The Deepening

I’m writing from a place I call the deepening. It’s where I’m taking time to re-connect with myself after choosing to live how I want instead of how others want me to. I’m making a lot of decisions and changes so I’ve gone into semi-isolation mode to focus.

I need this isolation because outside is too loud and I need to hear myself think. I want to observe my body’s reactions. I want to study me. I want to see what triggers me and how I best re-stabilize. I need this isolation because I need to remember who the fuck I am. I want to remind myself that I can create whatever world I want for myself.  I created the one I am now and I need a safe space to think about what the future one looks like. This is a humbling-ass path that looks like applying life lessons and sharpening new skills. It looks like getting creative about when to do the work. Instead of fighting fear all day, I wake up at the crack of dawn and do the work when fear is sleeping, or quieter at least. It looks like smoking ouid, sitting in my high brain bubble, leaving the world outside. It looks like deciding to stay home (not where I grew up) for Christmas to protect my mental health and continue this creative process. Calling out on Christmas is terrifying, but I was able to do it in a mature, honest way and stomach my mother’s yelling, crying, and agony thanks to Dr. Nedra, Dr. Thema, Dr. Ginger. Dr. Ginger’s class changed my life y’all.

Instead of wringing my hands and feeling guilty about taking the time and space, I have decided to enjoy my first Christmas by myself. I’m cleaning my apartment (supposed to be doing that right now), playing good music, cooking myself a chicken (I’ve come to accept that side dishes are not my forte which is probably why I love them at restaurants…), smoking ouid, sitting at my arts & crafts table, and creating something. Over the next several days I will be laying down, planning for 2023, and doing two new things that make me uncomfortable. Sounds like torture but I guess it’s how people open up and experience new things? I’ll report back on this out of my comfort zone thing.

I’m so happy to be connected to myself and to be sure(r) of who I am and am not. I get so much confirmation these days, too. Over and over. Warm reminders that I’m on the right path. Things just falling in place. Waves of peace and contentment. Waves of pride for showing up for myself and giving me time. I’ve missed me. It’s been a while.

I’m reading, writing, learning, listening to music, singing, screaming, crying, dancing, speed walking, and connecting with my favorite people in a more meaningful way. Mostly while high. At this point I’m Snoop Dog’s cousin on the ouid side. Let me not lie. I’m an entry-level ouid smoker but I am building my skills. Ouid plays a large role in my being able to slow down and sort through my lessons/anxiety/overthinking/triggers/fear. It also plays a huge role in my laughing, arts and crafting, nature walking (walking to a park in Brooklyn) even when it’s cold out. Thank you to ouid.

Thank you also to Black women. Black women constantly show me it’s okay to move as myself. To pursue the things I want, and to show up in the way that I want. I love to see it so much and I am grateful to be among you particularly when it is time to grow, to reflect, to feel seen and affirmed, to be told the truth, to be given love and energy.

Right now I am trying to understand what the fuck adulting is and why everything hurts so much. I’m freaking out because my usual sources of wisdom have turned out to be wrong and I’m triggered because I’m remembering that I had to raise myself in a lot of ways and I have to do it again now. I found the language to articulate this trigger while listening to Warsan Shire talk about her book Bless the Daughter Raised by Voices in Her Head.

I stopped freaking out when I remembered who I turn to when it’s time for me to learn, expand, challenge myself: Black women. There is so much to tap into. It’s things like Issa Rae warning us not to listen to stupid people, to watching Abbott Elementary, to listening to Beyonce’s Lemonade video, Home Coming, and Renaissance, Sza’s SOS, Little Simz’s, No Thank you. Music that’s going to carry you through something while also teaching you some thangs.

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A post shared by Normalizing Self-Love on Social Media 🍭 Dani (@danideboulay)

It’s things like Ziwe asking Amber Riley about racist co-workers. It’s things like Loveland foundation and The Great Unlearn by Rachel Cargile. It’s people like Dr. Yaba Blay, Zeba Blay, Yrsa Daley Ward, Ijeoma Umebinyuo, who speak truth to power. It’s people like Renny Hunter Co. noticing that the IG page has 420 followers and manifesting that it gets 4200 next year. I do not know this person and she is speaking life. I love how safe it is around us.

I stay consuming Black women art, lessons, jokes, stories, etc. All while smoking ouid called Afro Puff, using tools I purchased from a Black woman owned spot with immaculate vibes. What a fucking time to be alive.

