You Know What She Did? Your Cunting Daughter?

Afternoon, faithful junkies! I have wonderful news! Yesterday I went with my best friend Frank to Steel City Con. Steel City Con is a comic book and collectibles convention that goes down every year. Anybody who knows anything about me knows two very distinct things: 

1.  The Exorcist is my very favorite movie of all time. 

2.  Zombies are my favorite kind of monster.

Imagine my excitement when my best bud shared the Steel City Con link on my timeline on Facebook and I saw that LINDA BLAIR was going to be in attendance! And Tom Savini, the special effects guy for Dawn of the Dead! And Ken Kirzinger, who played Jason Voorhees!!! I almost passed out. I took the day off from werq to go.

The air was filled with a delicious, non judgmental sweetness at the convention. Everyone smiled at everyone else, no one hurt anyone's feelings, no one argued with anyone about menial things. The adults were interesting to talk to and they shared in your own excitement about the Zombies, or the Stormtroopers, or the Sailor Moon characters. The spawn, which I normally loathe being around, were strangely well behaved and, I daresay, darling. They were dressed as Batman and Super Mario and Rainbow Brite, and their parents were dressed as the Joker and Hellboy and HarleyQuinn. It was wonderful.

But I was there for a single, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: to snap a flick with my favorite horror icon, Linda Blair. 

If I'd let that day pass without being in attendance, I would have kicked myself in the ass every day for the rest of my life. I knew that my hair had to be at it's fullest and most beautiful, so I made sure I sprayed it with argan oil the night before and the day of. My pipe cleaner curls had relaxed into sensual waves, and I loved it. I decided not to do anything else with it. 

When I laid eyes on her, my breath caught. This was the girl who levitated up to the ceiling and terrified the priests. This was the girl who fucked herself with a crucifix. This was the girl who threw Father Karras down the stairs, with a little help from Pazuzu, of course. I almost passed out, but I kept my cool outwardly.

As it turns out, Linda Blair is a dog lover and animal activist too! Her website, http://www.lindablairworldheart.org, is a testament to her dedication to animal activism. She was very pleasant to talk to, and hearing her voice in person after hearing her voice in the movies was lovely and surreal for me. It was perfect, everything I hoped it would be. :-) our pictures turned out beautifully. I was so thankful to my best bud for sharing the Steel City Con link with me, and for spending such a perfect afternoon with me. I wish everyone on Earth had friends like mine. 

I just wanted to share my experience with you. I hope you like the pictures! :-)

Winter.

Winter is a strange time for me. I pause now, awkwardly struggling to properly articulate it, all while chastising myself a bit for awkwardly struggling to properly articulate it in the first place.

Winter is the very literal, very visual death of all things, an unavoidable reminder for us all of our own mortality. It's cold and unforgiving. Everything living suffers in some way during the hard months, even if it's something as minute, for instance, as peaches being out of season and peaches are your favorite fruit. Winter is apocalyptic; heavy, sinister. Creeping. Sinewy and surreal. Winter is doom. 

I wilt during the winter months. I'm of the sun; West Indian by descent. Everything about me is warm. I'm as sweet as honey when the air is warm, the flowers at the peak of their bloom. They sway sensually to their natural, beautiful rhythm in the breeze and so do I. My skin glows, my hair is at it's fullest, and I'm as supple as a ripe plum. But I wilt and threaten to wither away from November to April (and most recently, May).  

From November to April (and most recently, May), the once lush green leaf turns cracked and brittle. The clouds breathe down an air so cold as to lay waste to the farmer's crops. The wildlife either runs away or hibernates or dies once touched by the first fateful kiss of winter. Produce tastes different. Everything is just a little more awful.

But oh, what a beautiful, visually striking, scintillating death to behold! Each snowflake twinkles and glistens in the moonlight, treating the eye to a dazzling array of silvers and purples and blues. As debilitating as it is, what cleaner, more refreshing feeling is there than a breath of severe winter air? There is nothing like a little death to make one appreciate what it is to feel truly alive, it would seem. 

My mom loves the cold. I can't understand it. She brightens and beams when it snows. It's lovely to watch her; she looks beautiful. I have a picture of her in a huge winter coat and hat, standing in a whiteout snowstorm with such a genuine, heart warming smile on her face that it brought me to tears when I looked at it the first time. 

