Sun lights up the daytime, moon lights up the night
I light up when you call my name, and you know I’m gonna treat you right
You give me fever – when you kiss me, fever when you hold me tight
Fever – in the the morning, fever all through the night.
– Elvis Presley feat. Michael Bublé
Hi. I must say, you sir, are looking particularly dapper today. Nice shoes. Ugh. And that smell? You smell divine. Like, man, and stubble, and salt water, and long legs, and powdered sugar, and… woods? Have you been in the forest lately? Are there even wooded areas around?
Pine aside, I felt it necessary to pen you a quick note. You know, just in case you happen upon this website before you happen upon me. I know it’s silly. It’s silly because you’re not the type to scour the internet – reading blogs, looking for dates on iPhone applications, and posting on social media.
It’s silly because you’re busy. You’re busy living. Living a full life with friends and family, speaking to strangers at a bar, and traveling to exotic places. You’re busy creating things. You’re busy laughing, and telling amazing stories, and charming captive audiences. You are busy penning your own letters.
Anywho, just in case, there are some things you should know…
I am much softer than the writings on this wall.
There is much more to me than what you see here. So much more than all of the independence, and power, and coming of age bullshit that I spew on this site. There’s also more to me than the stupid anxiety, depression, fits of anger, and heartache.
I’m often harder on myself in my writing than I probably should be.
Because when I tell a story about myself I don’t want to leave room for anyone – not even the people who have my best interest at heart – to tell it differently. To tell it worse. I would rather paint myself in the darkest light possible than to ever have another come in and say, “Humm. Well, actually, that’s not exactly how it happened.”
If I acted crazy or out of line – I was the craziest, most out of line lady in all the land. If I called someone a name – I called them all the names, in all the languages. If I was rude, or mean, or snide, or hurtful, or shitty, or… okay, so you probably get my point. I have no problem being the villain. But I want to be the one to say it. I want to be the one to say, “Listen, I suck. I suck so bad. And here’s why.”
I always say, “Own your shit before it owns you.”
Well, I want to own all the shit – on record.
Phew. So, now all of that is out of the way…
I love gangster rap.
Like, I really love it. And not just the new age, pansy-ass Nicki Minaj, Drake, and Weezy shit. I’m talkin’ old school, 90’s, with real hooks and dirty fucking beats gansta rap. I’m talkin’ Jay, and Dre, and Pac, and Biggie, and Bone Thugs ‘n Harmony kinda rap. I’m talkin’ Puffy before he was Diddy. I’m talkin’ X – back when he was sweaty, shirtless, and packing seas of people into grimy MTV Spring Break venues.
More often than not, I drive with one hand on the steering wheel and bob my head to the bass. When I really get into a song, the words fly out of my mouth like a fucking boss. I point – my whole body bouncing, transforming into a totally different person. And sometimes, when the rhythm hits me right, I’ll throw my arm up, close my eyes and roll my hips to and fro.
Nothing has ever made me feel more alive – more sexy – than rap music.
At one point or another, a song will come on and you will meet this woman. It could be The Fugees. It could be Juvenile, or Ja Rule, or ODB. It could be Eminem. I could be in the kitchen. Or maybe in the shower, or the car, or at a bar. We might be in a crowd. You might walk in on me – the radio blaring, me singing and unaware you’re in the room.
She will catch you off guard.
You might laugh. You might think it’s cute or silly. You might wonder, “Who is this person? Who is this woman – this blonde-haired, green-eyed girl who has obviously convinced herself she is some sort of rap superstar?” You might tease me about it later or you might even join in on the fun.
But above all, you will find her fascinating.
She will take your breath away.
She is beautiful and bizarre.
She fits in no box, no list, no nothing you have ever known.
You never knew you would want a woman like me. You never knew you would want a woman like me because you never could have dreamed that a woman like me existed.
A woman who is deeply in love with Elvis Presley, and mafia movies, and drug store lipstick. A woman who talks to herself incessantly. A woman who hates the feeling of lotion, and the smell of lavender, and the sound of jazz music, and the sight of anything yellow. A woman who laughs all day and cries at night. A woman who only likes black pepper in her Spaghetti-Os.
I am different.
I am odd. Peculiar. Weird. A bit off.
I don’t think in soft, fleeting thoughts. I think in words. Hard, haunting words. They keep me up at night. They carefully and methodically shuffle around in my head until I put them down on paper.
I’ve started sleeping with my phone on my pillow at night.
It’s probably not safe but I wouldn’t use an actual notepad – pen, paper, light? Please.
I also know that they – the words – will not let me rest until I give them life.
Exhausted, I turn over and start typing. It’s dark. I have one squinty eye open. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It can be in code or shorthand. “I can fix it in the morning,” I mumble. But I’m always fixing, and wordsmithing, and perfecting.