I love it over here.

I love us.

I love our world.

I love our universe.

Sending you all the love and healing energy as we navigate this thing called life.

Fall Back

It’s almost time for the clocks to fall back an hour and for me to fall back for the winter season. I won’t be gallivanting up and down these streets this winter so if you see something, say something because it’s going to take a village to hold me accountable. I plan to be inside, saving money, dreaming, doing inner work, executing on dreams, all while high. I’m trying to fill my days with things that I love and keep the creative juices flowing. These spaces of high ideating, high healing, high creating are sacred and treasured. The energy and vibes are supreme…most of the time.

Today I woke up in a funk partially induced by the fact that I went out and had too many drinks on a day where I was supposed to be home, resting, and preparing for the week. The issue isn’t that I took a day off to have fun but that I did it to avoid the work I need to be doing but am overwhelmed by. It feels like I’m veering off the path I’m supposed to be on and I’m struggling to stay the course...insert high levels of anxiety. When I’m in a highly anxious state, ain’t shit getting done no matter how hard I push and prod myself. I decided to take the day off instead of fighting with myself. No work, just vibes. I know this is a luxury and sacrifice, but it was worth it. It is worth it. I am worth it.

My day off includes writing to you, high, as I listen to my classical music playlist and take deep breaths. I’m feeling a little battered by my healing and growth journey, so I’ve been trying to self-soothe and be tender with myself. Some relaxing things I’ve been doing: lighting candles at all times of the day, breath work in the morning and throughout the day, writing and reading and practicing affirmations, and journaling (mostly) every day.

I feel like I’m in school and very important life lessons are in progress. And baby, the trials and tribulations are already in effect. Like, bam, rejected by a guy I was into and put myself out there for. Time to work on ego, insecurities, early-attachment issues! Picture me sitting on the ground where something (likely my ego) has recently exploded. I’m dazed, wide eyed, and confused while the sound of my voice saying “but I’m a bad bitch,” rings in my ears repeatedly. That’s what’s going on in my head while I also try to find the root of my pain, because I’m on that growth tip.

The pain of the rejection is a little about the guy and a lot about my insecurities, unmet needs, etc. In my mind this person saw how damaged I am and doesn’t like me because of that. I know it's a rough thought and not even necessarily true. But it’s not a random one as someone who was raised by folks who often tell me I’m hard to love because of my personality. Because I am not soft enough. Because I am too independent. Because I am too outspoken.  The very things they criticize are the things that helped advance us as a family. I, as many can relate to, was hardened by immigrant struggles and I cannot magically soften particularly in environments that force me to stay in my armor.

A rejection feels like the world is ending because it feels like the criticisms are somehow right or confirmed. They are not right nor confirmed. But still, this feeling is why I don’t usually put myself in situations where I could get rejected. So I don’t have to wake up in the middle of the night thinking “wowwwww this man really just fumbled me!” Like, REJECTION? [Insert New York reaction to someone saying she looks like Beyonce]. Whew. Back to breath work with a focus on inhaling acceptance and exhaling the ego and intrusive thoughts. Inhaling love and appreciation for myself, exhaling shame and judgement. This shit is rough but it is worth it. I am worth it.

I’d like to end today’s entry with gratitude. I am really grateful to marijuana for seeing me through my growth journey. Ouid really keeping the panic attacks at bay when trial and tribulation come out to play.

Blessings to y’all.

Music recs:

Happy Proud Scared

GUESS WHO IS BACK?! It’s been a long time. I took a beat to collect myself after leaving my toxic ass job. I traveled and relaxed (kind of) for a bit, now I’m home.

I didn’t smoke or ingest ouid for a couple of months so I was worried that my good friend wouldn’t hit the same once we reunited. I was worried the edible wouldn’t give me glitter eyes, the blunt wouldn’t give me instant calm. Nonetheless, I got a couple months’ supply of ouid in the form of pre-rolls and edibles the second I got home and tried a quarter of a quarter of a churro cookie edible that tastes like snickerdoodle. Uneventfully, I got too high and fell asleep. For me, too high is my active thoughts getting chopped and screwed. Like a record of my mind is playing and there’s a DJ who is scratching it every other minute in a way that doesn’t sound good. Then the record shatters and the thought shards float in the air getting mixed up and form a disorganized record. I realize that was a very high description. High writing doesn’t always make sense.