I'm convinced I'm adopted, lol. :)

Winter is such a strange time for me. I can't stand it, and I count the days until I can swim and wear sundresses once more, but it's such a pleasure to watch and experience. It's kind of cool to watch everything die around me, bringing the infinite cycle of birth, life, and death full circle. I find it surreal to watch everything around me die a little bit faster than I; to survive watching everything die around me. There's a distinct, unmatched beauty in winter to me, much as I loathe it. Even the first kiss of it. Especially the first kiss of it. 

Ironic, how warm winter can be at times...at least for me. My mom morphs into a sparkling faerie during the winter. There are Xmas and Kwanzaa parties, and everything is spiked with full bodied liquor and a little laughter. Memories are made, candles are burned, and most of the time, there is apple cider. 

I'll never turn down a mug of spiced apple cider.

Colder Than a Witch's Tit.

Hello, addicts! Tonight, as promised, I'm shifting the focus of my blog to one of my very favorite topics: natural hair! :-) And it couldn't have come at a better time, either. To my chagrin, the weather has started to turn here in frigid Pennsylvania, and you know what that means. Black hair becomes brutally dry and brittle. My own treasured locs started to feel like a bale of hay, so I decided to give myself a slow, luxurious hot oil treatment...and, of course, blog about my method along the way. I hope someone out there in Internet Cyberville finds my entries helpful, or soothing, or positive, or something along those lines.

So, the first thing I did was spritz my locs pretty thoroughly with a peppermint oil/water mix. I'd already washed my hair a few days ago, but I wanted and desperately needed to increase my softness factor, so this treatment was kind of special and impromptu. Anyway,  I spritzed until my hair was damp enough to recognize by touch, but not saturated enough to drip.  Then, in a [what I call a] squirty bottle, or rather, one that you'd apply hair dye with; one that shoots out a steady, linear stream as opposed to a mist, I combined the following oils:

Creme of  Nature 100% pure Moroccan Argan oil (expensive as shit, found here: http://www.amazon.com/Creme-Nature-100%25-Pure-Argan/dp/B00BR5ISJC/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1415590844&sr=8-4&keywords=creme+of+nature+argan+oil) 

Hollywood Beauty Tea Tree Oil (moderately priced, found here: http://www.amazon.com/Hollywood-Beauty-Tea-Tree-Oil/dp/B000A3V1XC/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1415590952&sr=8-2&keywords=hollywood+beauty+tea+tree+oil)

My all time favorite, Kemi-Oyl (expensive as shit, found here: http://www.amazon.com/Kemi-Oyl-4oz-Hair-Oil/dp/B0012ML9K0/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1415591042&sr=8-4&keywords=kemi+oyl)

Giant Eagle Market District evoo (moderately priced, found at Giant Eagle, but any extra virgin olive oil will do)

A delightful little product found at Sally Beauty Supply called Mystic Divine Argan & Monoi Oil Nourishing Oil Treatment, which my hair absolutely loves. My hair loves all Mystic Divine products, actually. Please try them. They're fantastic. (Expensive as shit, found here: http://www.sallybeauty.com/nourishing-oil-treatment/SBS-024003,default,pd.html#prefn1=brand&prefv1=MYSTCD&brandLandingPage=true&start=1)

Jamaican Mango & Lime Island Oil (modestly priced, found here: http://www.amazon.com/Jamaican-Mango-Lime-Island-Ounce/dp/B000EGK550)

And 365 Everyday Value brand Expeller Pressed Organic Virgin Coconut Oil, found at Whole Foods, but any virgin coconut oil will do.

I microwaved the oil mixture for what I guess amounted to about 40 seconds, sloppily got it into the squirty hair dye bottle and waited a bit for it to cool. Then, I parted my hair and squirted the oil directly onto my scalp until it was completely saturated, massaging my scalp as I went. Once I was sure my scalp was fully saturated, I applied the rest of the oil mixture to the locs themselves. 

As the last of my oil mixture dripped into my hair, I realized that the locs themselves weren't saturated enough for me. To remedy this, I generously massaged raw, solid coconut oil into my beloved tresses. Addicts, coconut oil is literally like life in a jar. It is one of few things in this wretched world that is an absolute good. That's why it's so expensive. It's healthy for skin, it's healthy for hair, it's healthy to cook with...there is nothing negative about coconut oil. 

When I was satisfied with how saturated my hair was, I stuffed my locs into a lovely, high quality plastic bag from my local liquor store, and proceeded to get drunk and watch a few episodes of Drugs, Inc., which is the stage I've reached as I type these lines, faithful junkies. 

