Monday Musings

Favorite Part of the Day


My favorite part of the day is around 7pm, around the time he takes his daily shower. His little brother is playing in his room, making dinosaur roars or superhero exclamations of grandeur and rescue.

My oldest child sings in the shower. And he sounds so free. He’s usually so shy or crippled by anxiety that he rarely speaks, never to strangers, barely to me. When he does it’s an outburst, a meltdown, more and more lately a threat.

But when he’s in the shower he sings like no one’s listening. Like no one’s home. Tonight he croons Alicia Keys’ “Unthinkable” and I could cry.

Around 7pm my house smells like soap and sounds like melodic joy and my child is free. His mind is clear and all that matters to him are the lyrics, the rhythms and the beats that calm his soul.

His singing mixes with his brother’s playing and for a moment I feel peace. For a moment I can write again. I can read again. I can breathe again. I am free.

It’s my favorite part of the day.

My God


Loving him was never quite right. I could list the cliches: I spoke and he didn't listen. I showed up and he abandoned. I could cry the bitter tears of a servant with no master. But the details do not matter. He was never mine to love. Placed on a cross I'm not sure he signed up for. A cross he didn't deserve. I guess we both did our best. Him to be my god and me to be his sheep. When I lost him, I prayed my last prayer. I prayed for you. For someone I could truly worship. Someone to give all of my praise and devotion, ironically blind with all faith.

I'm okay admitting it, even if You don't agree. Your feet will be my alter, Your body, the body of christ, Your blood, his blood. You will be my God. I'll proclaim Your name like I once proclaimed his. To me it is the same. To me You mean more. Worshiping You is the purest devotion I can give. It comes without doubt, without fear. It comes with a God I believe in. I'm okay admitting it, even if You don't agree. I take joy in my sacrilege as I worship at Your feet. 

Maybe You're a vessel as some would claim. Maybe the love I hear in Your voice is his way of calling me back, keeping me through You. I won't argue if that's true. It won't change my actions, it won't redirect my following. For me, there is only You.

I won't ask for a cross, this servitude does not require You to lay down Your life. I will lay down my own. I will pick up my splintered cross and follow You. Wherever You go, I will be there, even if You lead me back to him. 

My hands will lift to You, my heart will fill with praise. My lips will declare Your name and the world will know Your glory. You will be my God, even if You don't agree. I take joy in my sacrilege as I worship at Your feet. 

The Way You Make Me Feel


The single black mother has been laid up in bed with a crackhead, drunk as fuck and she hasn't seen her children in three days... the ones that live with her, anyway.

The way you make me feel. 

The single black mother was a loose child. She'd been fuckin' around since she was 12 and by the time she was 16 she got caught up.

The little black ho became something even worse, the single black mother.

The way you make me feel. 

The single black mother is a waitress. She works nights and drinks and her children take care of her the best they can... the ones that live with her anyway.

When the single black mother does see her children, she yells at them and beats them and makes sure they know they are festering regrets.

The way you make me feel. 

Her revolving door of boyfriends bring men that are increasingly evil.

They touch her children one by one.

Her children cry and the single black mother ignores them.

What? You've seen her in movies so you know that it's true.

The way you make me feel.

If the single black mother needs help, do not help her. Take her children away.

If the single black mother is depressed, do not help her. Take her children away. 

If the single black mother is young and has never done this before and needs patience and understanding and guidance, do not help her. Take her children away.

Save her children before they become her and create more of her. 

The way you make me feel. 



We never speak of them but we know they're there.

All of us.

My wife.


Our children.

They sit down with us at breakfast. 

Drape their hollowed arms around us. 

Kick up their feet of bones.

And laugh at our hollowed jokes.

When company comes, they pull up a chair.

Get cozy.

Stare in the eyes of our loved ones, daring them to speak.

Daring them to acknowledge the presence of the walking dead.

They don't.

They take our lead and remain silent, focused on the much less real human interaction. 

You don't have to look too hard for them. 

They make their presence known.

You can see their reflections in our perfectly polished furniture. 

In the dishwater in the sink.

In the faces of our children.

They do not hide.

Sometimes they lurk in corners, quiet. 

Other times they lay across our laps on the couch, unapologetic. 

And why should they apologize? 

We invite them to stay. 

Never ask them to leave.

As long as we don't have to engage, they are free to haunt us. 

Free to dance around our home. 

Free to make this home their own. 

We converse.

We smile.





Stay silent. 



All in their presence.

Always in their presence.

Remaining in the home that feels more like theirs than our own.

Where else would we go?




Hey, girl. Can I be more than your slave?

Can I build you an alter?

A shrine to your beauty, a throne for your soul?

Can I worship you?

 Bask in your presence and praise you in all of your glory.

 Can I wash your feet with tears of service?

