvon Martin case. This sh*t right here, this sh*t right here is pure RACISM. For real. (In case it's not clear, each highlighted word is a link to a different article pertaining to this case-- except for one).

This case has so many black parents afraid for their child(ren). It underlines everything we whisper about. And, in Miami, not just black parents but Spanish/Cuban/Latin ones too b/c our kids come pre-labeled. What is there to say when the state's standardized test is used to determine how many jails to build? 

The police tapes have been released and I can't bring myself to listen to them. Just reading about how his mother ran out of the room while they played was enough to break my heart. I never want to feel what she's feeling, never want to have to go through the pain of losing a child, especially one so young and so sudden. I can't even bear the thought. 


Monday, March 19, 2012

Broken Frame of Mind


I don't want to be here right now. Yes, here. School. Work. Whatever.

I want to sleep, to snuggle back beneath my comforter and release my mind to dreams because being awake right now is not the haps.

I'm bummed, sad, disconsolate (to use one of my students' vocabulary words), and, well, depressed. Yes, depressed.

It all came crashing down on me this morning, how much has happened, how truly scared I've been, afraid of what more life was/is going to throw at me. I can no longer stand. My shoulders scrape the ground. Saline saturates my face. I can't do it anymore and that's why I need to move out of the driver's seat, why I need to just heed God's words and give him the wheel. I'm giving in to my faith.

In the meantime, I'm going to have to make a therapy appointment. One should do it. All I need is to just talk aloud unimpeded with someone who knows nothing about and "cares" nothing for me.


Sunday, March 18, 2012

The Harsh Reality of Injustice

This could easily have been my child. What are we supposed to teach our children? "Since you happen to be black and a male, it would be best if you stayed inside the house until the sun comes up so that no one will mistake a jungle juice for a gun." "Since you happen to be black and a male, anyone who feels threatened by your mere existence on Earth is able to gun you down." "Since you happen to be black and male..." Look, I'm already afraid for my child for those very same reasons, he is black and male so society already has a prejudice against him; society already fears him and will not accept him unless he's toting a ball of some sort. It doesn't matter that he speaks proper English, has a quite decent GPA, and is quite mannerable. It all boils down to those two things: 1) black and 2) male. That condition makes him Sisyphus: doomed to push a rock forever up a hill. It's the reality.
Update: Leonard Pitts addressed this better than I could. 


Saturday, March 17, 2012

Heart to Heart

Ok, God, I'm here, waiting, listening, straining to hear Your words. It's like You've been silent and that you just quietly watched me fall. I don't know why. I don't understand why all this pain, why all this sadness and non joy, why all this hurt. I believe in You and having been working towards what I thought was what You wanted me to do. And, yet, my heart has been snatched and shredded, left in bleeding strands, scared to beat for fear more trouble would come to extinguish what little life is left.

I'm here, listening, waiting, seeking Your voice.

I'm here. God tell me what you want. Guide me.
reveal it please.

I'm here. Listening. Waiting.

"I'm listening too. And waiting also. I'm waiting on you to realize that I'm everything you need, I always am and have always been everything you need. Let me work in your life. Stop trying so hard; Life doesn't have to be this hard. Move over. Get out of the driver's seat. Let me have the wheel. Relinquish your control. You don't have to know everything. You don't have to do everything. You just have to be still and listen. I will speak; I have been speaking. But so have you and you've been so busy talking that you haven't heard a word I've been saying. I don't want to be rude but shut up. I hear you. I feel your hurt, I feel your powerlessness, I feel your anguish. You were never intended to go through all this. Move over. I got this. I got YOU. I don't even need you to hold my hand; I will guide YOU. Move over. Give me the wheel. I'll show you what I can do. You just come along for the ride. I'm ready to bless you in ways you never thought possible. I'm ready to do things in your life that you haven't even asked for. I will give you everything you speak of but I want you to have more. You will have more. You will touch lives. But allow me to touch and work in yours first. You've made this harder than it has to be. Now I need you to let go; let me handle this. I told you many years ago, while sitting by that fountain, that I got you. I am your El Shaddai. I am all you need. I got you. Let me do me. I don't want you to feel this hurt. Let me bring out the heat of your smile to dry those tears. Move over, honey, I got this. "

I hear You, God, loud and clear. Have at it.

With ALL my love,


Celebrating 22(3) Blog Posts in 2012!

And, with that last post, I have officially SURPASSED my TOTAL number of 2011 blog posts. Oh yeah! Who's bad? I am. Whoooo hooo! Par-tay time!