My second attempt to get high like I used to was pretty good even though my thoughts still weren’t smooth. I think this has everything to do with how I am inside and nothing to do with the edible. Hella stress in this life. Me trying to control the experience instead of riding the wave. Next high, I had a good call with my cousin where I weaved together such a good overview of my travels, describing the wild themes and juxtapositions in the trip. I literally used the word “juxtaposition” on the call.

Today I took an edible and got real inspiration. I journaled, jotted down my high inventions, and watched a tree sway in the wind outside my window. The beautiful high that I love is back. I feel exactly like I’ve been wanting to feel. Light, goofy, witty, back to myself. I’m delighted.

This high helped me realize that I am my favorite person in the world. I am my favorite person to keep me company. I love my taste, my truth speaking, my individuality, my ability to try new things, the fact that I try hard to be me and do me. It doesn’t mean I’m perfect or fearless or not messed up. In fact, I feel so messed up. Which is why I stay trying to protect my space.

I’ve gotten really close to me lately. I made big life changes for me and I’m making sure I’m not abandoning myself when I’m making changes and doing new things. Again, it’s not perfect, it never will be, but it’s something about having my own back.

I love myself for taking me seriously, leaving a toxic situation when I needed to, for believing in my purpose and for taking risky steps to be in line with it. It’s stressful as fuck but my inner child has never been more at peace. This season I’m happy, proud, scared.

Songs I’m listening to while fighting for my life:

Delighted to be high right now

I’m a couple of shades darker after this weekend and my heart is content. It truly feels like I hadn’t properly gotten sun for years because of this pandemic weirdness.

This month is wrapping up heavy as the US continues its political decline, leaving people dead, devastated, traumatized, triggered, and so on. I hope that you are all able to create healing spaces for yourselves. Do things you like, sleep, sing, dance, scream. Smoke weed. Whatever it is that helps you decompress.

I was lucky enough to spend the weekend with my family and I went home feeling full. We hadn’t had so many people together in the same space for a while and I realized I had been craving that space terribly. We don’t all get along and there is so much fucking mess but when we’re together the love is palpable. It’s thick in the air. It’s sparks. It’s glitter. I say this while feeling bogged down with hard post-family time  feelings and  having a lot to process and talk to my therapist about. I have a real internal conflict when I’m with family. Parts of me turn rigid, domineering, on the offense and I hate it. The true part of me fights back against this invasion and it’s exhausting. As you can imagine, I came back ready for the edi! (short for edible).

Ouid is a beautiful thing during these turbulent times. I have a hard time saying that as a former tough out the pain kind of gyal. That shit almost broke me.

For this  painful month wrap-up, I came home took a nap, had an edible, cooked myself a delicious meal, ate ice cream, worked on my puzzle, listened to music, and wrote. What could be better than that? I stumbled upon a tweet that asked for healing songs by black artists. Here’s the Spotify playlist:

KWTFYA

KWTFYA = Know Who The Fuck You Are.

It’s been a season of trials and tribulations. Of sandwiches and takeout. Of crying while laughing and laughing while crying. Baby, it don’t feel good.

I watched Jerrod Carmichael’s special called Rothaniel and it is good. It shows that being honest about who you are is liberating but also complicated because the ones you love might reject you. It’s still worth it to stay true to oneself.  Aren’t some of our elders a living example of how detrimental it is to hide the truths of our identities? There’s peace in being you. In liking what you like. In loving who you love.

It took me until my late twenties to realize that I didn’t know very much about myself. And that there are a lot of parts of myself that I hide and suppress. I didn’t know what my boundaries were, what my triggers were, that I was a people pleaser, that I resented my elders for being the way they are. I didn’t know that I liked to write and do other creative stuff.  Time and exposure to different people and new relationships and settings helped me learn more about myself. In that, I’ve started a journey of trying to know who the fuck I am and to nurture who I discover.

Some thangs about me:

-       I am a mood setter and enjoyment haver. I have the whole setup for when I take an edible at home. Got my loungewear, music, shows, books. Got the bath, shower, candles, meal I’m about to cook. I know how to get the vibe right.

-       I’m a rebel in denial. I often feel like a bold spirit trapped in a scared mind and body. A rebellious spirit in a rule-following mind if you will.

-       I buy expensive stuff, but I get my money’s worth. I wear/use items until they are no longer wearable/useable.

-       I stay daydreaming. It’s probably what’s gotten me through much of this life. I stay using my imagination.