Can I lay down my life for you?

Sacrifice my heart, soul and sanity for the mere chance it might make you smile.

In my midnight hour can I call on your name and find peace?

Can I believe in you whether you respond to me or not?

Can I have blind faith that you are all I'll ever need?

My beginning and my end. 

Can I proclaim to the world that you are my truth, my way and my light?

Can I worship you?

Enter your presence and cry tears of joy, tears of love, tears of unshakable faith.

Can I bear your cross around my neck and let the world know I would die for you?

Can I expect nothing from you?

Can I surrender when you won't?

Can I smile when you leave me? Laugh when you forsake me? Dance when you break me?

Can I thank you for the trials and tribulations you gift me?

For the lessons in unconditional love.

Please, baby, please can I worship you?

Will you be my God? Will you sit in my sky and feed off of my praise?

When my praises go up, will your blessings come down? Can I keep honoring you when they don’t?

You know what, girl? Never mind.

I shouldn’t ask your permission. I apologize. I’m sorry to bother you. I ask nothing of you.

Because the truth is, I’m going to worship you.

Whether you want me to or not.

Whether you punish me for it or not.

Whether I’m punishing myself or not.

I’m going to worship you.

A God so great simply can’t go ignored.



A Christmas Wish


Life is a trip, ain't it? The ups and downs, the highs,the lows, the low low low lows. In the midst of my whatever, all I can hope for, all I can pray for, all I can wish for is not my own blessings but yours. Well, what the hell... mine too.

I wish you peace.

I wish you stillness.

I wish you comfort.

I wish you understanding and acceptance. 

I wish you unspeakable joys.

I wish you therapy.

I wish you the laughter of children.

I wish you laughter from your own belly.

I wish you healing. 

I wish you soft touches and open hearts.

I wish you good food.

I wish you pride in your own unquestionable beauty.

I wish you self-love.

I wish you dancing. 

I wish you patience, knowing it's a process, all of it.

I wish you love, not only more than you expected, but more than you ever dreamed possible. Love overflowing to the point it scares you.

Then I wish you more stillness, acceptance of the love. 

I wish you peace, love, blessings and even a miracle or two. 

Because you are worth it.

You, yes you, you deserve it.

From my heart to yours, Merry Christmas and a joyous and bountiful New Year. 


Black Queen Fools Gold


A remix of something from before...

You wear your black queens like expensive-looking accessories. You take true gold, wrap it in fool, sell it at a discounted price and rap, “Baby please don’t cry. You got to keep your head up”. You keep one by your side, one in your bed, one in your phone, her friend on your mind. You want them tall, you want them thick, you want them stylish but most importantly willing to take that dick.

You want their hair natural as each one of HER coils confirms your contributions to the struggle.  You want their minds open but not too open, you want their mouths shut, you want their souls silenced because the songs they sing do nothing but reveal your hypocrisy. You will tell your black queen why she is magical. You will tell your black queen what makes her beautiful. You will praise any reflection of yourself that you see in her and destroy the rest. You will define her, you will adorn her, you will display her. You will fluff her fro and cloth her skin and paint her lips with sticks of silence. Her mouth is to only open at night. Her mouth is to only open at night.

There will be those rare minds of black queens you cannot ignore. Their brilliance doesn’t ask for permission to speak. You do not make them giggle and coo. You know her britches are too big for you. You know she can out-smart you, out-wit you, out-run you, doesn’t give a shit about you. She sees through your bullshit, refuses to deal with that shit, and shakes her head, praying for whomever decided to sit next to you. These are the women you would never call more than a friend as you refuse to fuck what frightens you. Your ego, your dick, your weakness make sure you stay too steps away, never getting too close to the woman that sees you. Her intellect five times greater than your smarts. Your ego five times greater than her intellect, so she must be ignored, pushed down, deemed angry, dripping in PMS. The threat to the ego must be abolished because we all know niggas are sensitive about their shit.

Am I your black queen when you sing my praises in public only to hand-deliver my quelled self-esteem behind these doors of fake love? Am I your black queen when you fuck me and forget me, when you impregnate me and leave me, when I’ve been treated better by white men?

My black is mine. My pussy is mine, neither available for you to define. I have no desire to participate in the hotep orgy of blanketed ideals that will never truly consider the complexity of my individuality, that cannot see me beyond my brown skin and pink pussy. I have no time for the contradictions of the conscious brothas that will march for me, chant for me, protest in my name but still haven’t learned to respect ME, to love ME, only the idea of me, only the part of me that looks like him. Who can't accept a black woman who doesn't believe in god, who isn't searching for her king, who actually doesn't give a fuck if you text her back or not. Am I supposed to want you? Am I supposed to need you? You, who can see me only as a housewife or a ho? Permitting me to be a slut or a queen with no in between.