Show Me the (STD) CarFax

Herpes? Shudder. Herpes Simplex Virus? Shiver, shiver. Cold sore? Oh. That's it? Really? No big deal.

And it isn't.

Whether it's an upstairs blister or a downstairs blister, HSV is nothing more than a minor inconvenience-- a life-long inconvenience but a minor one nonetheless.

But that's not what society says. To hear someone say they have herpes is like hearing someone say they have HIV. But it's not the same in no way, shape, or form. HIV is life-threatening. HSV isn't. If anything, it's just a painful mood killer.

I don't want to make too light of it, though, because it is still a sexually transmitted disease (STD) for the most part, especially if we're talking HSV-2. I say for the most part because I know of a child who was diagnosed with HSV-1/cold sore when he was just 5 and, as far as I know, there was no sex involved. Also, the childhood illness, Chickenpox, is a type of herpes. If you don't believe it, see for yourself. Nevertheless, having HSV means an increase in susceptibility to other STDs so caution, condoms, and control are necessary.

What's really shocking is that according to the Center for Disease Control (CDC) and other sites, roughly 20-25% of sexually active females (and 1 in 9 males) have HSV-2. That number could actually be much larger because "most people infected with HSV-2 are not aware of their infection". What is shocking about this is that number. It actually suggests that more females are infected by males because, maybe, those females are being infected by the same males. This just may be true because it is less likely for a female to give her male partner herpes. (None of this excludes the possibility of the disease also being spread by female-to-female encounters). What is, also, possibly true is that 80% of the human population has HSV-1 (the oral/cold sore herpes), according to Dr. Jeff Benson of the Dudley Coe Health Center. And oral herpes, whether a person is having a visible outbreak or not, can be passed to the genitals through oral sex-- you know, the thing nearly every rapper talks/brags about.

I, once, heard a doctor on Oprah refer to a woman's body as a trash can for men's diseases. The more I research, the more I learn that is true. For instance, due to anatomy, it is less likely for a male to receive HIV from a female, yet, the number of infected females, especially black females, far exceeds that of "heterosexual" men. The CDC reports that 85% of HIV-infected black women acquired the disease through a heterosexual encounter.

Men spread the seeds for PID, BV, HPV, and a whole host of other sexually transmitted diseases because, most of the time, men rarely get symptoms so they do not know they have it. But women, due to the receptive nature of their organs, create the environment for fostering the germs. So women reap many of the consequences, regardless of whether they are in a monogamous relationship or not. Men just dump the garbage. And we, women, take it.

We need to stop taking it. We need to demand to see the CarFax, to see a man's literal clean bill of health. We need to be able to walk in with our eyes wide open, knowing what we have-- be it a lemon, a fresh-off-the-lot, or a car with some mileage. We need to know the deal.

Now, dating someone with an STD takes a lot of research and time, true, as well as a lot of understanding. And it, also, requires that you get to know someone before you take that intimate leap, to decide if that person is worth the risk or, at minimum, an inconvenience. More times than not, (s)he is worth it because that person would have taken the time to evaluate his/herself and his/her decisions-- past, present, and future (you might still have your scumbags whether infected or not). So don't use a tarnished history to rule out endless possibilities of a life with someone who could love you better than the next person can.

Besides, time, research, and understanding are things that need to be employed in ANY relationship ANYWAY, whether we're talking about someone with an STD or an SUV, herpes or a hooptie. Time is a valuable revealer. Use it well.



Just read an interesting article about the disparity between black women and white women and the HPV.
Just some more interesting facts about HPV as seen on ABC's The Revolution

Friday, March 16, 2012

Blog Game

Saw this on another blog so I thought, why not do it here.

Well, here ya go:

1. Mac or PC? Personally, Mac. Work, both. 
2. Do you paint your own nails? What nails? I don't have any at the moment and, when I do, probably won't paint them myself.
3. Beach or mountains? This Miami girl loves the beach. I'm too connected to water to be swayed by a massive rock. Besides, my life has enough mountains to climb. 
4. What’s the title of the book you’re currently reading? If you count the first sentence as reading then Debbie Macomber's Twenty Wishes. If you're talking books I haven't yet finished, then Farenheit 451, Anthem, Scarlet Letter, The Great Gatsby. Yes, all books my students are required to read.
5. Do you dance? I've lost my rhythm and my knees creak like the front door of an abandoned building. So, no, I don't dance anymore.
6. CNN or Fox News? I read Huffington Post and MSN. I don't watch the news-- don't think they make a strong enough depression pill for that.
7. Do you ride a bicycle? See answer to 5.
8. Do you get a yearly flu shot? Haven't had to yet, thankfully.
9. Best movie you’ve seen in 2012? Um...I'm thinking this question refers to a movie I've seen for the first time...nothing grabs that title. Now, I've seen a pretty darn good tv show-- SMASH.
10. Do you prefer to workout at home or at the gym? Park. Home has too many distractions and the gym requires the motivation to get into the car.
11. Last airport you were in? MIA
12. iPhone or Android? Android. But I might make the jump to iPhone soon.