-       I’m half hard and half sentimental. I’d like to write all my people a love note at least once. Just to show appreciation.

-       I be dancing when high. I dance sober but not like when I’m high. Come dance it all out with me.

-       I’m a daughter of nature. I don’t like forced things and I love to follow the flow. I often disconnect from myself when I get caught up in this world’s flow. It’s always a pleasant reunion when I come back to myself, though.

-       I be chefin when drunk or high. I used to come from the club, cook a steak, eat some, and put the rest in Tupperware in undergrad. Peak Taurus?

-       Every time the edible hit, I say “baby I’m high.” It’s now tradition.

It’s my zodiac season and I’m excited. It’s a year of following my spirit and doing the things I’ve been too scared to do. I’m outchea and scared as hell but we move. Sending love to y’all this end of April. Remember, April showers bring May flowers.  

False Start

I used to watch a lot of football back in the day and one of the calls I can still hear a ref make is “false start.” I drafted a few March posts but they were all false starts/unsuccessful attempts. Or maybe my March posts weren’t supposed to have an ending. Let’s go with that. Here’s a compilation of March drafts.

[Early March}

I consider myself to be a hangover mitigation specialist. It is a multi-faceted job that requires common sense, research skills, and curiosity. This role is the perfect blend of pharmacology, logic, and ancestor supplied wisdom. Maybe I shouldn’t be dragging my ancestors into this. I woke up with a hangover after making the rookie mistake of not eating enough before going out. I tried to make up for it with fries at the beginning of the night and a breakfast sandwich at the end of the night, which helped a lot but didn’t fully prevent the next morning’s hangover. I took Advil and hydrated before going to bed but still woke up suffering. When that happens, I go to the ultimate hangover helper – an edible. I got up, hydrated, nibbled a piece of a gummy and have been floating since. It’s not all pleasant – sometimes I feel a hangover wave come over me, but it doesn’t last long.

I knew the gummy kicked in after I spent a good amount of time whispering my name to myself in all the ways that it is said, to assess which one felt the most right to me.

[Mid-March]

It’s a warm day today and Black people are out. I love to see it. My favorite type of people watching is in Black pockets of cities where we can just be. Fros out, braids swangin, presses pressed, and so much more. Skin shining, lips poppin, music on music on music. Greetings and laughs and laughs. It’s a beautiful thing to see us just be.  

This post is dedicated to Black women because I love us and it’s beautiful and hard to be us. I wish us all a healthy, blessed love. I wish us all healing and protection. I wish us all community.

[Late March]

Baby I’m high. I know when it hits me because my breathing changes. My breaths are deeper and slower. Yoga breaths minus the white man sounds. This smooth high got me singing like Bruno Mars in Wake Up in the Sky. You know the beginning of the song where he goes into harmony? Chef’s kiss. That’s the vibe for tonight. Gucci Mane impacted my life with Lemonade, by the way. That song changed something in me. That beat was too fire.

I’ll wrap this up with a good song list:

Rooting for Everybody Black

Happy last day of Black History Month! We will continue to celebrate each other every damn day like we’d been doing.

Ya girl back. You probably didn’t know I was gone, but I was in a stay offline while in misery from being overworked type of hole. Unfortunately, this Black History Month (BHM) was not spent correctly because I was not home enjoying myself with a little weed and some blogging. Instead, a girl worked and cried and worked and got high and cried some more. What made these weeks bearable? Seeing/hearing from my people and having good life convos with them. Those conversations that jump from topic to topic and deepen friendships. Conversations that provide a safe space to be open. I appreciate these moments a lot since I’ve only recently evolved enough to give and receive love from my friends. It might still overwhelm or scare me sometimes, but lots of inner work has gotten me here. “You know what that is? Growth.” Kelly Prenny, host of the Prenny’s Preguntas podcast.

I’m still mourning the end of Insecure, if you were wondering.

My friends give love so freely that it just helps me to open up. I never felt alone these past weeks and I’m grateful. Healthy friendship is a beautiful thing.  So, on this 28th day of BHM, I tell you to reach out to your people. The ones who raise your spirits and accept you as you are. Get yourselves some friends who challenge you, who are into growth, and who don’t box you in or try to assign you a role that you can’t grow out of. Be with people who bring you closer to yourself.

Apologies for pontificating. I know you didn’t come here for no sermon.

Speaking of receiving love: one of my best bruvs sent me a pizza the other day and my month was made. I photographed the hell out of it made it this post’s icon.

