I only come alive when I write. I somehow still manage to meander through my days, feigning enthusiasm, imitating ambition...

The narcissist in me would claim that I actually defy nature during these out-of-body in-my-mind quotidian experiences...

"How so," you may be inquiring. Well it's quite as simple as this. The deepest part of me, the more feeling and thinking side of me, the "who cares how that slipped out" part of my hippie nature, the lover, the dreamer, the "it's all possible" part of me, rouses herself only on two occasions.

The uncensored urchin who lurks about my pre-frontal cortex is summoned by the likes of More Here...

I was suppossed to write this post sometime last year. But I've been forgetful - no that's a lie, busy - true but not 100% accurate, ambivalent - ahhh, now that's the word I was trying to avoid putting here.

At 16, I always spoke my dreams and aspirations into existence. "I want to be a psychologist when I grow up," I would say.

Since kindergarten, when I dressed up like Superwoman for several years in a row, I made up my mind that one day I would save the world.

And now that I'm a little more grown up, I realize that some key charachteristics necessary to fulfill this lofty yet attainable dream, were compromised somewhere on the path to womanhood.More Here...

I hate angry black women, and you know what? Angry black women tend to hate me more.

It's rather interesting since I'm a black woman, an Afro-centric, fist-pumping, love my fro' type of black woman. But that doesn't change that I've always had issues with my fellow brown beauties-on-the-outside, and they have always had an issue with me.

I had this realization this morning, as I tossed and turned in my bed, forcing myself to stay snuggled under the covers past 10 a.m. Staying in bed that late on a Saturday is simply unacceptable to me, so you know I was avoiding something.

Thankfully, but painfully, I realize that the God I serve is not a Man of Surface Issues. I had a lot to think about this morning, and then the epiphany happened somewhere between suicidal ideation, and the violins playing as I sang, "oh poor me!", and visions of packing up and moving to rural Vermont where I can work at some bed & breakfast off the beaten path.

I started a new venture recently, that puts me at the mercy of a cliqued out tight-knit, no new-comers allowed, social circle of black women...trigger-central for a cognitive-behavioral therapy drop out like me. [At least my ex-therapist will be glad that I recognize my trigger, stay in my logic, and hopefully change this pattern all together. But no promises to her.]More Here...