Tag Archives: rant blog

“Suga, Suga: How You Get So Fly?”

As you can clearly see from the rant blog by yours truly (better tagged by one her readers as “a very pretty cunt”), I have never been at a lack for words.  Also, due to a significant number of years invested in my education (still happening, by the way), I have acquired the skills necessary for choosing those words precisely and, hopefully, with time, quite wisely.

But I shall confess:  My recent break-up — left me utterly speechless Because there we were:  a couple of friends who were slowly — and gracefully — becoming a couple.  The affair had a very natural flow to it.  For the first half of it, we were taking it slowly; cruising along as lovers who enjoyed each other’s company immensely.  Days at a time were spent together, without either one of us acquiring an anxiety or getting on each other’s nerves.  And the best part about this ordeal was that we “chose” to spend time with each other; and in that choice, there was a wonderful amount of freedom and dignity.  No one was making demands.  No one was feeling trapped.  We were in this — willingly.  (Or at least, so I thought.)

Sooner or later, however, there was a turning point; or as I like to call it:  “Time for an Upgrade”.  The lovers began traveling together.  They maintained a daily contact.  Friends were being met.  Questions were being answered to family members (how ever carefully, on my part).  Yet still, the affair was characterized by an certain ease:  Both lovers were still in it, seemingly willingly, and no one was asking for any assurances.  We — were cruising.

Perhaps, it was because this “very pretty cunt” has always been quite independent.  Not since a tumultuous marriage way back when have I treated a relationship as a solution to my personal lacks.  Perfectly complete and competent on my own, I treat a partner as a mere traveling companion:  I choose (here is that word again!) to spend time with him; and that’s just so much better!

Moreover, I don’t believe in making demands from a man; because for the lack of better words (of which, may I remind you, I rarely have a deficit):  Making demands — reeks of despair.  And I just don’t do despair.  Fear causes wrinkles on my face and makes my hair fall out.  Chalk it up to my vanity thing.  So.  Yeah.  I don’t do dat!  Fo’ shiz.

Which means that I’m never the broad to demand keys to my guy’s apartment, or a ring; or a notarized contract on the chronology of “where exactly all this is going” — with clearly established deadlines.  I mean, I have NEVER even asked for a relationship update on his fucking Facebook!  (And by the look of it, I will NEVER have that opportunity in the future either, because at this point, my Facebook profile — belongs to my rant blog.  I’m a working girl, you see:  Whomever I may be shagging at the time — that’s irrelevant for my networks.)

“I’ve always seen you as this…  how should I say it?… a free spirit,” one of my witnesses testified over a month ago.  Every bit of a gentle-man, this creature has learned to deal with my radical opinions with admirable tolerance and subdued judgement.  That day, he gently confronted me about my aloofness toward this now obviously significant other.

“Perhaps, you’ve never been in a normal relationship — because it’s YOU who’s avoiding it.  And if this man is important to you, you must tell him that!”

Oh, no!  Oy, nyet!  Have I become too much of a cruiser?  One of those bohemian, universal-love, everything-happens-for-a-reason, Namaste chicks?  Nothing wrong with that, of course; but regardless of my love of freedom — and my respect for my partner’s freedom (AND his choice) — I do aspire to be IN a relationship.  In a LOVE!  So, have I been disrespecting this beloved man of mine with my aloofness?  Have I kept him at bay by “taking it easy” and “just going with it” — just “cruising”?!

“I must correct that!” I thought.  “He needs to know that I love him, that I am — ‘committed’!”

And so I did!  At the very next opportunity for mutually free time, I brought it up.

Cut to:  It was over.

Yep, in that very same talk that was merely meant to communicate my feelings and clarify my intensions, my man’s response was that HE — “just wasn’t ready for a commitment”.

I was speechless. 

And because I was speechless, I turned to the other gentle-men in my life, for their capable and eloquent evaluations.  Here is one testimony:

“So I was reading an article about airline pilots, and they all agree the most comfortable and safest part of the flight is ‘the cruise’… which is the max comfortable cruising altitude.  All blue skies up there.  They can even take a nap legally, eat, and talk about their lives.

On the contrary, the most dangerous part of a flight is take-off and landing. The point: Changes in altitude are dangerous.

Your relationships was in ‘the cruise’.  And your [relationship talk] was a request for a change of altitude.  Higher.  Thinner air.  The plane (your relationship) needs more speed to stay aloft.  Makes ‘pilots’ nervous.”

Um…  Okay.  I hear that!  Trust me, there ain’t another woman I know better equipped for the cruising mode — than me.  And when it came to this particular affair (now, obviously NOT a “relationship”) — I was a fucking co-pilot!  It took other gentle-men — people of my man’s kind — to remind me to treat my partner with the respect, and the recognition, and the acknowledgement that he deserved:  To let him step into my cockpit.

And may I also say:  What is it about the mere word “relationship” that makes so many men so very, very nervous?  Why have there been so many tales of gentle-men treating a commitment like a life sentence?  Or a fucking plane crash?

I cannot speak for other women here, but this “very pretty cunt” was not asking her man for obedience or some materialistic assurances.  Due to the mere fact of my overprotectiveness of my own freedom, I wasn’t asking for the surrender of his. 