I am not your black queen, please remove this crown of thorns. I am not your black ho, please remove this scarlet letter of hypocrisy. I do not need you to teach me how to love myself, respect myself, honor myself, when you clearly aren't equipped for the job your goddamn self. 

I am not Mary, the mother of God or Mary Magdalene, the sinner begging for the black man's pardon. You cannot paint me as a housewife. You cannot paint me as a ho. I've snatched that paintbrush and created a homeowner who fucks whomever she desires regardless of their race, class, sex or gender. My bed does not discriminate like your whack-ass doctrine. 

I am not your queen. I am no daughter of God. I am the daughter of a man named Dick and a woman named Jane. I am perfectly ordinary. I am confident. I am self-conscious. I am happy. I am sad. I deserve respect. I demand respect. I will never stop demanding respect. I am an angry black woman with a pretty, pretty smile. I am just fine without you. 

Don’t call me queen when you don’t take the time to truly learn who the fuck I am.   

A Day in the Life of a Girl Who Just Broke Up With Her Boyfriend

6:00am: Stare at alarm clock.

6:30am: Turn alarm off.

6:45am: Cry.

7:00am: Cry in shower.

8:30am: Arrive at work.

9:30am: Mentally arrive at work.

10:00am: Eat cold pizza.

10:45am: Pretend to pay attention to boss.

11:00am: Start texting ex.

11:00am: Save self and delete text before sending.

11:15am: Read old text messages from ex.

11:18am: Kick yourself for every bad thing you said to him.

11:22am: Kick yourself for the even worse things you never got a chance to say to him because fuck him.

12:00pm: Eat more cold pizza.

12:22pm: Listen to coworker talk about her perfect boyfriend.

12:25pm: Refrain from killing coworker.

1:00pm: Attend meeting.

1:15pm: Think about all the dick you can have.

1:22pm: Roll your eyes because you don't even want no dick right now.

1:39pm: Realize it's crazy that you don't even want no dick.

1:44pm: Accept the fact that you'll be alone forever. 

2:00pm: Wonder what the fuck that meeting was just about.

2:15pm: Cry in bathroom stall as quietly as possible. 

3:00pm: Eat two Snickers bars and stalk ex on social media.

3:15pm: Regret the fuck out of your decision.

3:22pm: Remind yourself that you did the right thing. 

3:40pm: Eat third Snickers bar...try not to puke.

4:00pm: Delete his number from your phone.

4:00pm: Reprogram his number that you know by heart into your phone.

4:30pm: More social media stalking.

5:15pm: Arrive home, wonder how you got there.

5:52pm: Check text messages.

5:53pm: Check voicemails.

6:00pm: Order pizza.

6:01pm: Think about cancelling pizza order and going to yoga instead.

6:48pm: Eat delivered pizza.

7:00pm: Start more social media stalking.

7:00pm: Realize you've been blocked from all social media.

7:01pm: Cuss him the fuck out in your head.

7:04pm: Cry to friends about it and listen to their advice telling you it's for the best and time to move on.

7:30pm: Decide friends are idiots and obsess over the blocking instead.

8:00pm: Obsess over everything.

8:15pm: White wine.

9:00pm: Red wine.

9:15pm: Rum.

9:30pm: Check and see if you're still blocked. You are.

9:15pm: Consider blocking his number as it's the only power you have left.

9:16pm: Question why you need this power. 

9:17pm: Beat yourself up for every flaw you possess including beating yourself up too much.

9:30pm: Remind yourself that you're the one that broke up with him and for great reason.

9:50pm: Question who the fuck gave you authority over your life and allowed you to define "great reason".

10:00pm: Get really tired of yourself. 

10:14pm: Get really tired in general.

10:33pm: Pee, then sit on the toilet for thirty minutes convincing yourself this is it. Peeing is now the greatest feeling you'll ever experience again. 

10:55pm: Go to bed.

11:43pm: Go to sleep.

Rinse. Repeat for two more weeks. Hopefully only two more weeks. Good luck to you.

The Least of These

He promises. 

She promises. 

He puts his faith in her. 

She hopes for their future. 

He loves her in ways he never thought possible. 

She loves him through the fear. 





But sometimes it seems. 

Sometimes it seems the least of these is love.

He follows his path.

She follows her dreams.

They work.

They work. 

They work. 

They still love. 

But the least of these is love.

He promises to stay.

She promises to change. 

He promises to help. 

Because he loves her. 

He loves her and she loves him. 

But the least of these is love. 

He considers his future. 

She can't get over her past. 

They promise to love. 

They proclaim faith. 

They proclaim hope. 

They proclaim love. 

But the least of these is love.

Love is steadfast. 

Love is sure. 

Love will hold you. Guide you. 

