There. I said it.

From Ak:

My grandmother has lung cancer that will probably kill her in three to six months. The world is not OK for me right now.

There. I said it.

I’m digging this dude who is really unavailable. He’s compelling enough to make me feel vulnerable. Then angry. Then needy. Then really, really happy. Then scared. Then happy again.

There. I said it.

I’m disappointed in Obama’s first 100 days. The fucking Manhattan flyover, the UN Conference on Racism boycott, the release of the torture memos without the attendant indictments of the motherfuckers who OK’d waterboarding human beings 266 times has made me feel cranky as hell about canvassing for change.

There. I said it.

I saw Sarita “Mississippi Masala” Chaudry on the F train this morning. She’s striking in person. So I stared at her like a stan…until I started picking her appearance apart like the beeyotch who has spent way too much time working at magazines and therefore objectifying myself and others. I saw wrinkles and felt sad. I saw beauty and felt powerful. I wondered what she was working on and felt newsy. Then I felt like a wearout for being so judgmental of her and the whole sighting.

There. I said it.

I’ve had writers block for about a year and I hate writing for free.

There. I said it.

I went shopping for jeans and short sleeve shirts today and didn’t find a single thing that made me feel OK about my body. I know that all comes from inside. Blah, blah, blah. But fuck if manufacturers aren’t trying to make women who weigh more than 90 pounds feel like little piles of dooky. It’s a conspiracy. It just is.

There. I said it.

And I have more to say, but I need to stop. This bad spoken wordish post (“I’m scared to raise a Black sooonnnnn!”) is ruining my self perception as a writer who writes things with some kind of relevance to other people.

Signing off, now that I’ve said it.