Finally, since it’s the last day of BHM, I’ll share some black content:

Twitter Stories + Comments:

Yo our high school reunion planner really took our money, didn’t have the reunion and started a business. That’s wild

— 29✨ (@reMARQable_) February 8, 2022

the cashier at trader joe’s asked me why I had so many lemons. I told him I like to peel them like an orange & eat with some salt. he just smiled and stopped talking to me … 😭😭😭

— V (@VannahFrancess) February 8, 2022

 Recent reads:

• Carefree Black Girls by Zeba Blay

• Yinka, Where is your Huzband? by Lizzie Damilola Blackburn

• Open Water by Caleb Azumah Nelson

TV/Movies:

• Abbott Elementary

• Made in America

• Last Man in San Francisco 

The greatest gift of all: Idris Elba at Ozwald Boateng’s latest fashion show (after 12 years). Can’t embed the link due to electronic enemies of progress but it’s here.

Tonight’s Playlist:

Tinder Bios

My Tinder hits increased exponentially after I took down my informative bio and wrote “I call people bruv even though I’m not from the U.K.” Mandem had cheeky things to say and it was pretty entertaining. I, unfortunately, got rid of the app after finally accepting that what my friends told me is true: Tinder is just for dick pics and hook ups. And kinky stuff. Not what I’m looking for at the moment. If I change my mind and go back, I think these bios will also work:

• Will warm my cold toes on you

• Free spirited black girl with a fat ass

• As basic as my pics and that’s okay

• Short but my jokes tall

• Call me Ms. Cuffington (prob better Twitter name than Tinder bio)

• Nerds only

• Hot nerds only

• Yansh for days

• I’m not a freak a leek

• PWI Survivor

• Who got the keys to my bimma

• Rooting for everybody black

What y’all got?

The Softness

I just got to spend time with my Mama and I’m in my soft space because I was able to be mindful and observe our time together and see how much we’ve grown and learned to see each other as human beings and grown women. It was a beautiful thing. My mama, who struggles with vulnerability, shared her dreams with me today. We gave her dreams space, spoke life into them, and released them into the future. Something I’ve asked her to do for mine. I’m in a soft space because we communicated without any armor and it was beautiful. Even if it was just for a moment.

After hanging out with her I came home, took a quarter cookie, and went for a nap. My dreams were wavy and I woke up hugging myself. This made me think two things: I deeply love myself and miss getting spooned by a man that I love/ like a lottt. Both can be true at the same time.

I pre-ordered my favorite pizza since I had been thinking about it all weekend. Yes, I’m ruled by food.

When I’m high and soft I am inspired. Everything in my mind bubbles. The creativity, the stories, the words. Inspiration that looks rusted red, and gold, and burnt orange. It sounds like jazz, like neo soul, like r&b. Like Greentea Peng, Symphani Soto and John Glacier. The inspiration is black. It is fully melanated. It is peace and joy and laughter. I run to my journal or computer to capture the words as they flow. But also try not to do too much or get distracted because I don’t want to lose the moment. I don’t want to lose the feeling or the vibe. I hope that you can be inspired daily, weekly, monthly. Because the space of inspiration is love.

Single Card Won’t Decline

Happy 2022, y’all. I am trepidatiously wishing you all an amazing year during these end times.

Written Jan 1, 2022. Question to the adult African daughters who are expected to spend a lot of time at home (where you grew up) during the holidays. When do you get things in your own, adult, home done? When do you get to decompress?! @SpicyMayo (IG) was saying that there’s no excuse not to clean our floors before the new year but my floors are dirty, babe. I went home (where I grew up) and did mad labor. Got here (adult home), decompressed, then work started. Shit is not getting cleaned for another couple of days due to poor boundaries and eldest daughter labor standards.

I just changed my sheets and had only two pillow case covers for four pillows.  My single card ain’t declining these days so I covered my two and the other two are irritating my peripheral vision.

As such, I’m back on the dating apps. Tressie McMillan’s book ,Thick, talks about “knowing your whites,” and I swear I know my whites on these dating apps. I can tell which ones have white supremacist dicks (shoutout to John Mayer) and the ones who are into the swirl. I’m just kidding, I really can’t tell. I’m often surprised by who sent me a like. Even though swiping right doesn’t even mean they aren’t racist or problematic…

Done being ignant now.

Be Blessed.