They proclaim. 

She sacrifices for her children. 

He respects decisions made. 

And through it all.

Through every hope. 

Every faith. 

Every stirring. 

The least of these.

The least of these is love. 




She fell to the ground and the water crashed over her back. Each drop a lashing she deserved. 

Jealousy invaded her body. Jealous of her once Heavenly Father. Jealous of her mother. They would have his embrace now. They would have his life. His love. 

Jealousy grew to vitriolic rage. His absence birthing pain ten times greater than the tears he ever caused her to cry when he was here. 

She wept until her body was spent. Until her body was numb. Then she wept more. 

She wouldn't move. She couldn't get up. She cursed her prayer for death knowing it wouldn't work. 

Why did she ever yell at him? Why did she ever scream? 

Why didn't she swallow her pride, her pain, her desire, her fatigue and just hold him? Just hug him and kiss him and let him into her bed? 

She loved him. More than she herself ever knew. 

And now he was gone. 

Now he was freed of her, of the pain she caused him, perceived or real, it didn't matter. He felt it and now he felt nothing but his freedom. 

She felt nothing but regret and despair. A regret darker and closer than any shadow, unable to leave her side. A despair, indescribable. 

He was free and she, the living dead. Longing to cross over knowing the peace would never come. 

She got exactly what she deserved. 

She should have done better when he was here. She should have done so much better. 

Now she lie drowning in the shower of her own choices. 

Letting each drop whip her with the pain she deserved. 

God, how she missed him. 


I'm inebriated and don't know what to write about. Someone reminded me that I did some pretty great things recently and I should reflect. Thank you, person ;) But, like I said, I'm inebriated and don't know how to humble brag or write coherently right now (sorry) so what I'm going to do is TRY ANYWAY because you have to try in life and I don't know what to write about. Did this paragraph make any sense?

Here are my recent accomplishments: 

1. I'm watching Hook, the movie, with my six year old son. We come up on the part where aged and forgetful Peter Pan gets some nice mouth to mouth action from three supes cute mermaids. My son says, "Ahhhh, mommy go back so I can see that part again!" I say, "hahahahahahahaha okay." I rewind and let the little perv watch again...THEN he says, "Excuse me mommy, I have to go to my room and do something private." I say, "Okay," and die internally. But I'm proud of myself because I was the one who taught him that certain things are to be done in private, in your room, by yourself. So, at least I'm raising a responsible horn ball (or maybe not a horn ball and this is all completely normal. I hear it's normal. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, TELL ME IT'S NORMAL). 

2. I had an incident with a certified fuckboy recently which is RARE for me. I usually date insanely nice men (That might show in my blogs. I'm usually the asshole. Le Sigh) and I truly have little to no experience with these douche bag, asshole, fuckboy, normal guys these days that all of my friends cry about. Usually, I can smell an asshole a mile away (wait, what?) and I avoid that mess wit' a quickness because ain't nobody named Marissa got time for punk ass dudes. Still inebriated. Sorry, mom. Okay, so. I come across one such jerkface and long story short, he does what assholes do. Tried to stink up my life. I could have/should have written something better than that last sentence. Anyway, y'all wanna know what I did!?! I dealt with the situation like an adult! I politely went off on his ass through Facebook Messenger and let him know I am not the one. I am not that girl. No sir, not today!  I may have written a mutha luvin poem about it. See number 3.

3. I wrote a poem about fuckboys (in a like cool, good, slam poetry, talented kind of way, nothing like what's happening currently in this blog). I wrote a poem, signed up for an open mic, and performed said poem. I accomplished my fear of spoken word, bore a part of my soul, didn't die, and the dopest poet I've ever met told ME I was dope af. Such good shit. And yes, fuckboy referenced in number 2 was in attendance of my dope af performance. *Hair mutha fuckin flip* Accomplished. 

4. I got my first writing job!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm officially a contributor for a fun website. I get to write about adorable animals and ya know what? The whole situation makes me smile. Getting paid for my writing feels way better than that old Master's Degree (no, seriously). 

5. I put out into the Universe that I NEEDED a vacation (I don't even believe in stuff like that but I don't know how else to word it currently. INEBRIATION!) and guess what? My cousin invited me onto a cruise!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I could afford it (crazy discount) and had the time to get away. So, I somehow used the law of something or another (shit I don't really believe in...or I think I can just describe it in a more concrete/scientific way rather than romanticize it) and attracted what I wanted from the Universe! I set sail on a cruise in four days! How ya like me now, fellas!?

That's it. Those are all of my accomplishments lately. That and my fro is on point. Okay no, that's just a straight up blessing not an accomplishment. Idk, I don't really believe in blessings either. Except my kids, awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!

Okay, that's all. 


