And you thought I was playing? I'm crazy...

And tired of this hotter than hell heat. Dig this: I sweat like a crackhead under pressure. A la pre-divorce Whitney Houston. I lose weight going to class. The sun beats me like my last name is Givens. Not cool. The first 15 minutes of class, I am concentrating on the fastest way to cool off. So no professor, I am not listening to a darn thing you have to say because when you see me dehydrated, passing out on your floor and gasping for air, you are continuing your lecture like I'm not dying. Do I need a football in my hand for you to offer me a drink of water?

And these severe weather sirens - they disappoint me everyday. Each time for that five minutes that I have to turn up my volume loud enough to tune out the blaring I secretly pray that it really will rain, at least you interrupted my shows for a good reason, right? Wrong. Severe weather my big black 'fro. My cheap umbrella laughed at me and said "only nine more uses to go."

And wtf feral cats on campus?!?! Forget the cats, a skunk and a squirrel tried to gang up on me last night and steal my keys. I was just doing my job. I swear the skunk had on a gold chain. This is serious, America. I'm going to put a take out plate from Harcombe on my porch cause that sh!t's dangerous to all species.

Everyone cannot be Spartans, okay? 300 was not an excuse to do something you wouldn't normally do on a sh!tty day and call it loyalty. There's a difference. You didn't do it for your boy's honor. Negro you ain't hard. You wanted her and you needed an excuse cause everybody already knows she a ho. Be a man about it- you's a ho. Somebody should hose you down. Superpoke that ho - and we'll see yoooou!

Speaking of hoes, they make life interesting. And I'll proudly tell my kids, he was almost your daddy. Glory for the almost! Amen, amen.

'Tis All.

Ode to my Cellulite

I wake up in the morning and look at myself in my full length mirror and caress my - cellulite.

Yep Yep. My cellulite.

Now, I must admit, sometimes I am in a state of constant denial about the size of my derriere (or glutes, superimposed by a layer of fat), being at least ten inches bigger than my waist(super duper imposed). However I cannot deny, as my rear end knocks over paper and pencils as I walk through isles, the fear that an eraser might accidentally get stuck in one of my nooks or crannies camouflaged by my jeans.

And whoever created space efficient chairs were not considering those of us subject to the disposition of the derriere because my thighs spill over the sides like country gravy on a biscuit - on a saucer. I should not have to shake to sit down and be comfortable because I do enough of that trying to get dressed in the mornings in addition to the once a month visit by the devil himself.

Cottage cheese ain't got nothing on me. From what I hear, it doesn't have much taste unless you eat it with fruit. While I am not affording anybody the opportunity to taste, I think I got mad flavor. Like Focaccia bread.

I looked at it one time in just the right light, and I could have sworn I saw the Virgin Mary.

I'm obsessed with my cellulite and they want me to go to rehab, but I say no, no, No. I love my booty, just a little jiggle but a whole lot of wiggle.

I'm hitting the gym though eventually, to smooth it out, trying catch up to Buffie the Body and Ki Toy. Bounce a nickel, sit a cup - or carry a lunch tray. I got you. Plus, I heard they make good money at Magic City.

'Tis all.

Back to School Again

So.

Classes started today. This is probably the only day of the entire year that all the black people on the campus of PWI get along with each other. The birds haven't marked anyones cars yet and everyone is chilling at the on-campus-deemed "block". The sun is beaming and every time you ask someone how they are doing they say "hot". Or hated on - because they really want you to ask them how their lives are so much better than yours. Not happening. Now not saying that I am mad that black people are talking - by all means, power to the people- but let's be real. Just keep it moving, like you said you would on Facebook.

Now, the worst part of a new school term are the homeless people. Yes. I said it. Homeless bums. I was putting up fliers for the new sensation that has hit my area, namely, myself, when a 48 years old homeless man walked across the street smoking a cigarette, carrying a plastic bag, and asked me if this area was only for students. Well damn, I thought I was on a college campus, but I could have been wrong - I lose touch with reality sometimes.

So he proceeds to tell me his life story - about growing up in NY and serving in Korea, then how his mom doesn't want him around and how growing up he had girls throwing themselves at him - between puffs on a 'rette that he had to hold because he was missing every last one of his teeth.

Now I am not one to be rude. I lie. I am one to be rude. So I am trying not to laugh at him, because my teeth aren't straight, but I HAVE teeth. And despite the fact that he kept asking me about myself like I was really going to entertain him, he kept talking. He was really trying to get at me when CLEARLY he just told me he was homeless which equals broke, and 48. What do I say to that? Get a job, build up a 401 (k) or (c), wait 40 years - not 20 not 30- but 40 years, then propose to me. By that time my man will be acting up and I can live off of your money. Anything else would be uncivilized.

'Tis all.