Done Deal

Last night I got shot at. Well, not exactly at...but two drunk 'ignant muufuccas were drunk in the street, carrying on, as I was on the passenger side of my car. (Getting another square--'cause I am stressed and turning into chain smoking Joan Crawford--minus the wire hangers and shit.) And one idiot decided to shoot at the other idiot. I dropped down on the ground and crawled up my stoop so fast, I don't even know how I did it.

Shook up? To say the least. Clearly, I didn't sleep well.

The foolishness exacerbated my normal Monday morning blues. Same shit times 10. Dreading the 40 minute commute. Feeling lonely as hell. Sitting in the 10 AM team meeting thinking about how I so am not interested in how much fee (i.e. how much bonus my boss is going to earn) the deals in the pipeline might garner--and I am so not in the right job long term. Longing for a hug and kiss on the forehead, and a "baby, its going to be alright." in whispered in a deep tenor in my ear.

Its time for me to go home. And home is where Big Baby is.

The latest epiphany.

Pride is what got me here in the first place. Do I think moving was a mistake--not necessarily--but long term it won't work. The Big Baby encouraged me to move because he wants me to have what I want. He didn't want me to feel like I was sacrificing for him. When folks were asking me "what about Big Baby?". I looked at them like "What about him?" and dismissed it. And so I went--because I have been doing me so long it never really occurred to me to think about it any other way. Partially, because I got something to prove about not giving up a career for a man (mama baggage). Partially, cause the dollars were shining and outweighed other things. And largly because I was afraid to take the risk of staying.

Now its time for me to take a risk. A big one. In January, I'm leaving. I figure I really have nothing to lose. Bmore is cool. The house is very cool. But...

My personal happiness is finally starting to outweigh my need to over-achieve.

In the end, everything always works out for the best anyhoo. And I know that from plenty of experience.

Cootie Brown

...drunk as. That is me. It is 10 AM...and I'm not quite sober. Yet, at my desk/pod/fishbowl on a conference call I sit.

I'm too old for this shit.

Last night, Line Sista 54 (now and forever more called LS Fi-Fo)came by. We were going to be grown. Have a little dinner, maybe a drink or two. What it turned into was a 6 hour, 2/3rd bottle of Sailor Jerry (yo! check out the Sailor--it is so YUMMY!) Spiced Rum drinking, drunk dialing to the sorta semi-not quite--ex by the ls, good ass time.

But now here I sit. Still. Not. Quite. Sober. 7.5 hours of sleep. Still. Not. Quite Sober.

And it will probably take my ass two days to recover--because I'm what? Too old for this shit.

Oh. And now here comes the hang over.

Toys [ain't] Us...no more

This grown folks shit is for the birds. Bills. Responsibilities. Appointments. Mortgages and crap. Who signed me up for this? I mean really. I want my money back...

Since I turned 4 nearly two weeks ago,(that is 3+1 for you simple muuufuuccas)the "wow, I'm really grown and shit", has really been on my mind. I mean, just a couple of weeks ago I was in the ATL taking a young woman on her college tours, and I found myself acting like mama--making sure she asked the good questions, that she got to see the most important people, finding out about the money factor. I gave her advice whilst trying to be very conscious of the lecture tone (GAWD knows I hated that shit when I was teen.)

And I swear I hear a damn clock ticking--though just a month and half ago I was in Chucky Cheese ready to hide under a table from all those little monsters running amok. Thanks to my LS--who made it painfully clear that our difference in age afforded her the time to putz about on the kid thing. Sheeit--I ain't birthin' no babies till their is a ring (ahem...a wedding ring on my finger.) But the clock is messing with me and lets just say ain't no suitors lurking about so I better put some eggs on ice or something.

I can't even kick it late on the reg anymore. Bedtime for me is all early and crap. I had my PJ's on at 11:30 and was asleep by midnight (with the added help of the "liquid painkiller"--Navy Sailor 92 proof--good lookin' Wise). I mean, on my damn b-day, the celebration was over by 10--I was in bed by 11:30--on a Saturday. What kind of fuckery is that nonsense?!?

But the worst thing, is that my fool ass finally decided to apply to law school and stop bullshittin'. Average age of a fool in the law programs I am interested in? How about like 23.75--what in THE hell? Guess, this old poodle's gonna have to dust off those Beer Pong skills and skill the hootchies on mack mastering...(now where the hell is my cane?!)

So, I lied

I said I was going to not talk about it. But its weighing so heavy on my mind. I am passed the sad phase, and I am almost passed the "conjecture/guessing" phase. But now I am entering the "mad as hell phase".

You want to know why I'm mad? Let me tell you why I am mad?

See, this the thing, long distance has in no way been easy on me. I have never been faithful. Ever. Every dude I ever dated, when they started to get on my nerves, or I was getting bored, or I simply didn't feel like being bothered(but didn't want to be alone either), I always had someone on the side--an ex, a bootie call, a friend who I knew was trying to get it.

But not him. I even turned down the advances of the "sort-of-ex 7 years of bullshit" dude. Not once but twice. So, see I made progress in the name of love.

I live 200 miles away and could do whatever the hell I want and he would be none the wiser. But I have not.

I have thought about ending it on many occassions. Not because I don't love him, but because long distance is a bitch. But, I was never afraid to talk about it. I was never afraid to say this sucks big time.

But you don't just get to shut down cause you can't deal. That, right there is bullshit. Especially after all we have done with and for each other. Its bullshit.

Perhaps, it could have been fixed. Perhaps, it could have been more visits not less. Shit, Bmore and Jersey aint that far. But it can't be when you think you have the right to stop communicating.

I deserve more. I deserve the conversation. From what I have known from him, he is a man of his word. But then again maybe I don't--and this conversation will never actually occur.

But like I said before, the game ain't changed and the 80/20 rule still applies. So, I hope whoever the chick is she is doing it for him better than I clearly could.

Now. There. I am done.

Dusting off

I have decided not to talk about it anymore.

I have dissected it. Talked about it analyzed it. I even asked my damn Daddy what he thinks.

I won't know until the conversation is had. And at this point, I don't think that will be anytime soon.

Maybe time and space is good. Maybe its not. Maybe the loss will be permanent. Maybe it won't. We'll see.

But what I do know, is the game ain't changed. And most muufuccas still playing the game at my age are trying to fill the void with bullshit.

And it took the void to slap me in the face to recognize that life without was not nearly as good as life with.

So until the day of reckoning comes, I'll be running, hiking, lifting, and writing my way toward some peace in my heart. But no more will I talk about this shit out loud.