I am a daughter of God. I am a daughter of God that knows her worth. I am a daughter of God that knows what lies between her legs is a precious gift that, nigga, you can't just take.

I am mother Africa, the giver of all life. I am a black Queen. Call me by my name. The east, the west, the north and the south all come from my core. I decided to finally exhale and the Earth was created. All children are my children. 

You think you know who I am. You've painted me quite nicely in your writings of the black Black History. You've made me your queen. Your precious jewel to be protected but only theoretically. You still haven't learned to protect me but you will chant, march and protest for the idea of me, your idea of me.

You think you know who I am. You know nothing but who you want me to be.

Do you know me? 

I am a black girl reject. I am an outcast. I am not a precious jewel. I am a mind. I am a body. I can't say that I'm a spirit because I don't know what the fuck that means. I am a girl. I am not a daughter of God. 

I am the daughter of a man named Dick and a woman named Jane. I am perfectly ordinary. I am not a queen. I do not sit on a throne. I was born in the suburbs, feeling ordinary as fuck, probably because I was ordinary as fuck. And as much as I hated the feeling of mediocrity, my goodness, how I long for such privilege now, the privilege to not have to be more than just me.

If my skin were white, would you let me be?

My black is beautiful and I wear it with pride but I have no desire to be your queen. I have no desire to participate in the hotep orgy of theoretical, blanketed ideals that will never truly consider me, only my assigned race and sex. I have no time for the contradictions of the conscious brothas that will march for me, chant for me, protest in my name but still can't accept a black woman who doesn't believe in god, who isn't searching for her king, who doesn't give a fuck if you text her back or not. I am not in the business of finding a husband while cursing my ex for not seeing the majesty in the rise and fall of my ethereal, African bosom from which all life has come. No, sir. I have two kids and don't want more. 

I am no daughter of God.

Who is God?

What is God?

Is the idea of God the fabric that holds our community together? Are we really that fragile?

Is God the paradigm that keeps women safe under lock and key, longing to be free but fearful of what that freedom actually looks herself...and more importantly to you because god forbid the black master disagrees?

Is the almighty creator the creator of this pressure to be pure? To be powerful? To be mother of the whole fucking Earth? Or is that just reactionary pride fighting against years of oppressive lies?

Do we still believe that sexual suppression is a woman's only ticket to validation? To love? I mean, god damn, can a nigga get her clit sucked without a tainting of her name?

Oh no, I am no daughter of God. 

I am the daughter of a man named Dick and a woman named Jane. 

I only have two kids and I don't want more. The Earth was not birthed by my womb alone. 

I am not your black queen, please remove this crown. I am not your black ho, please remove the disdain. I do not need you to teach me how to love myself when you clearly aren't equipped for the job your goddamn self. 

I am not Mary, the mother of God or Mary Magdalene, the sinner begging for the black man's blessing. You cannot paint me as a housewife or a ho. I've snatched that paintbrush and created a homeowner who fucks whomever she desires regardless of their race, class or sex. Discrimination is for the birds. 

And with that I am ordinary.

I am ordinary.

And I will fight for my right to remain ordinary, ordinarily me. 

How I Fell in Love With Eric Jerome Dickey...Novels

This is the story of my life as a reader: When I was a child my father would instill "reading time" for my sister and I. Then he'd go off to church or meetings or something and my mother was left home to implement the required time of self-study. When you think of my father think of Barack Obama's mother...but a black man. He always wanted the best for us, always pushed us to succeed, especially academically. Although I was a rockstar student, the reading thing never really took. I found books boring and time consuming and I could be watching Looney Tunes instead!

Then there was high school: the land of required reading after required reading. It was pure hell. I hated all of the books. All of them. Ok, not all of them. I highly recommend Things Fall Apart, In Cold Blood, Crime and Punishment and Their Eyes Were Watching God. Those books are my jam. Did they turn me into an avid reader, though? Hell no. 

Then there was college. I was a film major so I  was ready for four years of pure visual stimulation which the least amount of reading possible for a non-math major.

Then it happened.

My sister changed my life and didn't even realize what the hell she was doing. She had a crush on a boy who's mother was a writer. So, in order to impress said boy, she bought one of his mother's books and got to reading! Luckily for her, this woman was a romance writer and her book was gooooooooooooooooooood. Luckily for ME, this woman had the same name as me, Marissa.

This prompted my sister to say, "Hey, Marissa, read this book! It's really good and the author has the same name as you! Hurray!" My response, "Ugh, books." Her response, "It's really steamy and she even writes know, with, you know...detail." My response, "Say whaaaaaaaaaaaat!?!" I was eighteen years old and I knew romance novels were a thing in the world, I grew up with a Danielle Steel fan for a mother, but still, they were books and most of the times they were thick as hell so I'd never really required further. Plus I was eighteen, I was busy doin' my own romancing. Hey-oh! Ok, there was nothing romantic about that time. Remind me to write about the time a guy invited me to his dorm to watch movies...on his laptop on his bed...that had no sheets. Nevermind, I don't want to relive it.