Now, the elitist in me will tell you to go to any hair store and buy an Evolve brand self-heating aluminum cap and use that when doing at-home hot oil treatments. They're luscious. They use your own body heat to trap warmth and moisture in as you're doing your treatment. (Modestly priced, found here: http://www.amazon.com/Evolve-3908-Cholesterol-Conditioning-Cap/dp/B003JN6BWG) That is truly what you should do, for the absolute dopest results. However, I didn't have one on hand, and I didn't feel like leaving the house, so I took it back to the old school and went the plastic bag route...and that's just fine, guys. :-)

So, after the current episode of Drugs, Inc. is over, or I've finished my drink; whichever takes the most time, I'll jump in the shower and do a thorough rinse of my hair, and possibly a very quick conditioner only wash. I'll retwist as normal, with Shea butter for natural hold and moisture retention (modestly priced, found here: http://www.amazon.com/African-Shea-Butter-Cream-100%25/dp/B0009MHJE4/ref=sr_1_10?s=beauty&ie=UTF8&qid=1415592783&sr=1-10&keywords=Organic+Shea+butter) and Organic Lock & Twist gel (perfect for those with naturally silky and slow-to-lock texture, like mine; moderately priced, found here: http://www.amazon.com/Organic-Root-Stimulator-Lock-Twist/dp/B0014RA68E/ref=sr_1_1?s=beauty&ie=UTF8&qid=1415592912&sr=1-1&keywords=organic+lock+and+twist+gel).

The result will be touchably soft, sexy, sensual locs with a buttery texture that would make your head spin. I hope this little tutorial reached someone out there floating in space :-) Leave comments if you try my method and it werqs for you! :-)

Cyanide and Happiness.

Good evening, addicts! 

I just wanted to say that it's great to broaden your horizons. Yes, we are most comfortable close to like-minded individuals with whom we have much in common and, thus, much to dish about. However, consider briefly the grey, tedious boredom that life would hold for we mere mortals were we to specifically and tenaciously clutch to our preconceived notions about how things are supposed to be and left no room for alternatives.

Imagine the clones we'd all be. The mindless, drooling lemmings, marching in a silent straight line toward the purgatory of a lackluster life and subsequent mediocre death. 

This, of course, applies to any and all aspects of life: school, werq, sex, lovers, food, ideals, thought. 

Never give up who you are at your core. Not ever. Hold dear and true to who you are and whom you wish to become, but try to be  receptive to a differing school of thought than you've conditioned yourself to be content with. Try new, weird things. Try new, weird people. Try new, weird foods. Enrich your life, and live it. 

Truly live it. 

Fin. ^_^

Sex, In the Context of Marriage.

When I married my husband, sex changed completely for me. Completely. 

I'd read many, many times that once two people tie the knot, sex becomes sparse and dry. Boring. Periodical. I never wanted that to happen to me, and I could never understand why wives suddenly became stingy with the pussy. I didn't understand why husbands suddenly became stingy with the dick. The tongue. The passion. 

I have, since I turned 30 (I'm 33 now), been hot between my legs and wetter than I've ever been, which is saying something. I've always been hot and wet. But when I turned 30, I started to understand why all our health teachers swore women peaked sexually in their thirties. All I want to do is fuck, and suck, and be fucked, and be sucked.

I digress, though.

When I married my husband, sex changed completely for me. It actually became meaningful. I mean really meaningful. It became better. His dick felt even bigger.  Harder. More urgent. His intensity became more, well, intensified. It hasn't stopped. Not for me. And we've been married for two years. 

When I spread my long brown legs for my husband and show him my softest place, I feel so pretty. When I feel his hands on me, touching my breasts, my thighs, my pussy, it sets such fire to me that I can barely articulate the experience. This happens every time. He doesn't even know it. 

His tongue is my drug. When he pleases me with his mouth, I can't focus, I can't function, I can't do anything but moan, and show him how I want it; how very MUCH I want it...how much I desperately need it. How much I need HIM. 

When he pushes into me, it is a splashy Utopia of delight; a cornucopia of deliciousness and euphoria the likes of which I've never encountered in all my 33 years of life. I want nothing more than to fall on my knees and drink from him, all the time, and look him in his eyes, and hope that he can see in them how much I love pleasing him with my body. 

My favorite is to lay on my back and show him all of me. My long, brown body, my curves, my hills, my swerves, my valleys. I want him to see what he does to me. His hard dick throbbing just for me, straining against his boxer-briefs, is a sight that I cannot resist. He, in all of his male lack of intuition, has not the foggiest clue how his sex makes me feel. 