Flashing Lights

This post is from Early October 2021. Another day, another quarter edible. Someone in one of my chats texted saying edibles are her coping mechanism and I felt that hard. I’m laid down (up, out?) on my couch looking up at the ceiling lights. They look like fireworks, dandelions, bright, flashing lights. See them in today’s post pic!

 It was another hard day at work navigating a chaotic, consistently dysregulating environment. Everything there is problematic and confusing as hell. By the time I get home my energy is sapped. Because of the day but also because I spent my walk home ranting on the phone to a homegirl or family member. I’m probably emotionally dumping, which needs to stop. It’s not fair to them. The second I get through my door; I look for ways to take care of myself and love on myself. Good music, good food, and, sometimes, an edible.

Speaking of which, I finished my pack of edible cookies today and I’m sentimental. This was my first weed purchase. I thanked the empty package for the great times and tossed it. There were some crumbs in there that I was going to gobble up before remembering that they could fuck me up. The last quarter cookie said, “you’re welcome” and immediately hit my system. Now I’m sitting here on my couch, under a nice blanket, writing and feeling grounded. Feeling calmer.

What else makes me feel better after a rough day? Black content. Black people are balm. We suffer so much but still manage to be the source of brightness, reinvention, laughter, creativity, love. Things we need at all times. Ya’ll remember Ashton Sanders seeing Denzel Washington on the red carpet before playing a movie with him? Heart warming. “I’ll see you at work.” So wholesome. If you’ve got time, you should look up Denzel and Pauletta Washington videos. They both look like they wake up in the morning singing Lady Wray’s “Thank you.” Btw, I’m mostly guessing on the punctuation in this blog. Be easy on me.  Same with the grammar.

I just realized I’ve been sitting cross-legged for a minute now and moved out of that position with a quickness. My joints be hella high too and think that I’m flexible all of the sudden. My body tells me stories of this in the morning when I’m aching all over and wonder what happened. Dumb Love by Neil Frances got me bopping my head as stories swirl inside of my mind while I stare into space. That cookie really showed out.

Today I end this post by offering the brightness, reinvention, laughter, creativity, and the love you have been giving me.

Tonights Soundtrack

Thirties is where it’s at

Thirties is where it’s at. I’m in a place where I can buy good weed, enjoy my space, listen to Leon Bridges, eat well, assemble furniture, or do whatever the fuck else I want to do.

This post was written in August 2021. I’m grooooving to WSTRN’s Night & Day. It feels like this song has been on for 20 minutes and I love it. I had a quarter of a cookie at like 5pm today. I’ve been productive this week and I wanted to treat myself. Also, I want to be vibing today because I’ve been triggered by a book I’m reading. Idk why I feel like I need to justify my weed intake. Nvm I do.

I got an end table/bookshelf and it’s taking me so long to understand the instructions. Even longer to assemble the pieces and screw them in. I decided to take a break when I realized a mistake I made means I have to undo half my progress. If anyone wants advice on assembling furniture while high, it’s a 0/10 don’t do it. I’m taking serious missteps with this end table and it’s stuff that is simple. My sense is in the clouds and will be back when this THC ride is over.

I’m so happy to have my own spot where I can just be. I’ve been so anxious about living alone because it amplifies my loneliness. So even though I hate dating apps, I’m on them anyway. I matched with this very interesting guy who is also African. We chatted and he was seemingly awesome with a good sense of humor. I was looking forward to talking to him more but he stopped responding and I didn’t hear back til days later. He had an apology with good reasoning. He gave me his number and we moved to the phone. It was giving nothing. Like????

This reminds me why I’m single and why not just anyone can be in my space. Because when I find my mans, I know I won’t be getting this alone time. I have been trying to remember that I still have time to build a healthy relationship and be happy. I don’t know why people think life ends after college. Thirties is where it’s at. I’m in a place where I can buy good weed, heal, enjoy my space, listen to Leon Bridges, eat well, assemble furniture or do whatever the fuck else I want to do. Like take the time to enter a healthy relationship.

That. Is. Enjoyment. Many of our elders didn’t get that time and honey it showsss.

I type these sincere sentiments then switch back to iMessage to see if he’s written. Because maybe I don’t get text notifications when I’m typing in notes? Bird thoughts. Both things are true: I can be grateful for my solitude while also yearning for a man. The flesh is weak. For your information, I deaded it when he reached out again. I’m a recovering bird.

Maybe I’ll publish this and it’ll get so popular that it’s turned to an HBO show with no white people because they never showed up in my high thoughts.