ANYWAY. I took my sisters suggestion and read my first romance novel, Hot Boyz. Now if that doesn't scream Black People section of the bookstore, I don't know what does. That book I read in three days. Then IT.WAS.ON. I hit up my nearest bookstore and frantically searched for the actual Black People section that they politically correctly called "African American Literature".

I quickly came to find out that most of these Negroes loved to write about some bowchickawowwow. Girlfriend, Honey Chillllle, I felt like Columbus finding the New World (ew, gross, terrible analogy). Ok, I felt like Moses leading the people into the Promise Land (but wait, he never made it to the promise land. I think Joshua led them in). Anyway, you get the idea!!!! I felt like Michelle when she found Barack. Boom, okay that works. Phew! It was a magical experience. I bought five books based on back-cover synopses and went to town. 

Of those five, two of them were penned by the one, the only, mutha fuckin ERIC JEROME DICKEY. The first two of his books that I read were Friends and Lovers and Between Lovers

Bitches, let me tell you!!!! When I say, this man changed my life, this man CHANGED MY LIFE!

Eric Jerome DIckey is life.

It was a good thing I was a rockstar student, even in college because I would ditch class just to finish a chapter, or two...or all of them. Friends and Lovers was the first and only book to ever make me cry. It sneaks up on you. It's light, it's funny, it's sexy, then next thing you know you're a ball of mush, rocking back and forth in the corner. Soooooooooooooooooo many emotions. 

Between Lovers, look y'all, this book is the definition of when a man loves a woman. It taught me what love looks like before I was old enough to even truly understand. As a matter of fact, I should re-read that because lordy a refresher is in order. 

In a matter of weeks, maybe months, I've always been a slow reader, my life was transformed. I promptly took my black ass back to the black section in the bookstore and bought all the other books he's penned. At this point I've read them all, Between Lovers might still be my favorite. 


If you ever want to have a self-induced heart attack because why not? You must read The Other Woman. The next time you go home and your spouse has cleaned the house you will know to turn your ass around and go back to wherever it is you came from. This book had my jaw on the floor for weeks, usually while riding around on public transportation with strangers looking at me like I was nuts. IF ONLY THEY KNEW THE SHIT GOING ON IN THIS FICTITIOUS WORLD!!!! Lord, Jesus. I can't even. 

Genvieve... a beautiful character study with one hellllll of a twist.

Pleasure... the title speaks for itself. All I can say is brace yourself... and your booty hole. So good. 

And there's Gideon. Oh my Gideon. Dickey stretches himself and supersedes his already established brilliance. How does he do it? I don't fucking know, but he does it. And oh, does he do it well!

I'm currently in a novel writing class and the instructor was asking us about our favorite authors. I mentioned EJD clearly and she had no idea who he is. I'm strongly considering changing classes...maybe I'll just make her read all of his books. Do that bitch a favor.

Eric Jerome Dickey novels are what made me think...hmmmm, maybe I can do this, maybe I WANT to do this, maybe I SHOULD BE doing this shit!!! If I ever wrote anything half as touching, half as intelligent and enthralling and sexy or challenging as Mr. EJD, just take me out back and shoot me because I could officially die a happy and accomplished being. 

Eric Jerome Dickey, I love you. I thank you. 

On Being a Teen 30.

When you're a teen mom at thirty, you feel like a teen mom again: completely out of place. Your friends are now catching up and having babies of their own but they're not really "catching up", are they? They're doing it at the right time. You were the one who clearly got it wrong.

Your friends talk about formula and breast feeding and what stroller to buy while you research "How to Get a 12 Year Old Through Puberty" on your own. 

You realize this will always be the case. You will always be the odd mom out. Hell, you always have been. You will always be at the wrong stage of your own goddamn life. 

Your pregnant friends will ask you if it's weird to have a different last name than your child's. They ask because they are beautiful, bad ass feminists that never took their husband's last name. Clearly, not the reason why my child and I do not have the same last name. His was never offered to me with a promise and a ring. 

I tell them not to worry about it. They are married. They belong to a family unit. Their different last name is a minor detail that doesn't take from the legitimacy of their family. Alright, so I just say, "No, it's not weird".

When you're a teen mom at thirty, you're reminded that you did it wrong, out of order, too quickly. Your friends are engaged married, expecting, mothers of toddlers and you're still trying to survive, trying to fit in, knowing you never will. 

Am I grateful to not be changing diapers? Absolutely. I am looking to get married and start all over the "right way"? Hell to the no. I love my child. I realize my blessings but there's just something about being a teen mom at thirty that makes you feel well, like a teen mom again. You watch them do it the right way, unable to stop the thoughts that you clearly did it wrong. 