I feel like the most beautiful girl in the world. But it is so much more in-depth than that. I feel like velvet cocaine. I feel like drugs. I feel as though nothing on earth can hurt me...the cruel words of outsiders, the bullet, the blade...none can touch me, because I am in the arms of my beautiful, poetic Nowhere Man. 

Sex with my love is literally everything. I cannot understand why human beings don't fuck like rabbits when they're sexing the ones they love. Every time some idiot posts "Would you give up sex for $900 million?", I shudder to think of what life would be like without my husband's touch. His mouth. His member. 

I'm aware of women using sex as punishment, but in my life experience, more men withhold sex or sexual acts out of spite than women. I can't fathom it. Withholding sex from my love hurts ME.  His attentiveness is my addiction. The personal way he worships my body...I cannot live without it. 

That's all.

Saintly, Bright and Dark.

In through here, many of my blog entries will be on a personal level. Diary type shit. Shortly, I shall dedicate more hair inspiration posts too; my dreadlock tutorials, product junkie information, and resources for other natties (natural Black women). But for now, I need to use this space as a creative outlet for my strange feelings. 

I am coming, slowly but surely, to the realization that I don't have many outlets available to me by way of venting my true, raw feelings. This is partially my fault. Some of the most prominent instances that I desperately need to talk about are so humiliating and emotionally exhausting that I can't seem to breach the topics, not even with my closest friends. ESPECIALLY them. I simply cannot divulge my demons to them. I require complete strangers. Nameless, faceless blobs in the primordial goo. I regret that I can't share my innermost hangups here...at least not candidly. I'll allude to some things and permit you to paint the rest of the picture with your imaginations. That, I promise. Maybe it'll feel good to me.

Sometimes when I do open up, I'm chastised for having the feelings that I have, and I'm told that conversation about such things is unwelcome. It is always when I feel my very safest that I make the dire mistake of speaking candidly. I'm then reminded that it is not safe, nor are my words wanted, nor warranted, and I abort mission until the next time, which ends the same, and the next, and the next.

My feelings largely go unnoticed unless I'm so bogged down with emotion that I finally break. I'm the kind of girl who is happy and perfectly okay as long as others around me are okay. My own heartache can wait. 

There's been a pretty visible paradigm shift in the way things typically happen in my life, and though it feels very foreign and uncomfortable, I'm riding the wave until the tide subsides and all returns to some semblance of that awful idea called "normalcy". Hence the importance to me of this blog. Without self expression, I wilt, and die.

I've been holding a lot of my feelings in for so long that I halfway forgot I had them. That's actually a gift. There are so, so many things I've endured that I wish I could forget. I've never been the suicidal type, but if I were, a warm steel bullet to the temple might be mellow; an ethereal experience that I've always likened to the snowy channel on the old floor model televisions, without the noise. I'd transcend my own body and float wispily above myself and breathe a sigh of relief as I watched all my pain run red down the shower drain, like in Psycho. I'd smile above myself, and start anew...all my memories gone, all my transgressions, my failures, my terrible mistakes, just gone. I'd have paid all my dues; I'd be square with the house again. It would all just be over. 

Ah, but I'm not suicidal. Not in the slightest. I have such love for life...all life. Humans, animals, insects, trees, flowers... I have a lust for life. I love life. I loathe human beings. I love human beings. I love dogs; I call them buddies. :-) I love my best friends, my husband, my beautiful mom. I love even the sad moments, the angry moments, the fearful moments, the uncertain moments. 

I hate corruption, which lies in every human being. I loathe deceit; the ability to look someone you love straight in the face and lie to them. I hate betrayal. Ill will. Ridicule. War. Of everything I hate, and I hate many, many things, I hate war most of all. 

I don't mean the concept of war; the romantic idea of fighting bravely for the soil you were shat into existence upon. I refer to actual, bloody, searing, screaming war, fraught with sexy weapons and dirty tactics. I hate war. I hate watching young, lively men and women rain herbicides onto earthly life. Tearing fathers and farmers and counselors and nurses and children to shreds with the bullet and the blade.  Torturing. Scarring. Extinguishing what could possibly be those pin pricks of light that enrich my life. I don't like that the government can pay people to kill people simply to further their own profligate, selfish agendas. 

I am a US Army veteran. 

The duality of man is such a curious thing. I'll expound on it, I vow. But not tonight. 

Be A Good Soul.