No, my gentle-creatures:  This co-pilot was not demanding to take over the control panel of that bloody aircraft.  I was not changing the course of our cruising or contacting the ground station for the coordinates of our final destination.  The very respectful conversation that ended us — in mid-flight! — was merely meant to establish the equality of our titles as “co-pilots”.  I dared to ask for a recognition, just so that to other gentle-men and -women in my life, my relationship didn’t sound like morse code.

But don’t you worry, my gentle-creatures:  This pilot — this “very pretty cunt” — shall be quite alright.  Because she’s never latched onto her man for survival or asked him to pay for her fuel, the return to flight will resume sooner rather than later.  And judging by this rant blog, even her speech is quickly coming back to her.

So, okay:  It’ll be a lil’ while before she regains any communication with the self-dismissed co-traveler (obviously NOT a co-pilot!).  And it will be an even longer while until another fearless pilot steps-up to the plate to co-navigate to higher, unknown, thrilling altitudes.  But until then, she’ll just enjoy this unexpected landing and explore the scenery of self-examination she otherwise would not have gotten a chance to witness.  Because this free spirit — was NEVER afraid of cruising!

 

Karma isn’t a Bitch. It’s a Cunt.

Sh, my beautiful baby-boys:  I have a gorgeous angel in my bed.  Please don’t wake her!

She had flown in the other eve from afar:  One of my East Coast guardian angels who, over the course of our decade-long friendship, had seen me wrestle with some serious shit on the way to becoming the rad broad that I am.  (Motha tells me modesty doesn’t run in our fam’.  “Repeat after me,” she orders me around:  “Lucky you — to know ME.”  Obediently, I follow the lead.  Never underestimate the power of a woman’s compassion!)

Back to my sleeping angel. Born on some exotic Mediterranean coast, just like the gypsy scribing this rant blog, she had never settled — for a place or a man unworthy of her stunning self.  Instead, she continued her flight across the skies of the world, occasionally marking her coordinates with a post-card to me.

And I?  I treaded upon the ground beneath, looking up only when I’d trip myself up:

“Did you see that?” I’d ask the skies of those multiple cities in which I played hide-and-seek with my homes and loves.

“I think:  You’re amazing,” the voice of my girl would ping-pong from one timezone to the next.

Alas:  Never underestimate the power of a woman’s compassion.

So, I’d scape myself off the ground, relocate my gravity and resume the epic search for the next city in which my love could be hiding.

Last night, while the angel dozed off on a floor pillow underneath a caramel-colored light that blended with her skin tone, I was alerted by messages from two women in the midst of their heartaches.  One had just tripped herself up on her intuition:  She was not getting the love she needed from a man.  The other — tumbled over the limbs of her lover who, while stretching those and putting on his running shoes, suddenly wanted to “pursue other options”.  One was a grown woman who, in this ever-so-transient city of LA-LA, knew better than to expect for a man to stay.  The other — still a baby, a girl-child with no more than a single previous heartache — was straining her eyes at the horizon in an attempt to see just what her leaving lover was referring to.  But no matter the drastic difference between the two hearts, both women were in the midst of being left.

This isn’t about your shortcomings, dear baby-boys; for we all have a share of those.  (What did I tell you?  Never underestimate the power of a woman’s compassion.)  Besides, no matter how much this ranty cunt wants to unleash, I have a sleeping angel in my bed.  So, I better keep my voice down.

It’s really simple, baby-boys:  The size of this world is overwhelming, I know.  I’ve earned myself some badass calluses treading it.  And as my angel tells me, it is indeed worth every curiosity and wondering eye of yours.

But behold:  KARMA.  It’s bad enough you might have inherited some shitty one from one of your previous lives.  (I know I have!  Otherwise, why the fuck am I trippin’ so much?)  So, in this lifetime, I’d suggest cradling that bitch as gingerly as your manly arms allow.  And when you make a choice to leave a woman (especially a good one), I recommend to do so gracefully.

(I know, I know:  Break-ups are messy.  In the face of a departing love, shit get thrown around; and usually both parties are equally guilty at betraying their former loving selves.  Shiva knows, I’ve climbed over enough ruins of my own post-break-up war zones:  I threw shit — he threw shit right at back me; I ducked out of the way; I slipped up on that same shit; I fell.  But if you are the one doing the leaving, have some mercy — have some grace! — and don’t destroy your new ex.)

I’m aching:  As of last night, the world included two newly single girls.  (As if it needed more of us!)  And I weep, my dear darlings, not just for the fact of that very injustice (because I think, my two girls — are amazing!); but for the brutal destructions the two departing men have chosen to leave behind.  I cannot even bring myself to reiterate the laundry list of their grievances with my angels.  (NEVER underestimate the power of a woman’s compassion, I warn you!)  Instead, I’ll reiterate this:

If you want to leave — for Shiva’s sake, GO!  But don’t rough handle your former love — or your karma.  Just like you, we will eventually “pursue other options”:  other homes, other cities, other loves:

“When he’s ready to love me again, someone more capable might be loving me,” the baby angel wrote to me last night.

So, please leave us behind unscathed.  Because when you choose to love a woman (especially a good one), you’ll no doubt leave a mark.  But when you choose to leave her — marking the territory is simply brutal and selfish; and unworthy of your former loving self — your BETTER self — and of your karma.

Ah.  I hear a shuffling of feathered wings…

Sh, my beautiful baby-boys:  I have a gorgeous angel in my bed.  Do YOU?