The Fool

I was the fool. 

I was the fool that said we could still be friends. 

She invites me to the movies. Foolishly I oblige. 

She smiles that smile so sweet. The one strangers can't help but comment on. Compliments that ignite the sparkle in her eye. The blush in her cheek. 

Little does she know, it's that very smile that tightens my chest, that twists the knife.

But I can't blame her.

I was the fool.

I was the fool that said we could still be friends.

We sit close. We have no choice. 

In the darkness I smell the lavender and orange in her hair. I hear the song of her breath. I feel the warmth of her presence. 

Little does she know, it's that very smell of lavender and orange that causes my tears, it's that poetic rise and fall of her breath that rebuilds my wall. It's that exact warm presence that ignites the match that inflames my courage to love again. 

But I can't blame her. 

I was the fool.

I was the fool that said we could still be friends. 

We walk out together, not hand in hand, not side by side. The streets are busy and she's a little ahead. 

We stop at her car and she hugs me.

She's a villainous murderer. Me, her latest victim. How could she intend to do anything but kill me? 

Doesn't she know what a hug does to me? A mere brush of her skin against mine sends me spiraling down into anxious despair, so why the fuck would she hug me?

She knows better. 

I can blame her.

I do blame her.

I was the fool that said we could still be friends but she should fucking know better. She should know that shit ain't possible. She should know better than to smile like that and smell like that and breathe like that and emit that goddamn, fucking glow. 



I can't blame her. God, how I want to blame her but I can't.

It's not her fault. 

I was the fool.

I was the fool that said we could still be friends. 

I was the fool that fell. 

An Open Letter...

 I've seriously considered breaking up with you at least three times. My friends tell me to relax, take my time, give it a chance. 

I thought about the things I don't like about you. It's so new; they're things I couldn't possibly be sure of. Maybe you're unreliable. Maybe you're not successful enough. Maybe you won't make enough money. Maybe you'll leave. Maybe you're the lie. Maybe you'll stay until you can't handle the crazy in my life. Maybe you'll stay. 

Look how you try. Look how you push through. Look how you promise. Look how you hold the potential to quell each of my fears. 

But still I doubt. 

I'm afraid of you. 

Maybe I like you only because you like me. Maybe I only love the love I feel from you, the admiration, the adoration. Maybe I'm just a narcissist. Maybe I find you valuable because you see greatness in me. Maybe there's nothing more. 

I told my friends about you. I told my cousin, my uncle and my sister. Why am I telling people? Why is my face lighting up when I do? 

Maybe I like you. 

You scare me. 

When I think of the fantasies, the mansion in Beverly Hills, the farm house on Long Island, I see you there. It's easy to see. 

Maybe I'm just scared you're it. 

I hate to doubt...

It's never a good sign with me. 

Maybe no one will ever make me feel as comfortable and at home as you do. Maybe they won't accept me like you do, like he didn't before you. I'm completely unaware of my body when I'm with you. As if I've never had an imperfection, an insecure thought. I'm your goddess and you my king. Your body is perfection. Maybe it's all I love, the intrigue and excitement it carries. 

I'm afraid of you. Afraid that you'll hurt me. Worse, that I'll hurt you. I'm terrified of myself much more than I am of you. 

But then I see you. But then I feel you and it can all melt away. I feel you and I want to stay there forever.

You carry my heart so well. My mind and my body too. I’m not sure you realize just how well you see me.

Can I stay forever? Will you have me? Will you have us? Can my crazy come too? 

Maybe I just love you. 

Hold me and tell me it will be okay. Can you do that? Can I accept that? 

I want to see you fly. I'll be your biggest support. 

Maybe I need time. 

Maybe I love you.

Maybe I just love you. 

Just Do It...Maybe.

Love unconditionally.

If you like her, tell her.

If you want to call him, call him.

Tomorrow isn't promised. 

Don't be afraid to express how you feel. 

You never know when they'll be gone.

You never know when you'll be gone.

So just do it.

Seize the day. 

Have no fear. 

Be ruthlessly giving with your heart. 

Unless we're talking about a crush.

A crush that you're not sure likes you.

Or a crush you KNOW doesn't like you.

In that case don't say shit. 

Take that shit to the grave. 

Expressing crush feelings will lead to nothing but guaranteed emotional death. 

But yeah, everyone else? Like your mom.

Go tell your mom you love her and shit because you know, you never know.


The Hardest Breakup

My love, my love, my love. Parting is such sweet sorrow, especially with you. 

For many years, you have been the light of my life. In joy and pain, every moment was better experienced with you by my side. 