Words are my life.
You will become my life too.
You will creep into my every waking thought. I will constantly wonder about your happiness and safety. I will daydream about us on turquoise beaches, walking hand-in-hand down grocery store aisles, dancing at concerts, spending Saturday mornings eating breakfast together, vacationing with my family, laughing, touring Europe, on adventures, cooking, napping, living. You will be my most coveted priority. I will rearrange my days for you. I will rearrange my weeks, and months, and years for you.
I would rearrange the universe for you.
I will stand on my tip-toes, link my arms around your neck, and throw myself into you. I will bury my face in your chest and draw in deep, big gulps of air. When you aren’t around, I will cover my nose with your old, ripped shirts – drinking you in, filling my lungs with your smell.
I tend to do that.
I tend to fill my life with familiar smells. My Nana – Ivory soap, Aquafresh toothpaste, and Secret deodorant. My Mimmie and her Imari perfume. Momma’s night gowns.
I have a habit of twisting my fingers along the edges of my “pilla” case or the top sheet. It’s not a nervous habit – not like the constant shake of my right leg – it’s a comfortable one. I’ve done this ever since I was a baby. My index finger traces the inside of the fabric looking for a seam. I turn Pooh on his belly and put him behind my neck to watch TV. He has always been my favorite pillow.
I don’t sleep well. I dream vividly. I dream in color. I wake up the next morning feeling lethargic and sluggish. I have night terrors. I have had them since I was a kid. My very first memory is of our house in Burlington. I woke up to a dark shadowed man standing in the doorway of my bedroom. I can remember being paralyzed – unable to move. I remember the carousel horse against the wall. I was four.
So, I have strange sleeping habits. I’ll nap between 6:00 and 9:00 p.m. with the TV on. It’s weird because I typically turn it to the ID channel. Murder mysteries play softly in the background as I try to drift off. I stay up until 1:00 a.m. I drag myself out of bed around nine. Often times, the best rest I get is that afternoon nap. Whatever works, right? I have realized there is a difference between “falling” asleep and “going” to sleep. Some people simply just can’t “go” to sleep.
I am obsessive about very specific things: reading every single word of a book or magazine, remembering every detail of something that interests me, getting in the last hit, keeping things feeling new.
When I was younger, I had many sets of Spice Girl Barbie dolls. I kept them in neat, untouched, unopened boxes on top of my dresser. I was the only kid I knew who refused to play with her most prized possessions. Even at 10-years-old, I liked the feeling of things staying in pristine condition. I liked the control.
Years later, a few weeks after I left for college, Mace ransacked my room and thieved all of my perfectly preserved Barbie dolls. She ripped the boxes to pieces – cardboard and plastic littered the floor. I came home to find the remnants of an entire childhood dedicated to self-control floating in Momma’s Jacuzzi tub.
That little bitch had turned every single one of my Spice Girls into mermaids.
Look, I want you to know that I might not be the most affectionate, or the most thoughtful, or the most alluring woman to grace this earth. I might not be the most healthy – physically or mentally. I might not be the most understanding or forgiving person one could hope to end up with…
But I will be your most.
I will be the most thrilling, exhilarating experience you have ever imagined. I will be the most soft, safe, snuggly spot you have ever laid your head down at night. I will be your most excited supporter and most spirited cheerleader. I will bring you the most happiness, and goodness, and sweetness, and warmth you have ever been given. I will be your most valued teammate – your most feared opponent. I will be the most gut-wrenching belly laughs, the most silly secrets, the most unfiltered, absolute, pure, genuine fun you have ever had. I will be your most familiar place – your most favorite spot. I will be your most bewitched listener. I will be the most magnetic, electric, enchanting, irresistible connection you have ever made. I will be the most beautiful mess you have ever had a hand in creating.
I will posses the most strength of anyone you have ever known.
I will be the most honest, the most consistent, most loyal force to ever walk into your life.
I will be the most love you have ever felt.
Mark my words, our paths will not cross by happenstance. We will not just stumble upon one another. We won’t lazily fall into a routine that coincidentally lasts forever. We aren’t the sort of couple that “happily ever after” sneaks up behind and bites on the ass…
We are written in the stars, my love.
We are the kind of couple they write about in novels and history books. Mommas tell our story to their little girls at bedtime. Palm readers, and gypsies, and psychics, and witches have spent centuries trying to bottle up what we have and peddle it on the Black Market. You and I are #relationshipgoals and #squad.
How do I know?
I know because I love too big, too hard, and too goddamn good for it to be anything less than some Cinderella’s-shoe-fits-Ariel-hits-a-high-note-Belle-loves-a-beast-Aurora-gets-a-kiss-Snow-White-was-only-drugged-and-everyone-ends-up-with-a-fucking-Prince-Charming sorta fairytale magic.