13. Do you prefer to be in pictures or taking pictures? When I'm feeling sexy, to be in them. But, if you've been reading this blog, then you know sexy was a long time ago.
14. Favorite brand of sneakers? Just bought some Asics and they're pretty good to me.
15. Do you like snow? stolen answer -->I like the idea of snow. I like pictures of it in tree branches. But I'm a Florida girl and I'm used to breaking out the jacket in 60 degree weather.
16. Do you have/want to have kids? I wanted more...we'll see what the (near) future holds.
17. Summer or Winter? Spring.
18. Do you know how to swim? Not really. I can dead man float and...yeah, that's about it.
19. Do you prefer to shop in store or online? Online because it's quick. In store b/c I can see if something I want fits. But I ALWAYS comparison shop/check reviews online before a purchase.

20. Why do you blog? B/c my friends on Facebook think I'm too long-winded on Facebook.

And They Say the Hate's Not Racially Motivated

Apparently, there are some who beg to differ. Sad. I've got nothing eloquent to say except a lot of these same people who hate because of something I and other people were born with are the main people fighting for gay rights or animal rights or gender rights. Hypocritical, no?

Ignorance is learned. How about that for a paradox?

Update: The owner said the Don't Re-Nig sticker was not meant in a racist way. Your thoughts?
Newer update: Never underestimate the power of social media.

For the Love of U

I love Ursula, the sea witch from Disney's The Little Mermaid. I totally heart her. She's badass, a little crass, witty, determined, persistent, go-getting, devoted to her cause, opportunistic, comfortable with her body and, in that, she's sexy, confident, wise, powerful, dominant, and a whole host of negative words (the likes of which you can find here). But only a few of those words outline why I love her: comfortable, confident, and determined, very determined.

I was very uncomfortable with myself (at the top of 2008, I weighed 271lbs) until I made my 2nd Biggest Loser audition tape, on which I talked about my love of Ursula, using the aforementioned adjectives. Now, I always knew that her song, Poor Unfortunate Souls, was my favorite (right next to Kiss de Girl) but I never actually thought about why. I chalked it up to my love of villains and, come to think of it, they're all pretty much badass-- Scar, Jafar, etc. But Ursula's the only big girl in the bunch. Finally, I saw someone like me on the screen who wasn't for laughs unlike Nell Carter (still liked watching Gimme a Break). This woman had a purpose other than tickling an audience's funny bone and she was almost as important (if not as important) as Ariel, the protagonist. Ursula was not an afterthought. She was part of the main event. And I liked that. I REALLY liked that. Still do.

So after I talked about her, I became a little obsessed. A student bought me an Ursula mug from Disney World because I talked about her so much (doesn't hurt that Ursula is purple, one of my favorite colors *purple, green, and black*). Another student brought me a stuffed Ursula doll. I loved it so much, I took it to Europe with me (I would have posted a picture if my external hard drive didn't break-- might be able to find one on my PC, though) and lost her in Rome after we viewed the Vatican & the Sistine Chapel together. I miss my little buddy. My friend (funny, the number of ex-students I have that I count as friends)  made me an Ursula shirt for another Biggest Loser audition with the word Ursula on the back and the shell necklace right beneath it. My current students are making customized class shirts and I bought one. They're putting something similar to the other shirt on the back of that one.

Yeah, I'm a little Ursula crazy. And I'm super jealous that Queen Latifah got to be immortalized posing as the ultimate badass.

I can only wish I could exude as much sex appeal, power, and confidence as her. There's definitely no self-esteem issue there. She would not let her shoulders droop from a little, well, a lotta trouble. She would not spend evenings crying over things she could not change. She wouldn't beg for signs, direction, ANYTHING to tell her what to do next. No, she'd just find another way to tackle the problem, to get what she wants.

I could really use a little Ursula these days.


Below, you'll find my own little rendition of Poor Unfortunate Souls. I was having a little fun with my first Macbook. Ah, those were the days. Enjoy! =)

See how being Ursula just makes you want to ooze sexy and confident out through your pores? I would really love to be her for Halloween but I don't think I would wear all that make-up that this chick has on (I sweat profusely when I'm hot and, in Miami, I'm guaranteed to be hot).