I hate to leave you, my love; I've tried before but to no avail. I tried to just see you on Fridays, my special day with you, but when you'd call me on a Tuesday, a Wednesday, oh god, a Sunday, how could I ever say no to your sinful seduction?

And no, it's not only me. You have other loves, women fall at your feet, women just as powerless as I against your sweet bliss. I never cared. We'd enjoy you together, side by side, escaping our cares and drowning in your love. 

Oh god, how will I do this? How will I ever survive?

My dearest frozen yogurt, I must be strong; you must be strong. We must say goodbye. 

I have met someone new. He will never compare to you. His name is Kale and he's boring and always green with envy of our love but he's good, oh so good for me. He's the one I should be with. Please forgive me, my love. It is time for me to finally start doing what's best for me. 

I am freeing myself and you as well. Go on and feed the children of the world. Go on and comfort the lonely and depressed. Go on and be the basic, white girl staple. You've found your calling and are fulfilling it marvelously.

But it is now my turn. My turn to find my own path, a path towards my new "love" Kale, a path towards exercise, a path towards bending over, tying my shoes and not being lost for breath. 

My dearest frozen yogurt, maybe some day our paths will cross again. Maybe one day I'll see you in the streets and be able to say a simple "hello" without dragging you to my bed. 

Lord, give me strength. 

Alright, I've dragged this on too long. I must walk away. I love you frozen yogurt. I always will. But I must go a new way, take a thinner path. 

Wishing you all the toppings in the world. 

With love,

Marissa Joy

A Tinder Love Story

After reading the title alone you've already decided that the following blog must be undeniably bullsh*t. Tinder stories are a dime a dozen but a tinder love story is simply some unicorn, dragon, tooth fairy nonsense. We've all heard of our co-worker's sister's dental hygienist's mom finding love on tinder in stories our friends tell us to prove that it can happen for you too! But we all know these stories can't possibly be real. Even if they are, it doesn't matter because love never finds us, only our co-worker's sister's dental hygienist's mom, right? We are the rule, never the exception, right? 

Well, luckily for me, I've always believed in dragons. 

Here's some helpful backstory for my tinder love story:

1) I've been on tinder for a while.

2) I think women are sexy. 

Okay, that's all the backstory you need :) 

A few months ago, I'm swiping around on tinder and have my settings open to both men and women because (see #2 of backstory). I come across a lovely lady's profile and read her details. She says she's not looking for a hookup or a romantic relationship but more of a "BFF situation". My first thought is, "Who the hell looks for a best friend on Tinder? This sh*t is nutty as hell." So naturally, being the fan of the absurd that I am, I swipe right! And we're a match! Happy Day!

We get to exchanging some messages, then phone numbers and bunch of text messages later, we decide to meet up. Our initial "first meet" (what the young, cool, non-comital kids like to call a first date) was supposed to be attending a Buddhist lecture on death followed by some yoga (her idea because she's just that cool) but it didn't work out. I was sick or she was tired. I don't remember. Instead, we kicked it old school and just met for drinks. 

Driving to the brewery, I couldn't help but get a little nervous. Even just through the text messages we'd already exchanged, I'd felt a connection with this woman and I'd seen pictures, not too shabby, not too shabby ;) She'd told me she was interested in both men and women and I was (see #2 of backstory). I thought to myself, "Men f*cking suck and she's gorgeous. Who knows!?"

That first night we shut the place down. We sat and drank and talked and talked. I told her things no one else in this world knows about me with ease. She listened with an open heart and unflinching face. I felt an instant connection. 

At this point, my lovely best friend, Sarah, has grown to be the one person I'm truly comfortable around. Historically, I've always thought it impossible for me to feel completely at ease around another person, including family and/or lovers. I'm not sure why, well, maybe because I struggle with judgement...I always feel it, whether it's there or not. If it's there with Sarah she sure as hell does a good job hiding it but I don't think it's there. When I speak she listens and cares and is there for me. Whether I need to cry, dance, drink or drink and cry while dancing, I know who's always down to join me. 

Best friends are hard to come by, 'best friends found on tinder' isn't really a thing that happens but I suppose now my son's dental hygienist's patient's co-worker can say their co-worker's dental hygienist's patient's mom met her best friend on Tinder so there's always hope!

My dating life has never been easy...nothing unique there. I may also be in the process of getting my heart broken (still waiting on a confirmation text) but that's another blog for another day that I'm sure I'll never write so for now, you're stuck with my sappy best friend post because you know what? The bitch is fabulous and she deserves it. She's an amazing individual on her own as well as as a friend. Plus, she's one of those super woke white girls that speaks up against inequality every damn time so...winning. 

So for now, screw men; it's never going to happen for me blah blah blah, but that's okay. For now all I have to say is I love you, Sarah. Thank you for the love you give me in return.