It is kind of nice to be in my thoughts (which is why I keep messing up this furniture) and to listen to good music. Ayra Starr - Memories is the song that’s holding me down right now. What do the Trinis say? TUUNE (I believe this reads “chune”).

So Issa, would you like to work with me? I swear Insecure is what got me back to HBO. Most everything else was white for a minute there. But um, this show is practically written so we don’t need to take long breaks in between seasons 🙃. You know African compliments and /or requests for help also got digs in them. I say this knowing that we are not a monolith but also knowing that many people in the continent stay doing this shit.

I’ve had about 5 wings too many and I can feel it by the pleas to stop coming from my stomach. I put the rest away and wash my hands. I’m going to wait this fullness out so that I can have a popsicle. Diet Starts on Monday is the name of a DC club that closed. It’s also my favorite phrase when I think or talk about diets and calorie deficits. Maybe I’ll stop saying this when the book I’ve been reading kicks in.

It’s a book for people who have trauma and just feel stuck. They try to make positive changes and live differently but they keep failing. I really recommend anyone who has had trauma to look into healing work. A series of toxic relationships taught me that I’ve got a lot of healing work to do. My traumas plus cultural traditions informed which jerk I chose to fix, perform for, and please. I now realize I have to change that shit.

Which is why I want a man who is also doing his own healing and who is self-aware. I’d, of course, like him to be taller than me, great looking, fit without expecting me to be fit, etc. But if healing ain’t on his mind then I don’t want nothing from him. Some more things I’d like: get me a nigga who loves to read. Who will read to me and ask me to read to him. Who shares deep things he got from the books and who has good recommendations. While we’re at it I want his clothing  to be quirky and adventurous but also very skaterboy. This is my fantasy before you start judging. He also needs to be able to spice up a tailored suit and have a mean shoe game. I’d love for him to be romantic, loving, open, and full of bright, uplifting energy. I’m healing so that I can have this energy too. This is this high African Daughter’s prayer.

You should know that I edit my writing while high. Goodnight.

Tonight’s Soundtrack:

Shower Thoughts

Greetings to y’all.

Sometime in August 2021, which is when this was written, I had an amazing thought while high in the shower: create a blog called Diary of a High African Daughter. I, of course, would have to remain anonymous but this idea is solid.

It all started after I had a quarter of an M&M cookie edible then hopped in the shower once the vibes kicked in. I’ll admit, this was a good idea creatively but not environmentally.

At first, I enjoyed every drop of water that came out of the shower head. I had Leon Bridges’ latest album on, and I was singing and slowly spin dancing, having the performance of a lifetime. Then, suddenly, a larger than life drop of water hit me in the front of my braid-heavy shower cap, scaring the shit out of me. That drop felt too big to ignore so I looked around, inspecting the shower head and everything in the shower.  I managed to calm down after telling myself it was just a weird splash of water that hit me at a funny angle while I was spinning around.

This killed my vibe so I got to the purpose of the shower, and scrubbed my body thoroughly, making sure to focus on each section. I rubbed exfoliator on my face and felt the little dirt particles come off then stopped when my skin started to get irritated. After some more dancing, my pruny ass got out of the shower. I dried off and switched to Snoh Aalegra after putting some cookies in the oven and using the microwave as a  10-minute timer. Like I turned it on to heat nothing for 10 minutes. Not the smartest move but made sense at the time.  

I lotioned every part of my body that felt dry, hung up my towel, and remembered the funny thing I wanted to blog about. It is the reason why I need this blog to be anonymous. How can an African daughter publish a blog about being high?! The elders are so terrified of drugs, so weed is a big no. Drugs are one of the worst things on their list of bad things and there’s no point of explaining why one drug isn’t as bad as another. You can’t argue with an aunty, uncle, or parent’s emotional beliefs.

Here’s a list of a few things that the elders think are bad. It goes from least worst to worst worst. Intentionally ridiculous, but sort of true.  Ya’ll should tell me yours in the comments.

Least worst

Rolling eyes

Swearing

Not spending a holiday at home

Not spending New Years at home or in church

Your spouse cheating

You talking back

Pre-marital sex

Non monogamous pre-marital sex

Unplanned pregnancy (24 and under/graduate degree and under)

Emotional vulnerability

Nontraditional piercings

Tattoos

Drop out of school

Drugs

Not getting married and having kids

Worst-worst