Thursday, March 15, 2012

D is for Disney

I deactivated my Facebook account this week so I could spend more time on here writing and more time out there living. That was Monday. This is Thursday. Nope, not true as it is 12:34AM, which means it is Friday. I haven't written anything in days (though, looking at the archive tool bar on the right, I'm only 4 entries away from beating my total number of entries last year-- hoorah). Oh, I've written plenty in my head, planned the intros to numerous blogs buuuut I never actually sat down. And, now, I don't remember what I want to talk about in this one.

Ok, so the same night I deactivated my Facebook, I received a phone call asking me to drive my friend (let's call him Dylan) to Disney World for an cruise line audition. Disney is technically a four-hour drive away. As I've stated on a couple of other blogs, I'm tired; I've been looking forward to this do-nothing week of vacation for weeks (I don't have to remind you how hard and mentally/emotionally taxing this year has been so far). I needed the time for bonding with my youngest child (my oldest skipped out at first opportunity), for putting my apartment back to right so it could stop looking like a cyclone ran through each room, and for me time-- maybe a little book reading or catching up on dvr'd shows and, definitely, a lot of sleep. So I declined to make that trip. And I felt good declining.

Tuesday, had a little bonding time, got a couple of rooms semi-cleaned, watched a show, then I started crying again, thinking about everything and missing dude. Then the phone rang. It was that friend again. He could not find another ride and would I please, please do it-- he'll pay for gas and toll and entrance tickets for me and my son. Please, please, pretty please. Ugh. I wanted to be a friend but I, also, wanted my vacation. On the other hand, I needed to get out of the house. Being alone only reinforced that I was alone and crying myself to sleep every night wasn't my ideal vacation.  So I agreed. My son had cleaned his room and the living room so it would be a treat to him.

That night, I only got three hours of sleep before hitting the road so I wasn't in the best of moods. In fact, I made everyone stay silent until I mentally woke up about three hours later (I don't drink coffee). My friend auditioned, got back mixed news, and we were off to enjoy the magical world of Disney.

The annoying excitement of my friend and my child was infectious and my sour mood lifted once I quenched my thirst (I was sweating so much like a stuck pig, I think I was dehydrating) and got on the first ride. I even took pictures, which is something I don't do. But, I guess a new haircut, a cute shirt, and sheer determination to have a good time does something to the brain.

And, maybe, it was the cleavage, but this homegirl got a lot of male attention yesterday. Talk about ego booster. I even felt my sexy returning as I walked, that is, until I started limping. Maybe overdid it a bit with the whole walk a theme park a few times thing. I'm just starting to get back into fitness after letting my foot heal (hope I didn't set it back; I put some Aspercreme on it just in case).

I, also, saw a lot of couples of all ages/races/ethnicities/heights/girths/etc so there were a few times that I felt the familiar sting at the edge of my lower eye lids. But my tears didn't put a damper on the day. My kid had a blast; he was my kid again-- not some smart-mouthed troubled child. He was just so happy. And I wouldn't have traded that day we had for anything, except to have gone back in time so that there were more of those kinds of memories instead of the kind that have me crying even now just thinking about them.

I'm glad I said yes to the trip. I'm glad I got out of the house. I glad I got to spend a day with my youngest in his favorite place on Earth with most of the expenses paid. I got to be just mommy, not the disciplinarian. And that felt pretty damn good.


Sunday, March 11, 2012

Cutting Away the Baggage

He said he wouldn't date me if I cut my hair short as I exclaimed at the cropped haircut of a woman passing by.

But I went against my instincts dating him in the first place, giving him chance after chance at the insistence of my friends. They said I was being closed-minded; I was being too harsh in my rejection/objections. So I thought, maybe...even while the alarm bells were clanging in my head. But I ignored those warnings and, eventually, I sought out the thrill that went through me at his texted hellos, validated myself with his communication, and immersed myself in unworthiness when that communication slowed to a near halt. I lost myself.

Wednesday, I found out that he had changed my life forever, possibly destroyed a dream. He scarred me in a way time won't even heal. I don't want to date anymore. I'm going to continue walking through life alone. But first I had to get rid of the baggage.

Yesterday, I made up my mind that he and I won't even be friends.

And, yesterday, I armed myself with a pair of blue and yellow titanium steel scissors and reclaimed myself.

I stood in the bathroom, measuring out three inches of my hair, then took up the scissors and chopped off the remainder, cutting away any chance we had of getting back together. As if there was one.

 With every snip, fell a memory. With every strand, I said goodbye.

Today, I got it all done professionally.