I sometimes worry that I'm the only pure heart on earth. Imagine, a humanistic misanthrope with a pure heart. It's a constant internal struggle that nobody sees, nobody knows, nobody cares. I don't talk about it...ever...because it's so unbelievably far beyond most mortal souls that I've encountered that the very thought of conversing about it is physically and emotionally exhausting. To constantly love and loathe everyone you see all at the same time is draining enough, but imagine the absolute depth of constantly loving and loathing everyone AND everything you see all at the same time. To call it awful would be an affront to language and literature and diction and grammar and any and all things of that nature; awful is nowhere near awful enough.

I constantly, every waking moment, can see human auras. Their color, how brightly they burn. How passionate or lackluster, and also how genuine or sinister. I constantly see the beautiful, magical watercolor portraits of people, and I constantly see the wretched, vile, crawling things about them. Simultaneously. It is terrifying. It's a gift that I'd never trade for anything. It's a precious, priceless little curse I've been saddled with.

I am different. Anyone who knows me will tell you so.

I want so much for you to be the exception to the terrible rule. I think some of you are. It gives me such hope...you give me such hope. But so many of you are not, and herein lies my own personal problem. I'm trapped in an infinite loop, pulling for you, pushing for you, internally, silently pleading with you to do the right thing in that one moment, the one that really mattered--mattered to you, mattered to someone--so imagine my constant, unending heartbreak when you don't, followed by a bit of self-chastisement for believing in you at all, even an iota. For being unable to turn to stone.

I am no exception; I implore you, know with certainty that the kid is not exempt. Pompous, I am not. I keep in touch with my glaring imperfections. Their collect calls are not to be ignored. I pick myself apart in ways you can't imagine; I explore places within my own personal hell where angels fear to tread. But at my very center, the innermost part of my life force, is a pin prick of light. I search frantically, every single moment, for the pin prick of light in you. It's easy to find in so few of you. Too few. Too few of us. Us.

I don't really sleep well all the time. I guess nobody sleeps well ALL the time...

Sometimes, I'm pleasantly surprised by what I see. Sometimes I feel such warmth. It feels like the summer sunlight of 1998, in a bikini on a rock near the water at Patty's Hole, laughing, surrounded by friends after drinking St. Ives Special Brew. Perfect. I cherish every single fleeting moment of your warmth and love and light. I collect them in a bejeweled box and I draw on them when my own morale is low. I remember your smiles, the beautiful way you've made me feel, the things you've done to restore, if partially, my faith in humanity.  I've also got a picturesque memory, complete with panoramic views and high definition perception.

That memory of mine...it hurts so much sometimes.

Ethnic Bride Of Frankenstein

It has been quite a long time since I've blogged here, mainly because I had to go through such awfulness trying to find my login information. It feels good to be back.

Well, since my last blog was a thousand years ago, I'll fill in a little. I'm now married, as I said before, and I still love it. It took an awful lot of soul searching and werq to get here, my husband and I, but I love this little place in time we've snuggled into together. It's warm here, and passionate.

My father passed away last summer. But that topic shall be a blog in  and of it's own. Not here.

I'm back in the social werq field, and I've not been happier in a long time. My new job, my dreadlock journey, my marriage and this Halloween are what inspired me to bust back into my blog and give you a dose of saffron cream...and in turn have a dose myself. I really like blogging. I'd forgotten how much.

Halloween. This blog, friends, shall refer to this past Halloween. It was just days ago.

I threw a party. It got off to a rough start...the original venue had reached it's occupancy limit and my friends were having a bitch of a time getting in. Therefore, we moved the party to another bar, which at first hurt my feelings...but it turned out to be lovely.

Many of you may know how important Halloween is to me. I go all out every year. Since cultivating the delicious head of dreadlocks that I have since I started this blog, I always make sure to choose a character with killer hair to costume as. This year, I chose The Bride.

The Bride of Frankenstein is a character that, like many, has not transcended racial barriers much, if at all. It was very monumental, I think, at least to me, to costume as this particular character. I'd like to be among the first ethnic women to show up on Google when the words "Ethnic Bride of Frankenstein" are searched for. I'd like for other women with dreadlocks to see my costume choices as inspiration to their own personal art. My endeavor to show up in Google Images is more than just some selfish, stupid plea for fifteen raggedy ass minutes of internet fame. I'd like to serve as inspiration to other Black women with natural hair. That's my only goal...to light a candle within someone. 

I'm happy to be the dopest #EthnicBrideOfFrankenstein to ever do it, though.